#just make sure i can sit down as needed and that the room is air conditioned and I'll be fine.

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — “YOU CAME?” “YOU CALLED.”

ZAYNE

The city hums like a living thing outside the window, its lights too bright, too indifferent. Rain claws down the glass in erratic streaks, turning the night into a blur of neon smears and muted sirens.

You don’t look at the door. You just sit on the edge of the hotel bed, fingers twisting into the hem of your coat like they’re trying to tear through fabric, skin, bone.

And then—you hear it. The knock.

One.

Two.

Three.

Measured. Controlled. So Zayne.

You shouldn’t have called. You knew he’d come.

But knowing something doesn’t make it hurt less.

You cross the room slowly, like the ground itself might open if you move too fast. Your hand lingers on the doorknob. You inhale like it might steady you. It doesn’t.

When the door opens, it’s like a punch to the chest. He’s soaked. Dark hair plastered to his face, jacket clinging to him like second skin. He doesn't speak. His eyes just search you like he's memorizing the lines of someone he's trying not to forget.

"You came?" you whisper. It’s barely a question. It’s a wound.

He exhales, jaw tight. “You called.”

There’s something dangerous in his voice. Not anger. Something heavier. Quieter.

You step aside and he walks in like a shadow—silent, consuming.

The door clicks shut behind him and the space between you becomes suffocating.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say, but your voice is shaking, like you don’t mean it. Like you never did.

"I know." His eyes don’t leave yours. "But you said you needed me."

"I didn’t think you’d still come."

He doesn’t answer that. Just shrugs off his wet jacket and tosses it on the chair like it doesn't still carry the scent of his cologne—sharp, electric, him.

You hate that it makes your throat burn.

"You left," you say. It spills out, broken glass from a shattered bottle. "You disappeared without a word, and now you’re just—"

"You called." His voice cuts through yours like frost. “You needed me.”

"And if I hadn’t?" you ask, eyes wet now, voice cracking. “Would you have stayed gone?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence is everything he can't say.

You turn away before he can see the tears fall. Or maybe you just don’t want to see the way his face would twist when they do.

He moves closer. Close enough that you feel the heat of him, even through the cold.

"I never stopped watching," he says quietly. "Even when I shouldn’t have. Even when it hurt."

"Then why—"

"Because I loved you." His voice is raw now, stripped down. "Love you."

You spin, eyes wide. “Then why did you leave?”

He looks at you like you already know. Like he doesn't want to admit the truth out loud.

“Because everything I touch ends up broken,” he whispers. “And I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you.”

You're quiet for a moment. Just breathing in the pieces of each other, jagged and unfinished.

"You don’t get to decide what breaks me," you say finally. “You don’t get to run and then pretend it was for my sake.”

He flinches like the words hit him physically. And maybe they do.

But he steps closer again. And this time, when he cups your face, his hand is shaking.

"I came because you called," he says. "But I stayed because I never stopped wanting to."

You don't kiss him.

You just let your forehead fall against his chest and listen to his heartbeat echo all the things neither of you are brave enough to say.

Not yet.

But maybe soon.

If he doesn’t run again.

If you don’t.

XAVIER

The air in the abandoned warehouse is still, like it’s holding its breath. Like it knows what’s coming.

It smells like dust and old memories. The place hasn’t changed. You have.

You shouldn’t be here. But something about the silence felt safer than your apartment. Than your bed. Than being alone with the echo of a voice you told yourself you were done missing.

You didn’t expect him to actually come.

But then again, he always does the impossible.

The door creaks open behind you, soft but sure.

You don’t turn.

“You came?” Your voice cracks on the second word.

He doesn’t hesitate. “You called.”

You laugh. Bitter. Small. “That’s not an answer.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

You finally turn, and there he is—Xavier, in that same black coat, like night has wrapped itself around him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes give him away. They always do. They burn like a star that forgot how to die.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you say, swallowing the ache.

“I know.” He takes a step closer. “But I couldn’t not.”

"That’s a bad habit of yours."

"So is needing someone who disappears the moment it gets hard."

You flinch. Fair shot.

Neither of you speak for a moment. There's just that heavy stillness. The kind that settles in right before something breaks.

You look at him—really look. He looks tired. More than usual. Like the universe took something from him and didn’t bother saying sorry.

"You left without telling me why," you say, voice low. "I thought I meant something to you."

"You did." A beat. "You do."

"Then why the hell did you run?"

He hesitates. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t run,” he says slowly. “I withdrew. There’s a difference.”

Your laugh this time is sharp, bitter. “Yeah, the difference is whether or not I get a goddamn explanation.”

“I was trying to protect you.” He says it like it should make everything better.

"It didn’t work."

"I know."

You walk past him, pacing, running a hand through your hair, furious at how much you still care. "I waited, Xavier. I waited every damn night, thinking maybe you’d explain, maybe you’d just say something. And you never did."

“I thought staying away would make it easier.”

"For who?" you snap. “You?”

He doesn't deny it. Of course he doesn't.

He looks out the tall window, to the stars you used to point out together. The ones he taught you to read like a language only the two of you knew.

“I didn’t want to pull you into the dark with me,” he murmurs. “You shine too bright.”

You almost laugh again, but it’s too cruel. Too hollow.

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you say, voice quieter now. “You don’t get to disappear and act like it was noble.”

He finally looks at you again. “Then why call me tonight?”

You pause.

"Because I didn’t know who else would understand the kind of lonely that feels like being lost in orbit."

He moves toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast.

“I’m still me,” he says, “even if I’m... not the version of me you deserve.”

You close the distance between you, until you’re standing chest-to-chest, eyes searching his like they might find the truth he never says out loud.

“I never asked you to be perfect,” you whisper. “I just wanted you to stay.”

“I’m here now.”

You shake your head, tears clinging to your lashes. “But for how long, Xavier? Until you get scared again?”

He doesn’t promise anything. He just reaches up, hesitant fingers brushing your cheek like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“I don’t know how to be good at this,” he admits.

You press your hand over his.

“Then don’t be good,” you say. “Just be here.”

RAFAYEL

The door slides open with that soft mechanical sigh — too smooth, too easy for something that feels this heavy.

You step into his studio, unsure if you’re intruding or answering a summons. Maybe both.

Rafayel doesn’t look up immediately. He’s lounging in his chair like he’s been expecting you for hours, like your arrival is only mildly more interesting than the orbit decay he's monitoring. One leg crossed over the other, arm draped lazily across the back of the seat. Completely unfazed.

But you know him. You see the tension in the way his fingers twitch once before stilling. The quiet inhale he doesn’t think you’ll notice.

He finally glances over his shoulder.

“You came?” he drawls, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How uncharacteristically obedient of you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You called.”

He hums, spinning lazily to face you. “I did. It’s nice to know I still have that kind of pull.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Not yet.

Instead, you cross your arms, leaning against the wall like you’re not unraveling just from being in the same room again. “Was there a reason, or were you just bored and craving emotional devastation?”

He grins at that. “Tempting. But no, I had a moment of weakness. I thought, ‘What if I said something sincere and emotionally available for once?’ Then I panicked and called you.”

You stare at him. “That explains the abrupt message with no context.”

“Ah. So you did miss me.”

You laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a beat. The banter falters — just for a breath. You see it then: the exhaustion under the charm, the way his shoulders drop just slightly. Something is off tonight. Even for him.

“You look like hell,” you say, softer now.

He shrugs. “Sleep is for the emotionally stable.”

You take a few steps forward, slow. “Rafayel… why did you call me?”

He looks at you for a long moment. The smirk fades, bit by bit, until all that’s left is the truth he’s too proud to say out loud.

“Because the silence was louder than I expected,” he says finally. “And apparently, I hate the sound of my own thoughts.”

You exhale. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I know. Terrifying, isn’t it?”

You reach him. He’s still in his chair, but now he’s watching you like you’re something he can’t bear to touch, but can’t look away from either.

“I was angry,” you say. “When you left. When you shut down. I didn’t know where I stood.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” he says, voice quieter now. “Sparing you from the mess. From me.”

“Well, it didn’t feel like mercy. It felt like abandonment.”

He winces like the word physically lands. “Ouch. You’ve been practicing.”

You don’t blink. “Just telling the truth. You do that too, sometimes. Usually when it hurts.”

His lips twitch. “Fair.”

You kneel a little, meeting his eye level. “If you didn’t want me to come, you shouldn’t have called.”

“If I didn’t want you here, I would’ve locked the door.”

“Would’ve stopped me?”

“No. But I would’ve felt better about it.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quietly:

“I missed you.” He says it like it’s dangerous. Like it’s a confession he’s not used to giving, and hates that he means.

“I know,” you whisper. “So did I.”

He exhales. His hand lifts, tentative, hovering for a second before brushing your arm like he’s asking permission with his fingertips.

You let him.

Just this once.

“You’re really here,” he murmurs.

You nod. “For now.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with something unreadable. “Is this the part where we pretend to fix things? Or the part where we ruin them more beautifully?”

You manage a tired smile. “I don’t know yet.”

He leans in, eyes gleaming.

“Good,” he whispers. “I love a little uncertainty.”

And for once, you both sit with the ambiguity — no promises, no apologies. Just space. Shared, uneasy, electric.

Because sometimes, you came is all the answer there is.

SYLUS

The rooftop is quiet this time of night.

Above you, the sky hangs heavy with stars you’ve never really learned to name. Below, the city breathes in artificial light and distant hums — busy, blind, uncaring.

You shift on the cold ledge, arms tucked into your coat, trying to feel something other than the tight ache in your chest.

You shouldn’t have called him.

You barely know him — not really. Not enough to ask for this. For company. For anything that feels like comfort.

But you called anyway.

And now... he’s here.

The door creaks behind you.

You don't look back. Not right away.

His footsteps are soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to startle you.

“You came?” Your voice is low. Fragile, despite your best efforts.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just moves closer, the warmth of his presence cutting through the rooftop chill like something solid. Real.

“You called,” Sylus says, voice quiet. No judgment. Just fact.

You turn, finally meeting his eyes — that impossible shade of red, too vivid in the dark.

He’s still wearing his usual layers — all black, as if the world’s weight might be easier to carry if he looks like he’s already braced for it. But his expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it. Guarded, but open in a way you didn’t expect.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” you say, already retreating.

“You didn’t.” He steps closer. “Well. You interrupted sleep. But I wasn’t really doing that anyway.”

You offer a tired half-smile. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He says it like he means it. “I’d rather be here.”

That quiets you.

You look away, out at the city. “I wasn’t even sure you’d come.”

“I was already halfway here before I realized I hadn’t even asked why you wanted me to.”

“And now that you’re here?”

He shrugs lightly. “Still don’t need a reason.”

Your breath catches. There’s too much in that answer. Too much for someone you’ve only known for a few weeks. Someone who still deflects most questions and hides behind smirks like they’re bulletproof.

But he’s here.

“Rough day?” he asks gently.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t push. Just waits. You’re starting to realize that’s who he is. He gives you silence, not as avoidance — but as space. Like he knows you’ll talk if you need to. Or not.

And right now, you need to.

“I thought I was okay,” you admit. “But then everything just... started to close in. Like I couldn’t breathe. And I didn’t know who to call.”

His brow furrows slightly. “So you called me.”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Why me?”

The question isn’t accusatory. He sounds curious. Maybe even surprised.

You meet his gaze, forcing the words out past the knot in your throat.

“Because you’re the only one who looks like they’d understand what it feels like to want to disappear sometimes.”

The silence that follows is heavier. Realer.

And then, softly:

“I do,” Sylus says. “Understand, I mean.”

You nod. “I thought you might.”

He exhales slowly, something easing in his posture. He sits beside you — not too close, but close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

“I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” he murmurs.

“What? Comforting people?”

“No. Letting people see the part of me that needs comfort.”

You glance at him. “Is that what this is?”

“Maybe.” He hesitates. “Or maybe I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

You smile, small and real. “That’s kind of the same thing.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe I’m worse at this than I thought.”

“You’re not,” you say. “You’re just honest. It’s rare.”

He nods like that’s something he doesn’t hear often.

After a moment, you shift slightly toward him.

“You can go, if you want.”

He doesn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sylus says quietly. “Not if you still want me here.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the silence settle over the two of you — warm now, not empty. You can feel him next to you, steady and real.

And for the first time in hours, the world doesn’t feel like it’s closing in.

Not when he’s here.

CALEB

You should’ve let the message sit unanswered.

The city outside Caleb’s apartment still glows the way it always does — neon gold and soft blue, glittering like it's trying to convince you everything is beautiful and under control.

It’s not.

Not in here.

The air still feels bruised from the fight earlier. Words that shouldn’t have been said, thrown like sharp glass between the two of you. There’s a bitter silence now, the kind that doesn’t just linger — it punishes.

You don’t know why you came back.

Well — you do.

Because he called.

The lock disengages before you can knock again. The door opens just slightly, and there he is — Caleb. Towering, broad-shouldered, and suddenly so very… small in the way he looks at you. Like he expected you not to come.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Until, finally:

“You came?” His voice is hoarse, low. Like he’s trying not to hope.

You answer without thinking. “You called.”

He looks away for a second, like your answer hurt more than he expected it to.

You cross the threshold, slowly, cautiously — like the apartment itself might bite. Everything’s just as you left it earlier: the couch cushions slightly skewed from when you stormed off, one of the mugs from your argument still on the table, untouched.

The air smells like ozone and tension.

“I wasn’t sure you’d answer,” Caleb says quietly, shutting the door behind you.

You still can’t meet his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

He swallows hard. “And yet... here you are.”

You shrug, feeling like your voice could crack at any moment. “Guess that makes both of us idiots.”

A soft, humorless laugh escapes him. “Speak for yourself, pipsqueak. I’ve always been an idiot. Took you longer to join the club.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, the pain in your chest softens — just a bit.

But it’s not enough.

“What are we doing, Caleb?” you ask, turning to face him fully. “Because I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine between us when it isn’t.”

His jaw tightens. “You think I’m pretending?”

“I think you’re avoiding. There’s a difference.”

He moves past you, pacing to the window, hands on his hips like he’s trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, voice taut. “At… relationships. Talking. Not making everything worse.”

You follow slowly. “Then why push me away whenever I try to talk?”

“Because the more I care about you, the more it scares the hell out of me,” he snaps — and then stops, breathing hard.

It hangs there, naked and jagged.

You take a slow step toward him. “You don’t get to use love as a reason to hurt me.”

His head bows, shoulders tense. “I know.”

“I don’t want perfection, Caleb. I want honesty. Even if it’s messy.”

He turns back toward you. There’s something in his eyes now — something cracked and real.

“I called you,” he says quietly, “because I didn’t know how to sit in this apartment and not be able to take it back.”

You step closer.

“I came,” you whisper, “because I didn’t want to go to sleep angry. Not with you.”

For a moment, you’re both silent. Then:

“I’m sorry,” he says. And it sounds like it costs him.

You nod. “Me too.”

He lifts a hand, hesitant, fingers brushing yours — tentative, unsure, but desperate to anchor.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” Caleb says. “But I don’t want to lose you trying to figure it out.”

You take his hand. Grip it like it’s the only steady thing in the world.

“Then don’t let go.”

[tobesolnelyx]

Can you be able to do frat boy Shauna and Frat boy Lottie both make a plan to have sex with female reader?

NSFW - MDNI

it started with some stupid joke thrown at party. you were drunk, in a good mood, sipping on your beer. three of you were sitting on the small couch in the living room. music was blasting loudly, and air seemed to be sultry as fuck.

lottie was pressed to your right side. her arm was wrapped around your shoulders. she was smoking lazily, watching people walking around the frat house.

on the left, shauna was gripping tightly your thigh. her large hand was spread all over your soft flesh. rubbing or squeezing anytime weird guys were approaching. she’d leaned to you from time to time to make stupid remarks about party goers. just to make you giggle.

you don’t know how this conversation began, but somehow you ended up talking about your sex life. lottie was fully into conversation while shauna mostly listened, rubbing absentmindedly your thigh.

“i could suck off both of you,” you finally slurred out, giggling like you just said the funniest thing on earth.

there was this look that shauna and lottie shared, making sure they heard the same damn thing. shauna shifted uncomfortably on her place, trying not to think about it. to not get a fucking boner right and there. her gaze dropped away, but her fingers were still gripping your flesh.

lottie barked out a laughter. obviously there were already images going through her head. however, she decided to bury those thoughts deep down somewhere in her brain.

turned out that none of them could stop thinking about that. they finally composed themselves to have a talk about that with you. hoping you’re not gonna freak out, or tell them that they’re disgusting for even thinking about that. i mean, they were considering threesome? with you? after one drunken joke?

well, surprisingly… you didn’t need a lot of convincing.

after next practice you find yourself in the locker room. kneeling on the cold floor. the room would be empty and quiet at that hour if it weren’t for three of you, your moans, groans, and sound of skin slapping against skin.

shauna sits there on the bench. tight long sleeve is clinging to her abs after practice. her hair sticks to her forehead. she pulled her shorts enough to reveal her throbbing cock. tip of it is swollen and leaks when you take into your mouth, sucking on it. you slurp on the pre-cum, saliva drips from your chin and lands on your shirt. shauna’s hand softly holds your head in place. she’s not pushing you or urging to take her deeper. no, she massages your scalp, her own head falls back in pure pleasure.

“just like that,” she murmurs, when you bob your head up and down. one of your hands holds her thigh while the other one is focused on stroking carefully her dick. “take it, baby,” she sighs in ecstasy.

it would be easier if it weren’t for lottie. lottie, who positioned herself behind you. her cock is slamming into your ass firmly. it’s not rough, she holds herself back, so you can properly suck shauna’s dick. she pulled her shorts down, too. enough to freely pump her cock inside you. she grips your hips, panting more and more with each thrust.

she bottoms out to spit on her cock. she make sure it’s nice and wet, and then she simply buries herself into you once more. you moan around shauna’s dick and lottie just smiles. she loves getting out of you those pretty sounds. and the fact that you’re making her best friend cum at the same exact moment, only turns her on more.

she leans so slightly before murmuring:

“this tight little hole was made for me,” and with that she picks up her pace, making you gag on shauna’s dick and whimpering around the length. shauna swears she sees stars when her swollen tip hits back of your throat.

[sapphicswph]

Thinking about dbf!Van palmer with handsy reader, like she cannot keep her hands to herself, even with people around

-🫀

pairing: dbf!van x reader

warnings: age gap, reader is 23, van is in her 40s, fluff, smut, use of strap-on, fingering, strap-on referred as dick once, not proofread, 18+!

─ .✦ van is often at your house, sitting at the kitchen table with your dad, laughing together. you, however, can't seem to keep your hands to yourself around van. you're always finding reasons to brush against her arm while reaching for the salt shaker, or brush your hand against her lower back when walking past her in the kitchen. van has started to notice your subtle touches, but she always writes it off as accidental, right?

─ .✦ van starts to notice that your hands seem to linger a bit longer than necessary, you "accidentally" graze her hand while pouring coffee. she catches herself smiling more often around you, even if she tries to play it cool.

─ .✦ you’re quick to leave your room when you hear van’s voice in the house. she can't help but smile to herself when she hears your footsteps rushing down the stairs. she knows you're trying to act casual, but your eagerness is adorable. sometimes, she'll even linger in the kitchen a bit longer just to see if you'll make an appearance.

─ .✦ van always finds an excuse to be at your dad's house - "just stopping by" or "needed to grab something". she always asks about you, how you are, and wonders where you are. your dad just thinks she's being friendly, but really, she's just looking for any reason to see you or get information about you.

─ .✦ van somehow persuaded your dad to give her your number for 'emergency purposes'. but really, she just wanted an excuse to text you. she starts sending you random - not so funny millennial memes, asking if you're home, what you’re up to, always trying to keep the conversation going.

─ .✦ van loves taking you out, she'll use any excuse she can find to get you out of the house. "your dad says you've been cooped up all day, let me take you to the park,” "i need a second opinion on something, come with me to the store?” “wanna help me in the garage?” she enjoys your company a lot.

─ .✦ she loves teasing you and throwing in subtle, inappropriate jokes just to see how you'll react. "oh this shirt? i wore it just for you, is it hot?” she’d say it with a cocky smirk. she laughs when you blush, nudging you playfully.

─ .✦ whenever she's invited over for family dinners, you always make sure to sit right next to her at the dinner table. you'd lean in close, asking her if she wants more food, passing her the salad, finding any reason to be close. she'd smile knowingly. "thank you, you’re so kind,” she'd say loudly enough for your dad to hear, but with a wink meant only for you.

─ .✦ she often picks you up from university, always on time, and the first thing she asks is, "wanna go get food?" you both go through the drive-thru, ordering your favorites, and then find an empty parking lot to eat in. the car fills with laughter as you talk and make fun of each other's bad jokes. she loves these moments—the casual ease between you two.

─ .✦ you become more bold with your actions. you can’t stop touching her, it’s become a second nature at this point. your hand resting on her arm, your hand brushing against her waist, wrapping your hand around her bicep while walking, resting your head on her shoulder when you fell asleep on the couch. she notices, of course, but she doesn’t mind. in fact, she finds it rather cute and only leans into your touch even more.

─ .✦ you become more comfortable around each other, sneaking away together during family gatherings. sometimes it's to the backyard for some fresh air, sometimes it's upstairs to your room under the disguise of "showing her your book collection."

─ .✦ during a family barbecue, van sneaks a hand up your thigh under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. she leans in close, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, "you look really cute in those shorts." she pulls back with a smirk, going back to her conversations with your dad but keeps tracing patterns on your thigh. you try to keep a straight face, but your cheeks flush pink. you cross your legs, trapping her hand between your legs. she bites her lip, trying not to laugh at your reaction. later, when your dad gets up to talk to some other guests, van leans in and whispers, "un-cross your legs." you hesitate, knowing what will happen if you do. but you un-cross your legs anyway, and her hand slides right back up your inner-thigh. her hand teasing your sex through your shorts, you’re already soaked through.

─ .✦ van will subtly drag you to your bedroom, her saying she needs the bathroom, you’d say you needed something in your room. once upstairs, she'd lock the door and push you against your desk or bed. her fingers would immediately go to work, pushing your shorts aside and sliding her fingers inside you. she'd finger you quickly and quietly, one hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds while the other works between your legs. she always makes sure you come before anyone notice you’ve been gone for too long.

─ .✦ van invitng you over to her place, saying she has something she wants to show you. you follow her into her living room, and she pulls out an old vhs tape from a box under her tv. "ever seen vintage porn?" she asks with a smirk, popping the tape into the vcr. as the old, grainy footage plays, van watches your reactions closely. van freezes the frame and turns to you with a serious face "you know what? i want to make one with you." she turns off the tv suddenly to get her camera, when she comes back you just stare at her. “you want to…?” you’d say hesitantly, van just shrugs and runs her finger down your arm, “is that okay? you would look so good on the camera, i’ll make you a copy.”

─ .✦ and that’s how van becomes obsessed with taking pictures and videos of you on her vintage cameras, she adores how you look. she loves capturing your expressions, your laughter, your blushing cheeks. her favorite is capturing intimate moments - her fingers between your thighs, you biting your lip to stay quiet, wrapping your legs around her as she fingers you on her bed. she has a whole collection dedicated to you on her old film cameras. she just loves making vintage porn with you, also loves taking innocent candid photos of you. >.<

─ .✦ will swat you hand if you get too touchy in front of your dad though. you’re all sitting in the living room, your dad is watching the news in his armchair, and you’re sitting next to van on the couch, your hand resting on her knee. van is talking to your dad, laughing at something he said. without looking at you, she swats your hand off her knee. “stop.” she mouths quietly.

─ .✦ van absolutely loves using her strap on you. she loves fucking you dumb - pounding you into the mattress, holding your legs open, choking you with the strap while she fucks your mouth. she gets off on seeing you reduced to a mess - your makeup ruined, your hair disheveled, your voice hoarse.

─ .✦ she's incredibly sweet with her words even while fucking you rough. "god, you look so pretty taking this big dick," she'll murmur, with you on your hands and knees, her leaning her body over you and squeezing your neck. she'll kiss your neck gently despite slamming into you hard, whispering, "you're doing so good, baby." her sweet words only contrast with her rough fucking, making you melt even more. "you're such a good girl, taking it so deep."

─ .✦ van loves taking you out - movies, shopping, dinner dates but will complain about fancy restaurants and take you to a fast food restaurant instead. she buys you clothes, loves treating you. she'll sometimes make you wear cute outfits she buys you on dates, "wear this dress, it looks hot on you."

─ .✦ she'll surprise you with breakfast in bed, not the best cooker but can make delicious scrambled eggs.

got carried away as always….. anywayssss! requests are open :3

[mattspillowprincess]

The Dinner From Hell

NOTE: THIS IS NOT CONNECTED TO THE SURPRISE FIC I POSTED. They are still very much pregnant. This is a different one-shot. They are not connected. 

Warnings: angst, pregnancy, blood, miscarriage, includes all 3 triplets, but reader is married to Matt

WC: 688

It’s been 7 weeks since you found out you’re pregnant. Life seemed blissful, everything tinged with gold and glitter. You and Matt were already planning names and buying tiny shoes for your new baby. You told your closest friends and family. Everyone was so happy for you. 

You, Matt, Nick, and Chris were eating dinner in your apartment. 

“I’ll be right back,” I said, excusing myself to go to the bathroom. As you sat down at the toilet, you saw a splatter of blood on your underwear. Your face paled, and when you got up from the toilet, there was more blood in the bowl. You let out a loud cry, a scream in pain. The boys' heads all shot up in the direction of the bathroom. Matt ran to the bathroom, opening the door. He found you on the floor, sobbing, and saw the blood in the toilet. 

“Matt,” You sobbed. “There’s so much blood.” Tears ran down your face, choking out sobs. 

“No, no, no, no…” Matt whispered. “We need to go to the doctor. Cmon, baby.” He lifted you up, bridal style, and carried you into the kitchen. 

“I’ll drive you,” Chris said immediately, grabbing his keys. “You can stay in the back with her.” Matt nodded and carried you to the car. 

All four of you raced to the ER, speeding through yellow lights and barely stopping at stop signs. You lay your head in Matt's lap and cried while he ran his fingers through your hair, trying to keep you calm. Nick and Chris said nothing, all of them silently praying that what you thought wasn't true. But you knew, you felt a dull ache in your belly, a heaviness that wasn't there before. 

Soon, you arrived at the hospital. Matt walked with you, and Nick and Chris were close behind. Everything felt like it was on 2x speed, moving too fast. You were in a dissociated state, not sure what was happening. Somehow, you got to the exam room, the paper crinkling underneath you, Matt's hand never leaving yours. His thumb rubbed over your knuckles, keeping you from breaking. 

The doctor sounds like he’s speaking from underwater. Random words poke out at you: no heartbeat, blood test, low chance, and finally, miscarriage. That's what finally breaks you. You wail, your cry probably heard by patients down the hall. Matt wraps you in a hug, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“She’s dead,” You choke out, “I killed her.” Matt shakes his head. “Baby, this isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

The rest of the night passes by you, and at some point, you end up back in bed. You and Matt lay there, both crying. After a while, you drift off to sleep, too tired to keep crying. 

Matt slips out of bed, into the living room where Nick and Chris sit, not wanting to leave you guys alone. Matt collapses next to Chris, letting out a shaky breath. Nick scoots over and wraps himself around Matt, Chris mirroring him. They sit that way for a long time, just letting Matt cry. After a while, Matt speaks. “It was a girl,” His words hang in the air, heavy. “We weren’t going to tell anyone. Make it a surprise… I was gonna have a daughter,” His voice breaks on that last word. Daughter. A little girl, to dance around with, to have tea parties, to bake with. Someone to protect, another girl, he would fall in love with. A carbon copy of her mom. He sobs into Nick's shoulder, Chris rubbing his back, no one saying anything. 

Back in the bedroom, you wake up and feel Matt’s side of the bed cold. You slip out of bed, finding the boys on the couch. Silently, you slid in between Matt and Chris, curling into Matt’s side. He wraps his arms around you, and Nick and Chris sandwich you two together. You all cry for the little girl you’ll never meet. Nobody talks, just comforts each other, and for now, it's enough. You’ll all still hurt tomorrow, but you know, with time, you will heal.

[snooperzz]

Back on You- pt. 2

Read pt. 1 here !! Robert "Bob" Reynolds x female!Reader/OC (ft. Peter Quill) Word count: 4.3k Warnings: very little angst Note: this is written in third person & reader/oc is unnamed! you can also read this story on ao3 :) Summary/Excerpt: Her thoughts began to drift back to the pager, to the new number, to Peter. What if something had happened to him? What if he was in trouble? Was that why he sent her a message? She realized that as much as she was scared to, as much as she had avoided it the past few years, she needed to reach out to him. She needed to call that number. Even if it was just to make sure he was okay.

She had gotten a message.

It was on her pager. The one that Peter gave her before he left. It had happened earlier that morning, while she was in the kitchen eating breakfast with the rest of her team. She hadn’t seen it until she got back to her room.

It was a number. A phone number, she thought, and it was different from the one Peter had put on the pager. 

She wasn’t sure what to do about it, so she decided to go for a walk to clear her head. Ever since Bucky had found her out on the helicopter pad that night, he had been a broken record, telling her day in and out how walking always helped a burdened mind. Probably something he heard from his therapist.

So, she left the Watchtower, grabbing one of the books Bob lent her on her way out. Normally, he might join her, but today was one of his bad days. One of the days where the pit inside him, the void, threatened to get out. To take over. He usually preferred to stay in his room on those days, away from everyone else. They all understood, of course, and gave him his space. 

She did send him a text before she left, just to keep him updated. To let him know she was still there for him. 

Texting was new to her. She had gotten a cheap flip phone back when she and Bucky lived in Brooklyn together. Bucky was insistent on buying her one after she told him she found her own place, adamant that she had it so they could stay in touch. 

Then, a few days ago, John had seen her in the penthouse’s living area struggling to navigate the T9 keyboard. 

He snorted at her. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

He leaned against the bar counter, eyeing her up and down. She was sitting on the couch, slouched over, trying to get a good look at the machine.

“I’m trying to text Yelena. She went to the store, and I forgot to tell her we ran out of cheez its.”

“Your obsession with cheez its should be studied,” he mused, laughing at her. “Why don’t you just call her?”

“I tried, but she won’t answer.”

“Are you sure the call’s even going through? That thing is ancient,” he pointed to her phone. “I mean, who let you buy that?”

“Bucky got it for me,” she defended herself, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Well, that makes a lot of sense now. He knows nothing about technology.”

She ignored him, shifting her attention back to her phone. She began jamming the buttons on it again, trying to get it to work.

John took a deep breath and hung his head. “Alright, I can’t take it anymore. Come on,” he ordered, waving her over.

She looked up at him but didn’t move quite yet. “What? What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to get a new phone. I can’t stand to look at you trying to use that thing.”

“Walker, I don’t need a new phone.” Despite her words, she got up from the couch, following him as he led her to the elevator and out of the building.

“You know how to hack into alien technology. You deserve to know how to use a smartphone.”

Now, she was using the map on her new smartphone to find her way to a nearby park, breathing in the crisp air as she walked along the sidewalk. It was peaceful outside today. The sun was warm on her skin, and she could hear birds singing all around her. She found a bench to sit on and closed her eyes, trying to clear her head.

However, her mind was still buzzing, still trailing back to when she found that new number on her pager. Sighing, she pulled out Bob’s book, flipping to the first chapter. Maybe if she just focused on something else, focused on this story, she could get her mind off things for a little bit. 

And that’s exactly what she did. For hours, actually. She didn’t realize how long she had been sitting at the park, entranced by the novel in her hands.

She was finally alerted by a soft buzz in her lap, and she looked down to see her phone screen light up. Bob had responded to her text from earlier with a thumbs up emoji. It was little, but it let her know that he was still there.

Her thoughts began to drift back to the pager, to the new number, to Peter. What if something had happened to him? What if he was in trouble? Was that why he sent her a message? She realized that as much as she was scared to, as much as she had avoided it the past few years, she needed to reach out to him. She needed to call that number. Even if it was just to make sure he was okay.

Plus a part of her almost wanted to call. To hear his voice again.

So, she made a deal with herself. She would make her way back to the Watchtower, and if she hadn’t changed her mind by the time she got there, if she hadn’t convinced herself not to, she would do it.

By the time she got back to the Watchtower, her mind was still determined to make the call. Which had to be a good thing, right? A step in the weight direction, at least. 

Luckily, the penthouse was empty, save for Bob. The New Avengers had been called out on a mission that day, but she had opted to stay behind and watch out for him. They usually tried not to leave him all alone on his off days, choosing to keep at least one other person around in case he needed anything. Or anyone. And lately, that person had been her.

She sat down on the couch in their living area and pulled out her phone, then her pager. With shaking hands, she opened up the phone app and typed in the number.

She paused for a moment, staring at the screen. It felt crazy how such a small movement, just pushing that green call button, felt so heavy. So daunting.

Before she could think about it any longer, she pressed it, quickly moving the phone up to her ear.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Just when the third ring began, it was cut off.

“Hello?” said a voice on the other end. A voice she would know anywhere, no matter how long it had been since they had last seen each other.

“Peter?” It came out quiet. Shaky.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Until, she heard him call her name quietly, as if he couldn’t believe he was actually talking to her.

She nodded, then remembered he couldn’t actually see her. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Hey, ” came his voice again. He said it with such familiarity, her heart skipped a beat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually call.”

“Yeah, me either,” she laughed awkwardly.

“You never paged me.”

She felt a pang in her chest. Guilt. “Yeah, I know. I was…scared to I guess.”

“Scared?” He sounded shocked, maybe even a little offended. “Why?”

That was a loaded question. She looked up at the ceiling, trying to think of what to say. How to explain how she felt the past few years. How she was feeling right then.

“I don’t know. I just…figured you were busy, you know? Tracking down Gamora and all.”

He didn’t say anything, but she heard him sigh on the other end.

“Did you ever catch up to her?” she asked, confused at his lack of response.

He huffed out a laugh. “We did, yeah. It’s a bit of a long story, but, uh,” he paused for a moment. “She’s moved on.”

“Oh,” her eyes widened at his words. She was definitely not expecting that. Last time she saw him, he had been so determined to get her back. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I guess it makes sense. Since she was technically a different Gamora. From a different time and all that. Not sure I really understand what happened there, but it is what it is.” 

He was trying to sound cool, relaxed, but she could tell that he was hurting more than he let on. Peter was good at lying to con-men or talking his way out of sticky situations with the Ravagers, but he had never been able to get anything past her. She knew him too well.

“What about everyone else? Rocket? Drax?” she asked, pivoting to a different subject.

“I think they’re good. We all sorta moved on, I guess. Mantis and Drax are doing their own thing now, and Rocket recruited some more Guardians to his team.”

“His team? Is he the leader now?”

“Yeah, I figured it was time to pass the torch. He probably won’t live up to the epic captain that I was, but I decided to at least let him try.”

She snorted, remembering the countless arguments between Peter and Rocket over who actually was the leader of their little group.

“What about you? How have you been?” he asked.

“Pretty good. Busy, which is nice. Helps get my mind off things.”

“Yeah, I bet. I, uh…I saw you on the news. The New Avengers? Sounds pretty badass,” he commented, curiosity evident in his tone.

She could feel her chest grow warm, flattered by his words, but something he said caught her attention.

“Wait, you saw me on the news?”

“Uh…yeah,” he sounded stiff.

“Are they broadcasting Terran news up in space now or something?”

“No, uh,” he responded. A beat of silence followed. “I’m in Missouri. With my grandpa.���

“Oh.” Her mind was racing. Peter was back on Earth? He had left the Guardians too?

“Yeah, Mantis kinda convinced me to do it,” he explained. “Ever since my mom died, I’ve just avoided the idea of coming back here. But, I finally realized it might be good for me to see my family again. Spend some time with them.”

“That’s great,” she said softly, nodding her head. A past version of her would have been jealous of him. Jealous that he had a family to go back to. But now she had a family too, and she was grateful for the family she had found in the New Avengers.

Of course she had loved being a part of the Guardians, traversing space with them everyday, protecting the galaxy. But space never felt like home. There was always a piece of her missing, and she felt like she had finally found it, here with the Thunderbolts. With Bob.

Peter said her name, grabbing her attention.

“Yeah?” she whispered, waiting for his next words.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you those last few years,” he replied, voice etched in guilt.

“You don’t have to–”

“No,” he interrupted. “I do. When we all became the Guardians of the Galaxy, it all went to my head. I wanted so badly to impress everyone, all our new friends. Especially Gamora. But you… you’re like the little sister I never had, and what I became during that time…I wasn’t a good brother.”

“You were still there for me, though. I knew you were.”

“Not as much as I should have been. You know that. And I know it too,” he argued.

In all honesty, she was surprised to hear him say all this. Back then, she never confronted him about how she felt. Jealous. Pushed aside. She just ignored it, choosing to complain to Rocket rather than confront Peter. She was pretty sure Rocket eventually got annoyed listening to her vent about Peter all the time. But griping about the man was one of his favorite pastimes, so he tolerated it.

Her feelings had come to a head, though, right before everything went down with Thanos. They had just picked up Thor, and Rocket and Groot had decided to leave with the god for Nidavellir to help him get his hammer. She chose to tag along, but before the team split up, Peter pulled her aside.

“Why are you siding with Rocket on this?” he accused. “We all know that I’m the leader, not him. This ‘god’ has no idea what he’s talking about.” He chuckled in disbelief, gesturing towards Thor. 

She simply rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her. “Are you serious, Peter? That’s what you’re concerned about right now?”

His eyes widened, jaw dropping at her words. “No,” he sputtered. “I’m concerned about Thanos too! Obviously. But why are you leaving with them? We need to stick together,” he pushed, gesturing between the two of them.

She shook her head. “No. They need my help. You’ve got plenty of people going with you to Knowhere already.”

“But I need to protect you,” he protested.

She scoffed. “You do not need to protect me. You don’t need me at all. You’ve got Gamora.” She patted his shoulder, giving him a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She winced as she turned away from him, part of her regretting her words. But she was tired of following him around all the time. She wanted to make her own decisions for once. Still, the little piece of her that regretted how she spoke to him that day grew each day she didn’t see him after the Snap.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Peter spoke again, pulling her back into their phone call. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” she finally replied. “I probably could have done things a little differently back then too.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. She felt a sense of relief, like a pit had been sitting in the bottom of her stomach for years, and it was finally starting to disappear. She didn’t regret calling him at all. Part of her even wished she had reached out sooner.

“I did have another question, though,” Peter said suddenly.

“What’s up?” Her eyebrows furrowed.

“Who was that random dude up there with you guys? When that ‘Valentine�� lady said you guys were the New Avengers?”

She pursed her lips, confused. “Random guy?”

“Yeah,” he continued. “There were the six of you guys looking all cool and badass, and then some rando in frumpy clothes.”

She laughed as she realized who he meant. “I think you’re talking about Bob.”

“Bob?”

“Yes, Bob.”

“You guys were standing up there with a guy named Bob?”

She smiled, glad they were talking over the phone and not in person, so he couldn’t see how red her face was getting. She definitely did not expect the conversation to turn in this direction. “It’s a long story, but he’s pretty cool. I think you’d like him.”

Just as she finished her sentence, the elevator to the penthouse opened, and the rest of her team walked through the doors. They each gave her a funny look as they entered the room, clearly not expecting to find her on the phone.

Peter had been telling her something, but between her embarrassment of being under the watchful eye of her friends and trying not to pay attention to their not-so-quiet whispers of who she could be talking to, she didn’t catch anything her old friend had said.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear y–”

“Who could you possibly be talking to right now?” John called out, his voice thundering from across the room. “Is that Bob?”

“Bob?” she heard Peter’s voice repeat in her ear.

Of course he heard him. If her face wasn’t red before, it definitely was now. “You know,” she started. “I think I’m going to let you g–”

“Why would she be talking to her boyfriend on the phone when he’s just down the hall? That makes no sense,” Alexei’s voice boomed, cutting her off.

“Boyfriend?” Peter repeated again. “Wait a minute, is Bob your boyfriend?” She could hear him holding back a laugh.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she retaliated, talking to both Peter and the people standing across from her.

“Oh, we all know you guys kiss now,” John taunted, earning a kick from Yelena. He yelped in surprise. “What? We do!”

“I’m hanging up now,” she groaned, using her free hand to cover her face. “But I’ll keep in touch, okay?” She ended the call before she could hear his answer, quickly setting her phone face down before looking up at the rest of them. “What the hell, guys? Are you serious?”

“Very serious,” Alexei responded. “Very serious that we want to know who you were talking to.”

They looked at her expectantly, finally quiet now that she wasn’t on the phone anymore. Naturally.

“That was Peter,” she stated, her eyes darting over to Bucky. His eyebrows raised at her words.

“Ah!” Alexei gasped. “Peter the brother!”

She tilted her head side to side and shrugged. “He’s like a brother.”

“Is he looking for new members for the Guardians of the Galaxy? ” Alexei continued, wiggling his eyebrows. “I have some free time on the weekends.”

“No, you do not,” Ava rebutted, shooting him an incredulous look.

“I could give them a ride in my limo! No charge,” he defended.

“In space?” Ava’s face scrunched up as she shook her head at him.

“How is he?” Bucky spoke up, cutting off their conversation. He looked at her carefully.

“He’s good,” she nodded. “Not recruiting any Guardians, though.” She gave Alexei a sympathetic look.

Alexei shrugged, waving his hand at her. “That’s fine. Ava’s right. The limo was a dumb idea.”

“And you? Are you good too?” Bucky pressed further, eyes not leaving her.

“Yeah I’m okay,” she assured, a smile growing on her face. “I’m really good.”

That night, she found herself on the couch once again. She was alone, everyone else having gone to bed, and she had wrapped herself up in a throw blanket, the warm glow of the lamp beside her lighting up the pages of Bob’s book. She had nearly finished it while at the park that day, and she hoped to reach the ending before heading to bed.

“Hey,” a quiet voice said, pulling her from the book in her hands.

She looked up to see Bob, freshly showered and sporting his favorite sweater. He walked over to where she was sitting, lifted up the empty side of her blanket, and settled into the couch beside her, placing the blanket back over them.

“Hi.” She looked over at him, taking in how the orange hues of the lamp highlighted his face. They were close. Shoulder to shoulder. Thigh to thigh. He let out a deep breath and shifted beside her, pulling out another one of his books. And her walkman. She smiled when she saw it.

“Did that help at all today?” she asked, tapping the device.

She had given it to him a few days earlier, suggesting he use it next time the emptiness, the void, tried to take over. Listening to music always provided a small distraction for her, a small relief. It always helped her feel a bit better on her worst days, and she told him as much. 

He lifted the walkman up, giving her a short nod. “A little. I listened to uh…” He peaked at the tape sitting inside. “‘Awesome Mix Volume 1.’”

She laughed softly. She had probably heard the entirety of that tape millions of times. “That’s a good one.”

“I liked it,” he glanced over to her, a hint of a smile on his lips. “How was, uh– how was your walk?”

“It was good,” she supplied. “I went to the park and read this for a while.” She raised his book.

“Oh yeah?” His smile grew. “You like it?”

“I love it,” she nudged him with her shoulder. “You’ve got great taste in books.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he began, his smile turning into a coy smirk. “That…among other things.” He shot a quick look at her again, as if he were testing the waters, waiting to see how’d she react.

Her face flushed, and she let out a surprised giggle. “Okay, Robert,” she gave him a teasing look. “I didn’t know you had game.”

“What do you mean? It’s how I got you wrapped around my finger.”

She scoffed, a shocked laugh escaping her. “Okay, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”

“Right, sorry,” he chuckled.

As they both fell into a comfortable silence, she began to shift in her spot on the couch, trying to stretch her legs.

“You okay?” Bob asked, watching as she tried to get comfortable.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just been sitting here for a while,” she gave him an apologetic smile. “Just a little stiff.”

“I can move if you want–”

“No!” She stopped him immediately. She definitely did not want him to move. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Okay,” he laughed nervously. He thought for a moment before speaking again. “You could stretch your legs across me.”

She considered his offer quietly, biting the inside of her bottom lip. It was pretty tempting.

“Only if you want,” he added, stuttering over his words. He was watching her intensely, like he was trying to figure out what was going on inside her head.

“I do,” she said finally, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.

Nodding, he lifted the blanket again, letting her turn to face him and drape her legs across his lap. Once she got comfortable, he put the blanket back down. He left one hand below the cover, gently gripping her thigh, just above her knee.

“This okay?” he asked, situating the blanket to fully cover their laps.

“Perfect,” she breathed, leaning her head against the back of the couch. They sat like that for a while, not saying anything. Both reading their books. She could feel Bob’s thumb graze back and forth against her skin, his grip on her leg firm. Steady. She yawned, the end of the day beginning to catch up with her.

“I’m happy I got to see you tonight,” she confessed. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you at all today.”

“Me neither, honestly. Not one of my best days.” He looked over to her, taking her in. “What about you? How was your day?”

“It was good. I, uh…I talked to Peter today.”

“Really?” His eyes widened, and he set his book down, sitting up a little straighter. “You messaged him?”

She had talked to him about Peter before, of course, and the pager gave her. She talked about all of the Guardians. He had always been curious about her old friends, and he loved listening to all of her stories about them. He swore he could do it for hours.

“He messaged me, actually. He sent me his phone number, and I decided to call him.”

“How did it go? Was it okay?”

“Yeah,” she assured him. “I think it went pretty well. He apologized. He’s back on Earth too, in Missouri with his family.”

“That sounds nice,” he commented, nodding.

“...He asked about you too,” she added, waiting to see his reaction.

His eyes widened. “Me? Why did he ask about me?”

She shrugged casually, a teasing smile on her face. “He saw you on the news with us. Wanted to know who you were.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you were Bob,” she informed him. “And that you’re pretty cool.” She chose not to mention the whole boyfriend-kissing-conversation that went down after everyone else got back from their mission that day.

“Nice,” he chuckled, looking somewhat relieved. “High praise.”

“Exactly,” she affirmed, poking him in the shoulder playfully.

“Maybe he could come visit sometime,” he offered, squeezing her leg.

“Maybe.” She thought about his suggestion. 

She still wasn’t sure if she was ready to see Peter in person again after all this time. After all the years she had spent avoiding reaching out, she wondered if she would ever really be ready to see him face to face again. To have him meet her new friends. Have him meet Bob. It would be odd, for sure, seeing her two worlds collide like that. At the same time, though…she wasn’t totally opposed to it.

Only time would tell.

She had fallen asleep. There, on the couch, trying to finish her book with Bob right there with her, reading his own. His presence was warm. Comforting. So really, it was no surprise.

He had dozed off too, the weight of her legs on his lap leaving him feeling secure. Relaxed. When he awoke, he gazed at her for a moment. She was snuggled against the back of the couch, wrapped cozily in their blanket. She looked peaceful, content. She looked beautiful.

He looked over to the clock sitting behind her, realizing how late it had gotten. Not wanting to disturb her, he stood up slowly, gently lifting the blanket off of them. He slung the blanket over his shoulder and grabbed their books, slipping them into his waistband. Then, he bent down and picked her up, careful not to wake her.

He carried her back to her room, gently placing her onto her bed. He left both their books on her nightstand, figuring she might like another one once she finished the one he’d already given her. He took the blanket off his shoulder, gingerly laying it upon her. Once he was satisfied she looked comfortable, he squatted down and placed a light kiss to her temple, tracing his fingers through her hair.

Eventually, he made his way back to his own room. As he climbed into bed, his chest was warm with anticipation, with the promise of seeing her tomorrow. And the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

[ageingfangirl2]

Ran's Little Waitress (Tokyo Revengers - Bonten)

RAN HAITANI X FEMALE READER

CHAPTER SIX: TIME OFF

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

The first day off, you didn’t move much. The swelling was still bad, and the bruises were tender to the touch. Even the weight of the ice pack made you wince. You stayed in your favourite oversized hoodie, the one with the stretched-out sleeves you liked to tuck your hands into, and thick socks that barely matched.

You curled up in your blanket cocoon on the couch, the glow from your TV casting a soft hue across the room as you rewatched your favourite anime for comfort. The intro song played three times before you realised you hadn’t even touched the mug of tea you’d made.

By the second day, you forced yourself to move a little more. Your knees still stung with every step, but you shuffled into the kitchen anyway. Baking always helped. The smell of vanilla and warm cinnamon filled the apartment while you carefully kneaded dough with bandaged fingers. Something was healing about doing something so normal.

Rindou had texted you once to ask what kind of cookies you liked baking. Then followed up with a ‘no reason’ and a random meme about criminals loving sweets. You hadn’t asked questions, not even how he got your number.

Books and manga lined your small bookshelf, most well-worn and loved, and you found yourself picking up one you hadn’t touched in a while—a crime thriller that oddly mirrored your current feelings of unease. It didn’t scare you, though. It made you feel in control. Like you could anticipate threats now. Outwit them.

When night fell, you didn’t dare go out. Not even to take the trash down the hall. The thought of footsteps behind you in the dark hallway made your stomach twist. So instead, you stay in with a warm mug of cocoa and your knitting needles, the rhythmic click-clack of them working through rows keeping you grounded.

You keep your phone close. Not for calls from the club—but in case he texted again.

Ran had messaged her once, briefly and bluntly, ‘You need anything?’

You didn’t answer right away, unsure if it was out of obligation or something else.

When you finally replied hours later with, ‘I'm okay. Thanks for checking in,’ he didn’t respond. But somehow, you felt like he read it right away.

Two days later, there was a knock at the door just as you pulled a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. The scent of brown sugar and chocolate chips lingered in the air as you wiped your hands on a dish towel and limped slightly toward the door.

You peek through the peephole. Ran.

Opening the door, you were hit by the sight of him standing there in casual clothes—dark jacket, no tie for once—with a white plastic bag dangling from his hand.

He held it out lazily, ‘Rindou made me bring you this.’

You take it, peeking inside to see the unmistakable tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Your favourite.

Your brow lifted, ‘Where is Rindou, anyway?’

‘Club business.’ It came too quickly. Too clean.

You squint at him, suspicious, but a smirk tugged at your lips, ‘Uh huh. You always deliver your brother’s snacks for him?’

Ran didn’t answer, just gave a one-shouldered shrug and looked past you, ‘You gonna make me stand in the hallway?’

‘I just pulled some cookies out of the oven,’ you offer, ‘want tea with them?’

That earned you the faintest smile, barely-there but real, ‘yeah. Sure.’

They sit at your small kitchen table, a mismatched set of mugs between them, yours with little cat faces, his a plain black one she grabbed without thinking.

He took a sip of tea, watching you as you talked—hands animated, voice soft, but brighter than it had been days before.

You pull your knees up onto the chair, showing that the bandages were smaller now, the swelling mostly gone. Your face, too, was significantly less bruised, just a light yellow-green under the eye now, mostly hidden beneath concealer.

‘I’ve been resting,’ you say, ‘staying in like you told me. But I think I’m ready to go back. I can handle it.’

Ran looked at her for a long moment, unreadable, ‘you sure?’

‘I am. I’m not gonna let some asshole scare me out of a job I worked hard to get,’ you hesitate, ‘I’ll be more careful this time. But I need this. I want this.’

He nodded slowly, ‘Alright. We’ll ease you back in. Not on a packed night. I’ll see what I can do, but no promises, because I want you healthy before you come back.’

You smile, relief softening your features, ‘Thanks for considering.’

There was a brief pause before you leaned forward a little, tapping a finger on the table near the cookie plate, ‘also… Mikey,’ your tone turned shy, ‘I wanted to thank him. Properly. Do you know if he likes anything sweet? I was thinking I could bake him something. Cookies, maybe? Cupcakes?’

Ran’s brow raised slightly at your genuine concern, ‘You want to bake Mikey something?’

You nod eagerly, ‘he saved me. I don’t think I’d be okay if he didn’t show up. It’s the least I can do.’

Ran’s lips twitched again at your sincerity, ‘he’s not really a sweets guy…but he’s got a soft spot for taiyaki.’

You hum, ‘taiyaki?’

‘Red bean filling. Sometimes custard. Don’t ask how I know.’

You grin, ‘Got it. Taiyaki it is.’

He took another bite of your cookie, chewing slowly, ‘You really bake just for fun?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, a little sheepish, ‘It’s comforting. Gives me something I can control.’

Ran stared at you, quiet for a second too long, ‘You’re tougher than you look,’ he murmured.

You smile softly, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, ‘you’re not so scary when you’re holding a mug of tea and eating cookies.’

Ran snorted, ‘Don’t let the guys hear that.’

Bonten Headquarters - Late Afternoon

Ran walked into the lounge area of Bonten HQ with a plain white pastry box in one hand and a look of mild irritation on his face. Not at the contents—just at the fact that he’d agreed to this.

Rindou was sprawled on the couch, watching something on his phone. Sanzu sat nearby, flipping through a stack of cash like he was counting it just for fun. Koko glanced up from his laptop, and Takeomi was nursing a whiskey at the bar.

Mikey sat in his usual seat—quiet, statue-still, eyes half-lidded but very much aware of everything happening around him.

Ran set the box down on the table in front of him.

‘She made these. For you,’ he said simply.

Mikey blinked, ‘She?’

‘The waitress. From the club. The one you dragged home the other night.’

‘She baked for me?’ Mikey’s voice was faint, almost confused.

‘She wanted to say thank you,’ Ran flopped into a chair and crossed his legs, clearly not up for more questions. ‘I said you liked taiyaki.’

Koko arched a brow, ‘Is Ran delivering sweets now? What next, little pink aprons?’

Rindou perked up, ‘Wait, wait—she baked taiyaki? Like, from scratch?’

Sanzu grinned, ‘Guess she really is trying to impress the boss.’

‘She’s not trying to impress me,’ Ran drawled, ‘she just wanted to bake for the guy who cracked someone’s skull for her.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Sanzu smirked, ‘open the damn box, I’m curious now.’

Mikey opened it slowly, and the scent that hit the room was immediate: sweet red bean, a hint of vanilla and custard, and that perfect golden crust smell. Warm. Soft. Homemade.

He picked one up with his fingers, taking a bite with no hesitation.

The room went silent.

Then, Mikey paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing in thought, ‘These are good,’ he mumbled through the bite.

‘No,’ Sanzu corrected, reaching for another one, ‘these are dangerously good. I might propose to her.’

‘You’ll scare her off,’ Ran muttered.

Koko tried a bite and nodded thoughtfully, ‘She could open her own bakery.’

Takeomi hummed in approval, already going for seconds, ‘we should put her on payroll just to bake.’

Mikey, still munching, looked up at Ran with his usual emotionless stare, ‘She really made these for me?’

Ran nodded once, ‘said you saved her. This was her way of saying thanks.’

There was a pause. Mikey stared down at the taiyaki in his hand like it held the answers to the universe.

‘She can bake again,’ he said, ‘whenever she wants.’

Ran smirked, just a little, ‘I’ll let her know.’

[icannotgetoverbirds]

Listen. I am too disabled to work most jobs... in the United States.

Move me to Ireland or the UK, however, and suddenly the job market opens up much more for me. I don't suddenly become any less disabled - but labor laws in other countries, afaik, are so much better that my disabilities don't hold me back nearly as much anymore.

Back when I *was* working, i could barely handle my job as a host. i begged to be put on as a dishwasher, and my manager refused, despite the position having an incredibly high turnover rate. Because it was tiring and unrewarding and monotonous work.

She refused to believe that anyone could enjoy said work. I think she assumed that the only reason I wanted to be a dishwasher was for the higher pay. According to her, I was doing an excellent job as a host, despite the fact that it took everything in me to not go into a total shutdown halfway through my shifts 90% of the time.

Let me wash the damn dishes. Give me ONE fucking job and I will blow your fucking socks off.

But instead people are expected to do the work of two or more employees for the pay of one, so us bitches with switching-tasks-is-hell-disorder either have to suffer or find another solution/job.

Sigh.

[xplicitviewz]

“Who’s calling?” Your husband, Nanami, huffs from above you, his hips snapping into you. Your teary eyes glance at your phone while you let out small whimpers. “I-it’s our son.” You breathe out, your thighs tremble beneath his hands holding them down beside you.

Nanami groans and stuffs his dick fully into you, a whine escaping your lips as he picks up the phone. Between his work schedule and your 4 kids, there isn’t time for you and your husband to partake in a your shared activities other than the few times you guys got creative.

There was this one time you guys had your oldest watch the kids while you guys went to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine, which ended in a quickie in the dark parking lot before heading home.

Or the other time you guys had a pool day and you went inside to start getting the snacks ready. Nanami followed shortly after to have himself his own quick snack. Both of your days are pretty busy, but Nanami never fails to make some time for you and your pussy. You can admit sex hasn’t really been a priority, until tonight. Upon realizing all the kids would be gone, you immediately called Nanami to be sure he brings his ass home when he is off and not do any overtime- yes you used your mom voice too. Nanami agreed not wanting to be scolded.

When he did get home, he noticed a few things, there was any tv on, or music blasting from your two oldest rooms. There weren’t toys scattered in the living room or the dining room table from your two youngest, no yelling or screaming from all of them in general, it was just quiet. He smelt food in the air, he usually does every night he comes home but it’d be already eaten, or everyone will be eating at the dinner table (he insists not to wait for him because he often stays late) but since he left early from work, it isn’t ready just yet. He quickly rushes up the stairs, starting to feel the panic seep in just a bit, all the kids rooms are empty.

He opens his shared bedroom to see you just laying on your stomach, in the silky robe he got you, reading a book. He calms down because if you were okay, surely, the kids were too. His eyes gaze down your figure, your feet are in the air crossed, while you read. The robe sits at your upper thigh, and since it’s so thin, your ass pops out in the most desirable way possible. “Honey?” He eyes you suspiciously, taking a breath as he starts to settle down, “Where are the kids.”

You heard the front door shut, squeezing your thighs together, feeling the arousal hit you even more. The book you have been reading had been in your mind, and hearing your husband come home really made you ready to take him, full. You had dinner cooking in the oven, almost ready to serve for just Nanami and you. Your oldest son is at a movie with his friends and they are going to go eat after. Your second oldest daughter is spending the night with her best friend, and your two youngest are sleeping over with their grandparents. To say you were practically rushing your oldest son to leave already, since he was the last one to go, was an understatement.

“They are busy and safe.” You closed the book and turn your body towards him, your eyes hungry before you looked at him, but damn near starving when you did. That damn suit and tie. You explained where they all were as you sat up in the bed, impulsively pushing your chest out as you leaned back on your arms. Nanami didn’t ignore the lustful look in your eye, the way your nipples perked against the thin fabric, only assuming you had nothing on underneath. He quickly put a few things together, why you called him to not do overtime. He knew what his wife wanted, at least he thought so.

When your sweet loving husband started off kissing your neck, waiting to use the few hours to just worship your body, you, your hands cupped his chin and looked him dead in the eye, “Honey, I love you so much and I know that you do but tonight-right now I need you to fuck me like you don’t. I want y-“ His eyes darkens more at your plea, how desperate you were truly. How can he ever say no to his gorgeous wife. He cuts you off with a kiss before he started fucking you every way loose. Yes exactly what I said. But of course no matter what time it is, you guys are parents after all….

“What?” Nanami answers the call, still buried deep inside you, grinding against you as his thumb circles your clit.

“..Oh Hey dad, where’s mo-“

“She’s busy, are you okay, why are you blowing up her phone?” Nanami cuts your son off, his eyes focused on you squirming around, biting your lip to keep any lewd sounds hushed while he was on the phone with your son. He speeds up his movements on your clit, softly sucking in a breath when you clench tightly around his dick.

“I wanna buy some snacks and get some food after the movie, mom said she’ll send me m-“

“How much?” Nanami asked wanting him to get to the point so he can get back to his wife. He slowly pulling out before pushing himself back in. Your hand quickly covers your mouth as you shut your eyes. Your legs were shaking crazy. Your husband wasn’t one to always be rough in bed, but the times he is, you would feel it for days, in the best way possible. (He has that dog in him😞) Nanami definitely isn’t holding back, not when it’s been this long you guys were kid free for a few hours and together at that. Nanami was making up for lost time, fingering you until you couldn’t talk properly, eating your pussy like it personally offended him, fucking you left, right, up, down, diagonal, all up until your phone kept blowing up.

“Like about $40.”

“Okay, give me a moment.” Nanami grunts, as he bottoms out again, the way you squeezed his dick nearly knocked him out cold. He feels his dick throb inside you and pulls the phone away from his ear, breathing heavy.

“Thanks d-“

Nanami hangs up the phone and tosses it beside you before leaning in closer to you, peeling your hand away from your mouth and pulling it above your head. “Tell me something honey.” He hums kissing your swollen lips.

You whimper as he fucks you again, slow but rough this time, ”y-yes?” You gasp as he hits your cervix.

“When the kids ask for money, do you send it to them from my account?” He looks into your eyes, sweat dripping down his head watching your reaction to his question really his dick.

You’re screwed. Both literally and physically.

“Not alwa- o-ooh shit.” You moan, his hips moving faster than light. Nanami absolutely hates when you use your own money, hell, even when you were working. When you guys first started dating he already knew you were going to be his wife. Nanami would always say you didn’t need to work but you didn’t want him to be the sole provider. Eventually, you guys moved in together and you were still working. Though, he convinced you to work less hours and took you out on a date when you agreed. It wasn’t until you got pregnant with your first baby, did his wish come true. Shit, he was more excited when you both went down to your job to quit than he was to see the 2 pink lines.

“All the hours I work, being kept away from our family, my perfect wife -ngghh- my perfect wife’s pussy. And you still insist on usi-fuck- using your own money when you have access to my money- no our money, shit your money.” He moans grabbing your other hand and pulling it above your head with your other.

“Y-you pay for e-ever-“

“I’m supposed to baby. I want to.” He interrupts you, lifting your legs to his shoulders, and grabbing your phone with his free hand and sending your son $100 from his account. “Why must you make things complicated, love. I am the man, it’s my job to take care of you, our family. Let *thrust* me. Use my money for the kids, the house, the cars, whatever it is, I have enough, more than.” He kisses your lips softly, opposite to his thrusts. “Use your money I give you for you, whatever you want for you- shit for you. Everything I do is for you, everything I make, it’s yours, ours on paper, but it’s all yours. All for you.” He grunts into your ear, as if he’s teaching a lesson. Technically, he is.

“Don’t let me find out you aren’t using my money first again, okay hun?” He hums at you, a moaning teary mess.

“Now where were we?” He smiles before pulling out and flipping you on your stomach, lifting your ass up and spanking it. “Oh, right.” He chuckles as he spreads your cheeks apart, seeing your drooling sensitive pussy, clenching on air.

*edited but not proofread*

More:

Pussywhipped!Choso | part 2

Married!Eren x Maid!Reader

Ex-husband!Eren

Sylus mini

[lxnarphase]

━ ❝ OH, IT'S MINIKUNA ! ❞

✮₊‧⁺...content: heian era!sukuna x wife!reader, fluff, mentions of childbirth, sukuna is an overly proud father, sukuna is whipped for his wife

✮₊‧⁺...lunar's note: based of this little blurbie and this one too !! needed some fluff with kuna bc he would love having a baby girl idc what anyone says !!! also i did my best describing the birthing process in a time accurate period but it's definitely a bit inaccurate because...i have never had a baby LOL

no one has ever seen sukuna ryomen, king of curses, wince before.

not until today, at the wrath of his pregnant wife who somehow got a hold of his fingers instead of his hand.

one of the nurses did warn him to not give you his finger and to ensure you always hold his hand. but by the gods, he swears you almost ripped his finger off.

it's cute to him, however, when you attempt to curse him out.

'gods, sukuna, i despise your entire being!'

'i know, my wife.'

'i should've never let you get me pregnant, you animal!'

'you begged for it, my wife.'

'i am never letting you bed me again, use your hand for the rest of your existence!'

'you can't keep your hands off me, my wife, no need to lie.'

but the sigh of relief, the way you instantly look down and coo once the sound of wailing filled the air...it makes him melt just a little bit.

he can't deny, seeing you in pain made him heated. it took everything in him not to kill every midwife, nurse, and lady-in-waiting in your birth room for not being able to make this process completely painless.

except chiyo. he would have to reward your personal physician for preparing you so well for this...

what did the old hag like again? wines, meats, gifts for her grandchildren back at home?

hm, yes, that would be great for her. of course, he'll say it was from you. the king of curses shows gratitude for no one.

he's pulled out of his thoughts at the hushed whispers once the other women exam the baby before following your unspoken request to hold your child.

"d-do you think lord sukuna will harm our lady for this...?"

"i hope not, surely he can make an exception, t-they both are still young and can always try for more!"

"but he's the king of curses, t-there no way he won't have a reaction!"

before he can demand what they find so important to discuss in front of you, chiyo hushes the girls with a wave of her hand, ushering the girls to help wipe off your sweat, tears, and clean off the baby—gentle like it's the finest glass, she instructs—before turning to sukuna with a knowing smile.

"well, your greatness...congratulations on having a healthy and gorgeous little girl," she hums, wiping her hands with a clean cloth before going to rinse her hands to help stitch any rips and clean you up.

the room falls silent aside from your soft little coos and the wails of your daughter as you brush the wet, fluffy hair on her little head.

all the women in the room continue to work, but it's clear they are silently waiting for his outburst.

everyone knows that a proper heir to any throne is a boy...but now, sukuna's first born child is a girl.

but rather angry, yelling, and threats to your and your child's life, the room is filled with Suku's booming laughter, which practically shakes the entire room.

instead of an enraged expression, pure delight, and excitement are painted on his face as he sits next to you on the soft cushiony bedding on the floor, his hand caressing the rounded cheek of your newborn.

"so, you've given me a girl," he hums in delight, all four of his eyes narrowing. "this will be the one who takes over my throne once i decide to step down?"

this thing, this tiny, itty bitty baby...came from you both? it's almost laughable how small this baby is compared to his hand, that something so little could be related to him.

she's...nothing short of perfect. "absolutely divine...she will not just be beautiful like her mother, but as powerful as both of us."

he's so proud of you and your child. he would shower your daughter with riches, love, and anything she could ever want and ask for.

but, he couldn't lie.

she's a damned fat baby, big head and all.

"sukuna, watch your mouth!"

he can't help but laugh, not realizing his thoughts came out of his mouth. "what, it's a good thing! means she's healthy," he boasts with a grin, leaning down closer to see her better.

"she looks strong already. as soon as she is able, i will personally teach her how to be a truly malevolent little princess, how to properly slit the necks of her enemies, how to—!”

oh, he is so excited, it's adorable.

“sukuna, shush, i just gave birth to a child with a massive head like yours, give me a moment," you say with a light laugh, your smile still reaching your clearly tired eyes.

“…apologies, my wife.”

chiyo can't help but laugh with you she finishes applying the healing ointment on your lower body, using a bit of her cursed energy to speed up the healing process to help you skip any serious pain.

after all, nothing but the best physician for you in sukuna's palace.

"always such an excitable boy, my lord, ever since you were a young man," she hums, helping one of the midwives properly wrap your baby in the soft, clean cloth.

"be gentle with her," you instruct him, gently moving your arms toward him so he could take the little bundle. he's...nervous, but he hides it well.

you place your daughter in his arms and he looks down at her, suddenly conscious of how loud he's breathing. she's got his hair, still a bit wet but soft and fluffy. it's pink, just like his.

a pleased rumble vibrates his chest, and he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

but then...her eyes open.

both sets.

he almost didn't notice it at first, they're just so small, but they're there. the same color as yours, pretty and big, filled with so much life.

his eyes burn, vision getting blurry. no words come to his head, he can't think of anything to say. he's so caught up in his thought he doesn't even notice chiyo ushering the other girls in the room out and shutting the door before quietly tending to you with water or food.

she knows that look, you do as well. she's been around longer than uraume to know her master, knowing the king of curses since his young years as the unwanted child of the village, abandoned by his mother for his 'horrid' appearance.

she was lucky to have found him before the villagers got to him, torches, axes, pitchforks and daggers in hand to take care of the child who they believed to have brought misfortune to their home.

getting him to safety was one of the best decisions she'd ever made, king of curses or not. no child deserved to be abandoned like that. and now, he's seeing himself in that tiny little being in his arms right now...chiyo can only imagine what he's feeling.

so, out of respect, she keeps her gaze averted, pretending she does not see the misty gaze he gives your daughter. this is a moment for you and him, and she does her best to make all her movements as quiet as possible.

all sukuna can think about in this moment is how he used to be just as tiny as this. he was just as vulnerable in his mothers arms. he couldn't talk, couldn't speak, couldn't fend for himself.

yet, his parents looked down at him just like this and decided he was an abomination and didn't give him a chance.

but now?

sukuna knows he would never, ever let anything happen to this little bundle in his arms. he would rather destroy the entire planet before letting anything happen to his baby girl. no one would make his little one suffer and live to see another day.

he flinches just a little, feeling your soft hand rubbing his bicep. "it's okay, my love," you softly coo at him, reaching up to wipe a tear from his eye before it had a chance to drip down his cheek. "she's going to grow up feeling loved and cherished because she's got a great father."

"hmm..."

a smile crosses his features as he looks back down, looking at the squirming baby so makes a little noise before calming down when he strokes her little, chubby cheek again to keep her from crying again.

"and she's got a great mother. she'll be the most wonderful princess in all of history," he says with a toothy grin, chest rumbling with a laugh.

"aww, my love, that's so sweet..."

"seriously, though, how in hells did you squeeze this thing out of ya? thing's got the head of a watermelon."

"sukuna, give me back my baby, and chiyo? get this man some food to stuff in his mouth before he says something to warrent the rage of a new mother."

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[theorist-fox]

Can I interest you in some silly sex with Simon? 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

18+

Word count: 1k.

CW: nothing really. Just silly sex. Just giggling sex. Just I-need-to-give-this-man-some-humanity sex. Simon is ticklish and you find out, that's the plot.

Masterlist 🦊

You look delectable straddling his hips.

Naked and soft, plump tits sitting prettily in his hands. His thumbs swipe idly around your perked nipples as you ride him slowly, early morning sun peeking through the curtains and lapping at your skin. What a way to wake up, what a sight.

He stares at your lips and how they part for him—something he still has to get used to, though he probably never truly will. How dulcet does his name sound if it’s your voice whispering it, how beautiful your eyes when they take in his face.

Soft hands are pressed on his chest for leverage, and you’re treating him with a view he keeps pinned to the forefront of his brain—gliding your cunt until you’re chock-full of him, stroking yourself until you’re shivering.

He likes it when he’s on top, sure. He’s used to taking the lead and orchestrating every detail, in and out of the job. 

But when you allow him to sit back and take it? Hell, sign him up. He’d do it every day. Especially when it’s this lazy sex here, in which you’re canting your hips to cum before he does, giving him the blissful chance of feeling you clench around him when he's still hard. 

Goosebumps rise under your nails as they graze down his chest and brush his stomach. Your hands wander blindly on his belly, then his sides, as you clock his eyes with your heavy ones, panting softly, idly—my beautiful, beautiful girl.

But then you inadvertently brush his ribs, and he stiffens—even squirms, and your movements come to a halt.

You blink as conscience returns to you slowly, and the room sinks into tense silence. His cock twitches inside of you when you tilt your head inquisitively, squinting your eyes.

Experimentally, you brush your fingertips against his ribs again, and his biceps flatten to his sides, trapping your hands.

Your eyes widen, and his do the same.

“Don’t.”

You gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Darling, no.” He warns, but you’ve clearly made up your mind already.

Your lips are curled in a smile that promises mischief, and he can only give up, sit back, and count his losses.

“Darling, yes.”

Simon feels your fingers wiggle under the tight press of his arms, but no matter his strength, they're seemingly useless against that playful resolve you're displaying.

His cock is still embarrassingly hard inside you, and Simon reckons it won't soften any time soon. You don’t seem eager to get off him either, thus prolonging the torture with each tiny movement you make.

He inhales sharply and fights tooth and nail to school his expression into neutrality. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is locked tight. The only thing giving him away is the flush of his cheeks, getting pinker by the second because he refuses to open his mouth to breathe a much-needed lungful of air. Knowing that if he would, he'd bark a laugh that would proclaim you as the winner of this fight.

He would never.

You roll your hips, then—cheap trick. He unravels with a shaky breath, and his biceps give out enough for you to slip your hands away.

And then, he knows he's done for.

“Cut it out.” He barks, trying to sound stern and miserably failing. He knows because you're laughing even harder.

Your fingers feel like tiny bugs crawling up his sides, and they make his breath catch in his throat.

“Never.” You say, with a grin that scrunches your nose. A smile that would normally make his heart throb, but right now just makes him wish he were a lesser man so he could throttle you.

“Fuckin’-“

You chuckle.

You evil little cunt.

Resistance lasts a few more seconds before he bursts.

It’s not a full laugh that leaves him; more of a wheeze that makes you chortle like a wicked witch. His chest heaves as your fingers frantically tickle his sides. Tries to get you off him by shaking his hips, but that only makes the two of you falter and moan, and then chuckle and catch your breaths.

His shoulders shake in a breathless, choking laugh that pitches upward as you continue with your assault (yes, assault—he is not being dramatic), eyes veiled with tears of frustration and mirth. He shrieks when your hands travel under his armpits—the sound makes you giggle in a way that would have him melt. 

“That laugh’s lovely, baby.” You say with a smarmy grin he wishes he could wipe with a kiss, hands unrelenting against his sides. “Sound like a kettle whistling.”

He tries to glower and push you off, but you’re surprisingly strong when you’re focused. Right now, your only goal is to apparently make him hate you—he'd rather be held at gunpoint than being forced to hold in a laugh that makes his stomach hurt.

Simon now looks shockingly harmless, with his cheeks flushed bright red and his voice an octave too high—wouldn't look dangerous if he tried.

“Tea ready, yet?” You add, batting your lashes, because why not rub salt into the already embarrassing wound marring his pride.

It’s that unfathomably stupid joke that finally makes Simon crack. He barks out a laugh that bubbles up his throat, rippling through his stomach so suddenly that you bounce above him. Your own laugh follows soon after, because each time you manage to steal one from him, your heart vibrates with loving triumph.

But still—he is Simon Riley, isn’t he? Member of Task Force 141. Lieutenant in the UK Special Forces, SAS. The Ghost. There is some pride in there, one he'd like to keep intact.

He tries to recollect his breath, sniffling, and his arms shoot out to wrap around your waist. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him.

It’s then that you find yourself in a position of utter disadvantage, on your back with your big brute of a boyfriend holding you down. You’re wide-eyed and still smiling with barely contained giggles, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn't make his heart soar.

Sure, he’s panting, still proper flushed and apple-cheeked, with shivers wrecking his spine and unshed tears in his eyes—but he takes great pride in having won yet another fight (again, not overreacting at all, if you ask him).

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You fix him with a look. “Simon, no.”

Before you can add more to your complaint, he rams his cock into you until your chest stutters, your lips mouthing around a shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

He fucks you into the mattress, then—once, twice, until the remnants of laughter vanish from your face and you’re trembling in bliss, eyes rolled back under heavy eyelids.

He places a sloppy kiss down to your collarbone.

“Simon, yes.”

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[libingan]

—no questions asked.

you’ve always been his, even before the words were ever said—no labels needed when everything else speaks for itself.

i remember candace and jeremy's relationship in phineas and ferb. i liked how jeremy assumed they were already dating and thought to myself "simon riley" so here it is.

it’s always been this way with simon.

the little things you’ve shared, those moments that nobody else gets to see, have slowly built up over time. long drives where the silence is comfortable, quiet moments when you’re wrapped up in a blanket together, his arm draped around your shoulders. you’ve shared soft kisses in the early morning light, whispered words when you think no one’s listening, and occasional touches that linger just a second too long to be deemed innocent. his gruff voice calling you his—just “his,” as if you’re already a part of something bigger, something unspoken.

but the question always lingers in the back of your mind: what are we?

because in your head, you’re not his girlfriend. you never really were. sure, you’ve done couple things—spent hours together, laughed over inside jokes, shared moments that feel like they belong to only the two of you. but whenever you think about it, you can’t quite place a label on what you are. you never had that conversation, the one where he asks you out, where you define what this thing between you is.

and deep down, you’ve always known. maybe it’s not meant to last. maybe simon’s just passing through your life like a storm, wild and unpredictable, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again once the dust settles. you’ve never asked for a commitment. it was enough for you to just be close, to keep things easy and fluid, without any promises that might eventually break.

but then, everything changes the moment you decide to confront him.

it’s a quiet night, the kind where the world outside seems to stop, and you’re sitting in the living room, the only sound being the soft hum of the kitchen light. simon’s sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded as he scrolls through his phone. you’re sitting on the floor in front of him, leaning your back against the coffee table, and you can’t stop your thoughts from swirling.

the truth has been eating at you for weeks now, months maybe. you have to ask. you need to know if this is really what you want, and more importantly, if it’s what simon wants. so, you let the question slip, unsure of how it’ll come out, but it tumbles from your lips all the same.

“simon,” you begin, your voice quiet but firm, “what are we?”

he doesn’t immediately look up from his phone. it’s as if the question barely registers, but you know he’s heard it. you can feel his attention slowly turning your way, as if his brain needs a second to process the weight of your words.

he puts the phone down, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at you, his gaze soft but intense. he doesn’t say anything at first. instead, his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk.

“what do you mean?” his voice is low, almost like he’s testing the waters.

you swallow, feeling a tightness in your chest, and you try to make your words come out right. “i mean… we do all this stuff, simon. you call me yours, and i… i don’t even know where i stand. we’ve never really talked about what this is. are we… are we dating, or what?”

he blinks at you for a moment, clearly taken aback by your words. it’s almost funny, how much you’ve thought about it, how much you’ve analyzed your every interaction, while simon has likely never questioned it. it’s simple to him. and that’s when it hits you—he’s never even considered that this could be anything other than what it is.

he sighs, a deep, exasperated sound, and leans back into the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. “what are you on about, woman? you’re my girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t quite process them. you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. it almost sounds like he’s stating a fact, like it’s something as simple as breathing. his voice is firm, unwavering, as if this was always meant to be the case.

you feel your breath catch, the weight of his words sinking in, and then—just like that—all your worries melt away. you don’t even know why you were so worried in the first place. the uncertainty, the anxiety, it all seems so silly now. you’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all. simon is, as always, so simon about it. there’s no drama, no overthinking, no need for big conversations or declarations.

you’re his. you’re his girlfriend. and there’s no debate.

the relief hits first, followed closely by a mix of amusement and a small flash of annoyance. you try to hold back the grin tugging at your lips. “wait... just like that? no question, no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ just… you’re my girlfriend?”

he meets your gaze, nonchalant, and shrugs. “that’s right. you’re mine. no need for any of that nonsense. i’ve already decided.”

you stare at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. it’s the way he speaks, like he’s already certain, already claimed you. and it feels… good. reassuring, even. but also, just a little bit frustrating. because, honestly, how do you even argue with that?

“god, you’re impossible,” you mutter, a grin breaking through as you roll your eyes. “seriously. you’re so damn sure about everything.”

he just smirks back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “you should be glad i am, sweetheart. now, come here.”

he pats his lap, and before you can protest, you’re already moving toward him, the tension from moments before completely gone. his arms pull you close, and you settle against him, feeling his familiar warmth. you don’t even need the words anymore. somehow, just being with him like this is enough.

and that, you realize, is exactly what simon’s always known.

[woantohae]

Close to you || (Bob Reynolds x reader)

Summary: AU! Where Yelena asks Y/N and Bucky for a big favor while they're on a mission: to save Robert Reynolds, a friend of hers. Thinking it would be an easy mission to carry out, they readily accept, only to be surprised to find that it won't be as they thought.

And Bob is nothing like he pretends to be.

Author's note: Hello! So this is basically a dream that I had last night and I couldn't not write it. I hope you enjoy it 💌

Content warnings: au! fanfic, fluff, curse words, void being a flirt kinda? (i know he's not like that in the comics, but a girl can dream), bucky and reader acting like sister and brother, bob having a soft spot for reader, shy! bob, hints of angst.

"What's his name again?"

"Robert Reynolds," Yelena says through Y/N's earpiece "They've had him there for a long time, and I promised to go get him once I knew his location."

Bucky prepares his weapons, his brows slightly furrowed, as he listens to the blonde through the communicator in his ear as well.

"Old friend or an ex from the past?" Bucky asks, to which Y/N ​​smiles in amusement.

Yelena laughs sarcastically.

"Ha, ha, ha. Yeah," she says. "He's just a friend. I could never see him that way in my life, and he thinks the same. I'm not his type, anyway."

"We'll do our best, Yelena," the girl assures her, starting to walk with Bucky to the back entrance of the place.

Yelena thanks them, then leaves the duo on their own. They both act stealthily and cautiously to avoid being seen by the guards. Bucky is in charge of throwing a rope that sticks to the ceiling of the compound, giving it a couple of tugs to make sure it's secure.

The black-haired man watches her.

"You coming?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Of course," she begins to rise into the air with the ease of her powers. "See you up there."

Bucky complains and curses, while Y/N laughs. She is the first to reach the roof and waits a few seconds until the man reaches her side.

"Sometimes I forget you can fly," he says, letting go of the rope and letting it fall from the ceiling.

They start walking to the ventilation duct, which Bucky easily opens with his metal arm. He lets Y/N go through first, and she cautiously squeezes through the ventilation duct, complaining about the space in the process. With great care and effort, they begin to walk through the limited space until they reach the grate that leads to the lab where Robert was. The duo stays on their knees, crouching, peering through the grate, a bright orange light emanating from it.

"I think it's here," Bucky says, adjusting the weapon in the small backpack on his back.

"Do you know the plan?" Y/N nods as she peers through the grate, looking at a man lying on a stretcher in the fetal position. "You ready?"

"Are you?" He looks at her, to wich she confirms her answer with the movement of her fingers that open the metal grate.

Bucky is the first to go down, trying to make as little noise as possible, then raises his arms and embraces Y/N in them. They make sure no one is watching them, so they give Yelena the sign to lock the glass room they're in. Suddenly, the deafening sound of the metal doors slamming shut is heard, jarring the brunette awake, who falls off the stretcher and onto the floor.

"Ouch!" he groans.

Y/N walks over to him and crouches down to check on him. Bob's eyes are still closed from the impact, a look of grievance on his face.

"Are you Robert?" she asks, frowning.

Bob opens his eyes and finds himself staring at the girl in front of him.

He swallows and nods repeatedly.

"Yeah, yeah."

She smiles and brings her fingers to the communicator in her ear. "We got him, Yelena," she says triumphantly.

The brunette sits up, resting his elbows on the floor and looking at her with hope in his eyes. He remembers the blonde-haired girl who stood by him when he needed her most. Until Valentina's team managed to capture him again to continue turning him into their weapon. Time passed and his hope faded, but now a calm slowly invaded his being.

"Good job, guys. Thank you" says Yelena and the smile on her face can be heard through the earpiece.

Y/N looks back at Bob and gets up from the ground offering her hand to help him, which he accepts. Robert notices Bucky who is looking at him carefully and cautiously, alert to any sudden movement.

"Well, Robert. We need to go. Now," Y/N says.

Bob nods, not questioning her decision.

He feels the blue-eyed man's cold glare and swallows, suddenly feeling small; it's as if he hates him without even knowing him, and doesn't understand why. But he doesn't have time to continue questioning that, as a deafening alarm suddenly sounds. The metal doors begin to rise, revealing several guards pointing guns at them behind the glass.

"Shit," the girl curses and positions herself next to Bucky.

"I thought we had more time, Yelena," Bucky says, sounding exasperated.

"Fuck, I didn't think they'd discover us so quickly."

"Really? Well, they did," Bucky says, readying his weapon.

He signals Y/N with his hand, indicating the vent for them to leave. "Go, I'll distract them."

"Come on," she says taking Bob's arm —not thinking twice, the girl knows Bucky can take care of this on his own.

They move as quickly as they can.

"Can you get in?"

"I-I think so."

Y/N lets the brunette climb first, then pulls herself up and enters, feeling Bob help her by wrapping his arms around her waist. The pair crawl through the duct quickly until they reach the exit to the roof. Soon they both step out, but stop abruptly when it can be heard the sound of guns pointed at them. There are some guards who went up to the roof to catch them.

"Stop! Don't move!" one of them shouts.

Both Y/N ​​and Bob raise their arms in surrender, until the girl decides to move her hands and take the guns from them, while Bob throws them away through the air, letting them fall while hearing their cries for help. She looks at him in surprise and raises an eyebrow, to which Bob glances at her, as if what he did was wrong.

"Wow, that was good."

Bob smiles and shrugs.

"Thank you. You too."

The moment of victory doesn't last long, as Bob feels something stinging his neck. He reaches for his neck and pulls out a dart, staring at it with a frown. The girl notices that one of the guards is left in the corner, and before he can attack them, she uses her powers to shot him with one of the guns that was on the ground.

"Fuck," Bob says.

Y/N's eyes widen and she reaches for him when she realizes he's about to faint. The girl's arms wrap around him as best she can and she tries to communicate with Bucky.

"Bucky, we have a problem here."

"Yeah, me too!" he replies, while she hears the bullets on the other side. "Do you think you can make it to the car?"

The girl looks down at Bob, who is unconscious, and considers her options. She can fly to the car without a problem, but she's never carried someone in her arms while doing so. However, Y/N would have to do it if she wanted to complete the mission.

She sighs and nods with her head, even if Bucky can't see her.

"Yeah, i can do that."

"I'll be there in a minute. I need to take care of something before. Be careful" he says the last thing in a concerned tone.

"I will. You too, Bucky" she asks.

Without waiting any longer, she grabs Bob's body in her arms and soars into the air until she reaches the car. She opens the door with a flick of her fingers —without needing the keys, and carefully puts Bob inside, then gets in the car and closes the door, checking that no one else is near the perimeter. Y/N catches her breath as she adjusts Bob's body so he's sitting in the car and she puts on his seatbelt.

Y/N brushes a strand of hair away that's falling from the man's forehead and looks at him, scanning the details of his calm face. But the calm doesn't last long because Bucky decides to jump into the car without a warning.

"Fuck, Bucky! What the hell!" she exclaims, feeling her heart race in shock.

"No time to yell at me! We have to go, now!" Bucky yells as he starts driving.

The black-haired man drives like there's no tomorrow, and they get as far away from the scene as possible, feeling the bullets hit the car, but the sound of an explosion steals their attention.

"Shit. That was you?" she asks, looking over her shoulder.

"I had to stop them somehow," Bucky says, his eyes fixed on the road.

"Not bad," she says, pouting and shrugging.

Bob slowly wakes up, opening his eyes and looking around.

"What happened?" he asks in a soft tone.

Y/N looks at him and smiles.

"Everything's okay. We managed to escape, don't worry," she comforts him in a soft tone, noticing how Bob's frown softens and she can see the relief on his face.

"Is everything okay back there?" he asks, looking at them in the rearview mirror.

Y/N nods, but the man abruptly turns the car to take a shortcut, causing Bob's body to move —and the brunette's face to land directly on Y/N's breasts.

"Fuck, sorry!" Bob says panicking.

Y/N feels a heat spread across her cheeks at what happened with Bob, even though she knows it was a complete accident. Unlike Bucky, who glares at him as he continues driving at top speed.

"Hey, it's okay," the girl says, and Bob immediately pulls away from her.

"You seemed to enjoy it, Robert," Bucky says in a serious tone.

"Bucky. Now's not the... Watch out!"

The car is hit by another vehicle, causing it to flip through the air. Y/N rushes to try to use her powers and stabilize it, bringing it back down to earth, only now they're upside down.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asks, groaning.

"I think so," she replies, looking at Bob, who's grimacing from the impact.

From one second to the next, the girl is yanked out of the car by someone, while Bob and Bucky shout at her to stop and let her go. One of the guards who managed to reach them grabs her by the hair and pulls her head back, putting a plastic syringe down her throat. If she makes a false move, he'll inject her with it.

"You're not that useful with your magnetic powers now, are you?" the guard says in her ear.

Bucky blows the driver's door open and immediately gets out, pointing a gun at him. Bob still hasn't gotten out of the car.

"Ah, easy there. I can inject this into her anytime if you shoot me, soldier."

Y/N looks at him, her eyes telling him not to do anything. Bucky clenches his jaw and lowers the gun, then drops it to the ground and raises his hands in surrender.

"We'll do this: you give me Reynolds, and also I take the girl with me, and no one gets hurt," he offers with a mocking smile.

"Eat shit," Bucky replies, gritting his teeth.

"Yeah, I don't think so," a voice identical to Bob's is heard.

The rest watch as Bob walks toward them slowly but surely, with a much darker and more confident aura than a few minutes ago when they rescued him.

"You're going to let her go, and then I'll take care of you so you never show up again," he assures, standing in front of the guard.

"How are you going to do that? Are you going to beat me up?" He laughs, and Bob just smirks.

The brunette stretches out an arm and uses his hand to make the guard choke suddenly, freeing Y/N, who is instantly rescued by Bucky. They both watch as Bob chokes the life out of the man without having to touch him, then disappears, leaving a dark, black trail on the ground.

The pair stares at him in perplexity, and he turns to look at them, specifically at Y/N, whom he approaches, standing in front of her.

"You're safe now," he says calmly.

A few months had passed since Bob had arrived at the home, greeted by Yelena, who was happy and relieved to see him alive.

The pair shared a unique connection and a friendship they had forged over the years since they met in the laboratory where they were subjected to a series of torture experiments. They had promised to seek each other out once they had found the location they were in. Although it had taken a while, they were now reunited.

The rest of the team had also welcomed him well and were getting to know him over the last few days to integrate him into the group.

Yelena had explained to them that Bob tended to have his good moments and his bad moments—like what happened with the guard when Y/N and Bucky rescued him. It was as if they'd possessed poor Bob, turning him into a more confident, powerful man with dark intentions. It wasn't that they judged him for that; everyone there had done things they regretted, but this was different. Something beyond their capabilities.

The rain was now pounding the roof of the compound. The ambient temperature was low, and every time Y/N blew air through her nose, she could see white steam rising from it. The girl had a cup of tea in her hands that relieved the cold a little, while she sipped it, appreciating the rainy landscape in front of her.

The house was completely silent, allowing only the soft sound of falling raindrops to be heard. It was the perfect weather and occasion, according to the girl; she could enjoy it all day with nothing to do and no one to interrupt her. John was spending time with his baby, Ava was on a first date with Yelena—the pair were getting to know each other much better after forming a team. Meanwhile, Alexei was working in his spare time as a limo driver to pay some bills, and Antonia had decided to step away from the group for a while to pursue her own business.

So the only people in the house were Bob, Y/N, and Bucky, the latter of whom was in an online meeting at the office with Sam.

Y/N watched through the window as Bob hurriedly ran into the house. She watched as Bob entered, shook his hair, trying to dry it, and then proceeded to take off his jacket and shirt, leaving his torso bare and unaware of Y/N's presence, who looked away.

"How was the gardening, Bob?"

"Oh, shit!" He froze and tried to cover his chest with his shirt "I'm so sorry. I thought I was alone"

She smiles amusedly, still holding her mug. She takes a sip and nods at the rain outside.

"Whenever it rains, I stay inside. It helps me disconnect from everything," she explains, while Bob nods, still holding the shirt to his chest.

Y/N raises an eyebrow and walks over to him, then places the mug on the table, standing face to face with the brunette.

"Need help? I can do the laundry, today." Bob swallows and shakes his head, letting out a nervous laugh.

"You don't have to. It's my stuff."

She shrugs and shakes her head, tilting it as she looks at him. "I don't have a problem with that"

She seriously wants you, right now. Do something. Or I will.

Bob frowns slightly his eyebrows and shakes his head, trying to make him go away. But he knows it's not that easy.

Y/N places her hand on Bob's to encourage him to give her his clothes. Their eyes are on each other, and neither of them seems to want to look away. Bob is a bundle of nerves when he feels Y/N's touch.

"I've noticed you tend to ignore me," she says in a low tone.

Bob's eyes widen and he shakes his head, as if he's been caught in the act.

"No, no, no. I'm, well, I don't... I'm sorry if you felt that way." Bob tries to form a coherent sentence, but has trouble doing so, seeing how Y/N keeps looking at him with those bright eyes he often likes to find in a crowd "I didn't mean to, really. It's just you are incredible and pretty, and I just..... I don't know..."

Seeing the man's worried state, Y/N places a hand on his cheek to make him look at her.

"Easy, it's okay. I'm not mad about it," she says with a smile "I just wanna know why. I would love to get to know you better, actually".

"Really?" the brunette asks.

She nods and smiles sideways.

Bob stares down at Y/N's lips for a few seconds, thinking about how soft they look. He wonders what it feels like to kiss them, and this isn't the first time he's done it.

It wasn't anyone's surprise that Bob started to have feelings for the girl in front of him; he's sure it was the day they rescued him. It may have been immediate, but he couldn't deny the way his heart raced, and it didn't even match how it felt when he was drugged or experimented on. This was better and more powerful, a feeling he craved every chance he got.

Y/N felt the same way about Bob. She found him handsome, sweet, and warm to be around. Lately, she'd been trying to give him hints that she was attracted to him, but the man never noticed. Maybe he was too oblivious, because he was pretty much the only person in the team who didn't seemed to noticed. The first to notice this undeniable attraction was Yelena. She constantly teased them by the looks the pair gave each other, and how they reacted when they heard each other's names in a conversation.

They wouldn't get away with it that easily.

"I, uh... think you're pretty," he blurts out. "And you make me nervous because you're wonderful. In every aspect of the word. "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you or look at you, hoping you'll return my gaze".

She looks at him dearly, feeling her heart race. In a nice way.

"And maybe it's silly, but whenever I'm around you, I feel at peace," he says sincerely. "And I haven't felt that way in a long time."

Can you be more pathetic about it? Just kiss her already!

God damn it, shut up.

Bob falls silent at the sight of her expression and thinks he's screwed up, so before he can explain, or even try to, he feels Y/N grab the back of his neck and pull him closer for a kiss. He's surprised but lets go, letting go of the shirt from his hands to hug her waist, while Y/N rests her hands on his broad shoulders and they continue moving their lips in sync.

Bob doesn't want this moment to end because he thinks he's dreaming, so he wraps his arms around the girl's body to pull her closer to him, feeling that voice in his head bothering him once again.

Just like that, her lips feel good, don't they?

Bob growls when he feels Y/N's hands caresing his chest, feeling the coldness of her fingers. Their moment is interrupted by someone clearing their throat as they enter the room.

The two of them separate from eachother. Y/N lowers her gaze and bites her lip, while Bob alertly stares at Bucky, who looks at him seriously.

"I'll just say you two should go to a room if this goes any further. We don't want this to be any more awkward than it is," Bucky says, going to the kitchen to get a cup and start making some coffee.

Y/N pats Bob's chest, and he looks at her, then follows her like a puppy.

"You don't have to be such an asshole," Y/N pinches Bucky's arm as she walks past him.

"It's my duty as your friend."

"Looks more like a brother, kinda stuff," Y/N says, taking Bob's hand and leading him to his room.

"Use protection!" Bucky warns.

Oh, we will.

Bob internally scolds himself as he hears Void invade his mind for a moment. Y/N laughs in amusement at Bob's reaction, stopping him in the middle of the hallway, just in front of her room.

"We don't have to do anything," she clarifies, and she sees how he relaxes a little.

"But I'd like to spend a little more time together. If that's okay with you."

Bob smiles and nods.

"I'd like that too."

Damn, Bob. We miss the fun part.

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

[pucksandpower]

In Every Quiet Moment

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: as a gifted pianist struggling to make ends meet in Monaco, you never expect your quiet world to collide with Formula 1’s fiercest driver … until a rain-soaked night, a stray kitten, and a cup of hot chocolate change everything

The rain comes hard and sudden, like a tantrum. It slaps against the café windows in sheets, hammering the cobblestones and turning the square outside into a glossy watercolor. The sky is bruised, the streetlights yellowing the mist, and the world feels like it’s been dunked underwater.

You glance up from where you’re wiping down the espresso machine, sighing. Another late night. Another storm.

You're alone. The chairs are flipped upside-down on the tables, lights low, Edith Piaf humming quietly from the little speaker you keep on the counter. The smell of cinnamon and leftover croissants lingers faintly.

You stretch your wrists. Eight hours of class, three hours on shift, and you still haven’t practiced your Liszt etude. The anxiety tightens like thread in your chest.

And then — movement. Outside. You blink, stepping closer to the window.

There’s a man. Tall. Absolutely soaked. He’s crouched beside the steps just past the awning, knees bent, arms out. You squint through the glass.

A kitten. Small, skinny, trembling.

He’s trying to coax it out from beneath a stone bench, his jacket shielding it from the storm.

You hesitate. Logic says to mind your business. Let the guy deal with his savior complex in peace. But your hands are already reaching for the door.

It groans as you pull it open. Cold air slaps your face. “Hey,” you call, barely audible above the downpour. “Hey, do you need-”

He turns.

Your breath catches — not because he’s handsome, though he is — but because there’s something strange in his expression. Like you’ve caught him in something private. His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the tiny ball of fur against his chest with careful hands.

You frown. “Is it hurt?”

“I don’t know.” His voice is low. Rough like gravel. A weird contrast to how gently he’s holding the kitten. “It’s freezing.”

You open the door wider. “Come in.”

He hesitates. Glances down the street, like maybe there’s somewhere else he’s supposed to be. Then back to you. You think he’s going to refuse.

But he steps forward.

The bell jingles above the door. You lock it behind him.

“Sit,” you say, motioning to the bench along the wall. “I’ll get towels.”

He doesn’t argue. Just lowers himself silently, kitten still tucked inside his jacket. Water drips in small pools around his boots.

You disappear into the back room, grabbing the cleanest dish towels you can find and one of the café’s emergency hoodies you sometimes wear when the heat’s out. You hand them to him.

“Thanks.” His eyes flick up to yours briefly. They’re blue — so much lighter up close. He rubs the kitten dry first, talking to it under his breath like it’s a scared child.

You don’t ask questions. Just move behind the counter and start the steamer.

“You want hot chocolate?” You ask.

A pause. Then a quiet, “Yeah. Sure.”

You make it the way you like it — extra thick, pinch of cinnamon, real whipped cream — and slide the mug across the counter. He looks at it like he doesn’t know what to do with something that kind.

“What’s its name?” You ask, settling across from him.

He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t ask.”

You smirk. “Well, she looks like a Phoebe.”

“That’s a horrible name.”

“I like it.”

“She’ll get bullied at school.”

“She’s a cat.”

He actually smiles at that. It’s barely there, but it softens something in his face. You realize, suddenly, how tired he looks. Not just from the rain. The kind of tired that lives deep in the bones.

You lean forward, chin on your hand. “What were you even doing out there?”

“Walking.”

“In this?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

You nod slowly. “Insomnia or caffeine?”

His brows lift slightly. “Why not both?”

You laugh, short and surprised. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

Another pause. He blows into the mug, watching the steam curl around his fingers. “Do I have to?”

“No,” you say. “But I’ll name you too, if you’re not careful.”

His eyes lift, direct and unreadable. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

That makes you curious. But something about his tone — quiet, almost pleading — makes you let it go.

You sit there a while longer. The storm beats on. He finishes the hot chocolate and wipes the kitten’s nose. You give him a take-home box for croissants and leftover brioche. He accepts it with a small nod, still saying nothing about who he is or where he’s going.

He leaves without giving you his name.

You only realize who he is when you’re sweeping up later. You find the receipt under his mug, flipped upside down, with the credit card slip still attached.

€2,000 tip.

You stare. Check the name.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

You almost drop the broom.

***

The next evening, it rains again. Not as hard, more of a romantic drizzle this time. You’re closing up, humming through your teeth, when the bell above the door chimes softly.

You turn, halfway into your apron. And there he is. Dry this time. No kitten.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands in the doorway like he’s waiting for you to yell at him for being weird.

“You came back,” you say, blinking.

He shrugs. “You were nice.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You left two thousand euros. I could’ve retired.”

“You work too hard to retire,” he says quietly.

That stops you. You don’t know how he knows that — but somehow, he does.

You clear your throat. “Hot chocolate again?”

He nods.

This time he sits at the counter instead of the bench. Closer. You make the drink slowly, trying not to stare. He’s different tonight. Relaxed. Still quiet, but not like he’s hiding. Like he’s … watching. Noticing.

You set the mug in front of him. “So. Phoebe survived the night?”

“She’s living in my guestroom now. Chewed through my charging cord and pissed on my sock.”

“Sounds like love.”

He smirks, sipping. “She’s angry. Loud. A menace.”

“Like you?”

“Worse.”

There’s a comfortable silence that stretches between you. You wipe down the bar again, more for something to do. He traces a finger along the wood grain.

“I meant to say thank you,” he says after a moment. “For last night.”

You glance up. “You did. With money.”

“That wasn’t-” He sighs. “I didn’t mean to do it like that.”

You raise a brow. “Then how did you mean to?”

He pauses. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly sheepish. “I … don’t usually talk to people like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-” He cuts himself off. “Like a normal person.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. “Are you not a normal person?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Depends who you ask.”

The bell rings softly as a breeze sneaks in through the window crack. You tug your sleeves over your hands, watching him quietly.

“Why are you here?” You ask. “I mean, really.”

He sets the mug down. “Because I wanted to be.”

You blink. “That’s not an answer.”

He leans in slightly, forearms resting on the counter. “You didn’t ask a real question.”

You look at him. Really look. There’s something magnetic in the quiet way he holds your gaze. No arrogance. Just … interest. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you wrinkle your nose or tug your sleeves.

You tilt your head. “Okay, then. Real question.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why come back if you don’t want anything from me?”

He looks down. “Who says I don’t?”

Your breath stutters. You laugh, but it’s nervous this time.

“I don’t-” you start, then shake your head. “I’m not really looking for anything.”

He shrugs. “Me neither. Maybe that’s the point.”

You’re quiet.

You don’t know why this is happening. Why a man like him is sitting here, watching you like you matter. Like he wants something real in a world where everything around him is so curated and artificial.

You take a breath. “What if I like things slow?”

“Then I won’t rush.”

“What if I have too much going on? I study ten hours a day, I work nights, I barely remember to eat.”

“I’ll remind you.”

You blink. “You’re a stranger.”

“I’m Max.”

The sound of his name makes something shift. It sounds … different when he says it. Not like a brand or a headline. Just a person.

You swallow. “You want more chocolate?”

He smiles — small, genuine. “Yeah. Please.”

So you make another mug. And this time, when you slide it toward him, your fingers brush his.

Neither of you move.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

***

Max begins showing up every few days. Never on a schedule, never with warning. Just … appears. Quiet. Steady. Always a little after dusk, when the tourists thin out and the locals disappear behind shuttered windows. You’ll be wiping a table, or refilling the sugar jars, or humming some half-remembered étude under your breath, and then — there he is. That same quiet presence at the counter.

He never makes a move. Never flirts. Never pries.

Just sits. Watches. Listens.

You talk. He answers. Sometimes only in nods or dry little asides, but you get used to the cadence of it. The careful way he measures his words. You find it oddly comforting, the way he’s so still in a world that never stops spinning.

He tries everything on the menu eventually. Buys an absurd number of pastries he doesn’t eat. Leaves tips like he’s trying to buy the building.

“Max,” you say one night, eyes narrowed as you hold up the receipt. “You’ve got to stop. This is getting offensive.”

He shrugs. “It’s a good café.”

“It’s a tiny café.”

“Still good.”

You lean across the counter, mock stern. “Do you do this at Starbucks too?”

“I’ve never been to a Starbucks.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “Do I look like someone who’s been to a Starbucks?”

You stare at him. The sweatshirt he’s wearing is probably worth more than your rent. “… Touché.”

He just smirks into his coffee.

That becomes the rhythm. Every few days, a quiet ritual. A strange, tender peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

And maybe it would’ve gone on like that forever — slow, safe, unspoken — if not for the man with the red scarf.

***

It’s a Thursday night. Cold enough that your breath fogs when the door opens. The café is quiet. A few locals sipping espressos near the back, and a lone stranger nursing something bitter at a corner table.

You’re behind the counter, arms elbow-deep in hot water and soap, humming under your breath when you feel it. That prickling sensation between your shoulder blades.

You glance up.

The man in the red scarf is watching you.

You ignore it. Keep washing. Then he clears his throat. Loud. Once.

You look again.

He crooks a finger. “Petit cul.”

Your eye twitches. You dry your hands, approach slowly. “Don’t call me that.”

He smiles, too wide. “Pardon, mademoiselle. I forget how things work here.” His French is lazy, Parisian. The kind that pretends not to see dirt. “You’re the one from the other night, no?”

You frown. “Other night?”

“You were playing piano in the square. Badly.”

You blink. “Wow. Thanks.”

He grins like he’s charming. “No, no, I meant it with affection. You're pretty. That’s what counts.”

You take a deep breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

He leans forward. “Maybe your number?”

You pull back. “Not for sale.”

He laughs, but there’s something sour underneath it. “All these pretty girls think they’re so above it now. What happened to politeness?”

You don’t answer. Just walk away.

And that’s when you hear the chair scrape.

At first, you think it’s the man standing. But the weight of a different presence hits you.

You turn.

Max is at the counter. You hadn’t seen him come in.

His voice is low. Unmistakable. “Is there a problem?”

You look between them. Max is calm — too calm. His hands rest lightly on the counter, but his stance is taut. Controlled. Lethal in the way a loaded gun is.

The man in the red scarf scoffs. “This your boyfriend?”

Max doesn’t blink. “No.”

Your stomach twists.

“But you’re going to leave now,” Max continues, “and you’re going to do it without saying another word to her.”

The man’s smile fades. “Who do you think you are?”

Max steps forward once. Not threatening, exactly. Just closer. “I think I’m someone you don’t want to test tonight.”

It’s not a threat. Not really. It’s said with the same calm tone you’d use to discuss weather. But something in it shifts the air. The man goes pale.

He mutters something under his breath and grabs his coat. Leaves without looking back.

You exhale slowly, trying to uncoil the tension in your spine.

Max says nothing. Just waits until your eyes meet his.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks unconvinced.

“I’ve had worse,” you add. “Waitresses aren’t exactly the least harassed demographic.”

Max’s jaw clenches. He says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair. “Thank you. For that.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t do anything.”

“You scared the hell out of him.”

“That wasn’t hard.”

You pause. “Want a hot chocolate?”

He hesitates. “Walk with me instead.”

You blink.

His voice is softer now. Almost hesitant. “If you’re off?”

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes to close. The café is empty now. Quiet.

You untie your apron. “Let me grab my coat.”

***

The streets are still damp as you walk. The air carries the smell of sea salt and wet stone. Max keeps close, hands in his pockets, his steps slowing to match yours.

You pass under a streetlamp, and for a second, it feels like you’re inside a movie.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He glances sideways. “Some people think silence is an invitation.”

You snort. “Story of my life.”

He watches you. “You shouldn’t have to fight them off alone.”

You smile, but there’s something sad behind it. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

You fall into silence again. His coat brushes yours.

Then — voices.

A small group of teens cross the square ahead. They freeze mid-step when they see him.

One gasps. “No way. Max Verstappen?”

He stops. Exhales. “Yeah.”

“Can we get a photo?”

He nods, patient, stepping aside. You stand back, awkward, watching him smile for the camera. His posture shifts. Not stiff, but practiced. Familiar.

They thank him, then run off, giggling.

He turns back to you.

You raise a brow. “Is that your normal walk home?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I forget, sometimes, who you are.”

His voice is quiet. “Good.”

You glance up at him. “Doesn’t it get annoying? Being known everywhere you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do it?”

He’s quiet for a while. “It used to mean something different. Now … I don’t know. I like the racing. Not the circus around it.”

You hum. “You’re still in the circus.”

“Yeah. Guess I am.”

You stop at the edge of your building. A narrow stone façade with ivy curling up one side. Your windows are dark. The air smells like lavender from the old woman’s garden next door.

Max lingers.

You bite your lip. “Want to come up?”

He lifts a brow. “Do you want me to?”

You shake your head. “No. Not tonight. Just — thank you for walking me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t leave right away.

You hover near the door. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not … doing all this just to be nice, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean …you don’t have to fix everything. Or show up every time it rains. Or save me from creeps. I don’t want you to feel like-”

“I don’t.”

You study him.

He meets your gaze. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”

Silence.

Then he adds, quieter, “You’re not a project. You’re not something broken.”

Your throat tightens.

“I come here,” he says, “because I want to see you. That’s it.”

You nod. Swallow. “Okay.”

He turns like he’s about to go, then pauses again. “You were playing Debussy in the square. That night.”

You blink. “You where there?”

He nods once. “It was raining then, too.”

A small smile touches your lips. “You like Debussy?”

He shrugs. “I liked how you played it.”

You step inside, the door clicking softly behind you.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep with music in your head and something steadier than loneliness in your chest.

***

It’s late when Max asks.

You’re locking up the café, hands stiff with cold and knuckles raw from the wind, when he leans against the doorway — hood up, collar high — and says, “Come with me.”

You blink, keys half-turned in the lock. “Where?”

“My place.” His eyes hold yours. “Just to get away. For a few hours.”

You hesitate. Not because you’re nervous — well, you are — but not like that. It’s the weight of the offer. The intimacy of it. Not romantic, not sexual — something quieter. Like stepping into the private heart of a man who doesn’t let anyone inside.

You don’t say yes right away. You just meet his gaze, and after a long pause, nod once. “Okay.”

***

His apartment is tucked above the marina. You’d walked past the building a dozen times and never once imagined it held something this still, this understated. High ceilings, wide windows, warm wood and cool stone. Light, but not too much. Modern, but lived-in.

The scent hits you first. Cedar, citrus, and something darker. Probably him.

And cats.

There’s a blur of movement as you step inside. Then a paw. Then two. Then all at once, they’re there.

Max just smirks faintly. “Good luck.”

A sleek, skeptical Bengal perches on the armrest of the couch and stares at you like you’re a problem it’s been sent to solve.

“That’s Sassy,” Max says, slipping his coat off and hanging it neatly. “She owns the apartment. I just live here.”

A white blur shoots past your ankles. “Jimmy?”

“Donut,” Max corrects, heading toward the kitchen. “Jimmy’s the one with the attitude problem. You’ll know when he arrives.”

You bend down slowly, letting Donut sniff your fingers. Phoebe — the little kitten you first met in the rain — tumbles out from under a blanket and immediately starts scaling your leg.

Max’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “They’ll destroy your clothes. Sorry.”

“They’re worth it,” you murmur, untangling the kitten from your tights.

He gestures toward the open-plan kitchen, nodding at the counter. “Hungry?”

You raise a brow. “You cook?”

He rolls up his sleeves with a small smile. “Well. I try. Don’t get your hopes up.”

You step beside him. The fridge door opens to reveal fresh herbs, vegetables, and a frankly unnecessary amount of expensive cheese.

You smirk. “Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh, and he gives a soft chuckle in return. It’s the most open you’ve seen him. Not the composed driver, not the cool-eyed guardian of Monaco cafés — just Max. Just a guy in a dark t-shirt who stocks more parmesan than sense and keeps four cats alive somehow.

***

You cook together slowly, messily. He slices vegetables with surprising precision while you burn garlic twice. At one point, you knock over a spice jar and send a dust storm of paprika across the marble. Max doesn’t flinch.

“Paprika’s overrated anyway,” he murmurs, sweeping it away with a practiced hand.

The radio plays softly in the background. Old jazz, something French. You hum under your breath while stirring the sauce, and Max leans back against the counter, watching you.

Not in a lustful way. Not even admiring. Something deeper. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Committing it to a part of him that doesn’t let go.

You glance over, caught by the intensity of it. “What?”

He just shakes his head. “You look peaceful.”

“I am peaceful.”

He grins. “Good. That was the point.”

***

Dinner is simple. Pasta, fresh salad, warm bread he didn’t bake but proudly heated up. You eat on the couch, curled under a blanket, with Donut curled beside your thigh and Phoebe nuzzling your ankle.

Max eats slowly. Savors things.

You, however, eat like someone who’s lived on café leftovers all week.

“Jesus,” you mutter, swallowing a bite. “This is good.”

His eyebrow lifts. “So you are impressed.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Too late. His smirk grows.

Afterwards, you both stay where you are. The room glows with soft, golden light. The windows show the harbor below, lights glittering across water like scattered coins. You tug the blanket higher, eyes growing heavy.

Max barely speaks. Just watches you fight off sleep, his hand curled around a mug of something warm, his body still like he’s afraid of ruining the quiet.

“Is it always this calm here?” You ask.

He nods. “When I want it to be.”

You yawn, half-smiling. “I like it.”

Phoebe climbs onto your lap and purrs herself into a tiny, warm puddle. Your eyes flutter.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just … do.

***

When you wake, the lights are lower.

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic purring of cats.

There’s a blanket draped over you now, thicker than before. Heavy with warmth. You shift slightly and feel the unmistakable weight of Jimmy — angrily curled beside your feet. You smile.

Then you hear it.

Max. In the next room. His voice is low, sharp. Controlled — but furious.

“No. I said no.”

You blink, pushing the blanket down slightly. The door to the hallway is ajar.

“I don’t care what they think — she’s not a story. She’s none of their business. Pull it. Now.”

Pause. A longer silence. Then his voice again, colder this time.

“If I see one word printed about her, I’ll bury the piece myself. Understand?”

You sit up slowly, heart pounding. His voice is quieter now. But still hard. Still carved from something that doesn’t yield.

“I don’t give a damn if they think it’s innocent. She’s not part of this. And I won’t let her be.”

Silence.

You don’t wait for him to hang up.

You push the blanket aside and step quietly into the hallway.

He’s in the small office off the kitchen. Back half-turned, one hand braced against the desk, the other holding his phone. He doesn’t hear you at first. Not until you speak.

“Max.”

He tenses. Freezes. Then slowly turns.

His eyes are darker than usual. He looks like someone who’s just stepped out of a ring — wound tight, ready for a fight.

“You heard that,” he says flatly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He straightens. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Were they writing about me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just sets the phone down.

“Max,” you press. “What were they saying?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “They had pictures. From the café. From the night we walked home. Nothing bad, just … invasive.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but the motion is rigid. “Because they can. Because you’re next to me.”

You step closer. “And you called them?”

“I made a call, yeah.”

“To shut it down?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Max.” You stop in front of him. “You can’t just-”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice low but firm. “I can.”

There’s a pause. The air between you shifts. The house is too quiet now.

You exhale. “You don’t need to protect me from everything.”

“I know that.”

“Then why-”

“Because I want to.”

You look up at him. He’s close now. So close it almost hurts.

“I’ll never let them touch you,” he says quietly. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

He watches you carefully. “If that’s too much-”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not too much.”

A silence falls between you. Not awkward. Not unsure. Just … full.

Finally, you say, “You care about me.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“And you’re not going to say it.”

“I just did,” he says softly. “In the only way I know how.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you step forward, press your forehead to his chest, and let the warmth of him settle around you.

His arms come up, slow, careful — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he’s not quite sure you’re real.

But you don’t vanish.

You stay right there. Wrapped in his arms, the soft thrum of his heart in your ear, with the cats still curled on the couch and the rest of the world held outside.

***

It happens the next morning.

You're still warm with the echo of his arms when you sneak out the back entrance of Max’s building, hoodie pulled tight, hair tucked under a beanie. You think you’ve done everything right — quiet footsteps, sunglasses, even that cautious glance around the alley before you step into the light.

But it’s not enough.

The flash comes out of nowhere.

One. Two. Three rapid shots. Then a voice — male, giddy, breathless.

“Miss, are you seeing Max Verstappen? Were you with him last night?”

You don’t answer. Just duck your head and walk faster, ignoring the burn in your throat, the sudden thud of your pulse. You don’t run — you know better — but your steps go tight, clipped. A door slams shut behind you, a car engine revs.

By the time you reach the music academy, your hands are shaking.

You don’t tell anyone. Not at first.

But the whispers start by lunch.

You catch your name in a student’s hushed voice. You hear Max’s in another. Then the article hits — small but vicious, your blurry figure circled in red, a headline that wants blood.

Verstappen’s New Flame? Mystery Girl Leaves Monaco Apartment at Dawn.

By evening, it’s everywhere.

***

Max calls. You don’t answer.

He texts: I’m handling it.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then turn your phone off and leave it on the counter like it’s something that might burn you.

By the next day, the article disappears.

Completely. As if it never existed.

A notice appears in its place.

Retracted at source.

Later, you overhear a barista talking about it with wide eyes. “Apparently his lawyers sent something like — what’s the word? A cease and desist? Except angrier. Like, terrifyingly angry.”

Someone else adds, “I heard he called someone at the top. Shut it down like that.” She snaps her fingers. “No wonder they’re scared of him.”

You press your hands into the counter, steadying yourself. Your phone pings when you step into the storeroom.

A screenshot.

An anonymous deposit confirmation. Six months of your rent. Paid in full.

Another message: Let me do this. Please.

You stare at it for a long time. Then close your eyes, lean your head against the cold concrete wall, and try not to cry.

***

The panic hits later.

Not all at once. Not in an obvious way. It comes quietly, like a tide. Like a soft pull at your ankles before it drags you under.

The guilt first — sharp and sour.

He’s spending his influence, his money, his power — to protect you.

You. A girl who plays piano in a dusty practice room and works shifts to afford cheap ramen. You never asked for this.

And the fear — oh, the fear — of what it means. Of what he might want. Of what you might want back.

So you do the only thing that feels safe.

You pull away.

***

You stop replying.

Not rudely. Just slowly.

A message takes a day to respond. Then two. Then none.

You say no to his quiet invitations — coffee, a walk, just ten minutes — offering gentle excuses that grow thinner by the day.

Your shifts at the café get longer. Your time at the piano stretches until your hands ache. You avoid the harbor. Avoid the old streets he likes.

Avoid everything that makes your heart hurt.

***

He doesn’t chase.

He doesn’t knock on your door. Doesn’t text again and again or show up late at night demanding answers.

Instead, he sends you a care package when you get sick.

It shows up at the café on a Wednesday — delivered by someone who doesn’t ask for a signature. Inside is some lemon tea, cough syrup, throat lozenges, two cans of the soup you once said reminded you of home, and a small stuffed cat.

A note, tucked between the teabags.

I’ll wait.

Nothing else.

Not even his name.

***

You cry in the break room. Not a lot. Just enough to taste salt when you breathe.

You feel stupid.

Then you feel worse — for thinking you were stupid.

You hug the stuffed cat against your chest and whisper, “I’m sorry,” even though he can’t hear you.

***

Three days pass.

Then four.

By the fifth, you can’t breathe when you walk past his street.

On the sixth, you stand outside his apartment building for fifteen minutes and never press the buzzer.

On the seventh, it rains.

Hard. Monaco rain. Thunder at the edges. Wind that flattens your jacket to your spine and makes your cheeks sting.

You don’t bring an umbrella.

You don’t bring excuses either.

You just walk, quiet, soaked to the bone, and let the elevator carry you to the only door that’s ever made you feel like you’re not pretending.

You knock once.

It opens almost instantly.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Just steps back and lets you in, eyes sweeping over you like he’s checking for bruises.

“Hi,” you whisper, wet and breathless.

He says nothing. Doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t demand explanations or apologies or promises you’re not ready to give.

He just opens his arms.

And you fall into them like you never left.

His hoodie smells like him. Warm and clean and steady. You press your face into it and wrap your arms around his waist, trying not to shake.

He closes the door behind you with one hand, the other already sliding up your back.

You don’t speak. Don’t have to.

His chin rests on your hair.

You whisper, “I didn’t know how to-”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to explain.”

Your breath hitches.

“I just didn’t want to mess it up,” you admit. “It’s so big. What you did. What you do. And I’m-”

“You,” he says gently. “You’re you. That’s enough.”

Your eyes sting again. You bury your face deeper into his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is low. Kind. “You don’t have to be strong around me.”

You pull back, just a little.

Look up at him.

His eyes are impossibly gentle. No walls. No edge. Just patience. Just Max.

“I’m scared,” you say quietly.

He nods. “So am I.”

You laugh — just a breath, wet with tears. “Yeah?”

“I don’t usually let people in,” he admits. “I didn’t expect you.”

You blink. “Then why …”

His fingers brush your cheek, slow and reverent. “Because I’d regret losing you more than I fear what happens next.”

You stare at him. At his mouth. At the way he’s looking at you — like he’s memorizing this moment, too.

You lean in.

So does he.

The kiss is soft.

No urgency. No heat. Just warmth. Just yes.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. Yours curls into his hoodie, anchoring you.

When you finally pull back, you’re both smiling.

You exhale. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m here,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “So am I.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, everything finally feels quiet again.

***

Max doesn’t say “I love you.”

Not with words.

He says it when he hands you a mug of tea without asking how you take it. He says it when he walks on the side of the pavement closest to the street. When he drapes a blanket over your knees during a movie, and casually shields your face from a photographer’s lens with the curve of his body.

He says it like that. Constant. Quiet. Absolute.

But tonight, he speaks more than usual.

It starts after dinner, while you sit curled against the arm of his couch, legs tucked under you, his hoodie hanging loose off your frame like it belongs there.

He’s staring into the middle distance, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

“I used to think loneliness was normal,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he means to say it out loud. “Like it just … came with the job. The way you get used to jet lag or waking up in hotel rooms not remembering what country you’re in.”

You glance over, but don’t interrupt. You’ve learned with Max — he only opens the door a crack at a time. If you’re too eager, it closes.

He takes a breath, gaze still unfocused.

“There’s so much noise around me. All the time. Team, press, fans, cameras.” He finally looks at you. “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate it. But it’s like … you have to wear this mask so long you forget it’s not your real face.”

You reach out without thinking, fingers resting over his wrist. His skin is warm. Solid.

He watches your hand for a moment, then flips his wrist so his palm is up, letting your fingers slot into his.

“I’m not used to people wanting me without the mask,” he says, quieter now.

Your heart tightens.

“I don’t want the mask,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, sharp and grateful.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why you scare me.”

You laugh, soft. “I scare you?”

Max nods, serious. “You don’t treat me like I’m something untouchable. You just … look at me.”

You squeeze his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For someone to see me.”

That breaks something open in him. You feel it. The shift. The way his shoulders soften, eyes grow tender.

“Tell me,” he says.

So you do.

You tell him about the nights you spent alone in the conservatory practice rooms, pretending the piano was a friend, not a thing you owed perfection to. You tell him about how scared you are to want something for yourself. How it feels to be surrounded by people chasing dreams so loudly you sometimes forget how to hear your own.

He listens like he has nowhere else to be.

Not just hearing — holding.

Your words. Your silence. Your fear. All of it.

When you finish, he doesn’t speak right away. Just leans forward, brushing his lips to your temple.

“You’re not invisible here,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

***

The next few weeks are full of small shifts.

Your toothbrush finds a place in his bathroom. His hoodie disappears from his closet and ends up on your body more than his.

His cats take turns sleeping on you like you’re furniture now. Even Sassy.

Max kisses you in the kitchen. In the car. Once, under a streetlamp with rain brushing your cheeks, his hand cupped gently around your jaw like you’re something rare.

He doesn't let the world touch you. Not even once.

He’s fiercely protective — but not in a loud way. In the way he speaks to hotel staff when you travel with him for a race, making sure you’re not put near the media floor. In the way his hand never leaves your lower back when cameras are near, like he’s placing a shield between you and the noise.

You try not to need it.

You try not to expect it.

But when it’s him, it’s hard not to let yourself be protected. Just a little. Just this once. Just again.

***

The comment comes three races into summer.

You’re not even in the paddock — just sitting at a corner table in a nearby coffee shop, flipping through sheet music and sipping a drink Max had delivered for you before he left for press.

You look up when the door opens.

It's another driver — one of the younger ones. Cocky. Loud. The kind of guy who courts cameras like he was born for them.

He stops at your table, smirking. “Didn’t think Verstappen would go for your type.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. He usually dates models. You’re … different.”

Your stomach twists, cold and ugly.

You don’t reply.

He doesn’t give you time to.

“Anyway,” he adds, eyes trailing a little too slowly down your body, “guess even the best get bored of the same thing. Nice upgrade, though.”

The chair screeches back before you realize you’re standing.

But Max is already there.

You don’t know how he found out. You don’t even see him enter.

But one second, it’s just you and the smirking boy — and the next, Max is between you, not touching, not yelling.

Just present.

Heavy.

Silent.

The other driver’s smirk falters. “Hey, I was just-”

Max tilts his head. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That line. Say it to her face. Slowly this time.”

Silence.

Max’s voice stays calm, almost soft. “You want to flirt, do it with someone who hasn’t told you no with their body language. You want to insult her, you say it so I know exactly what I’m responding to.”

The boy opens his mouth.

Max raises a single brow. “Try me.”

The tension shifts. Not loud. Not violent.

But dangerous.

The kind of promise you don’t test.

Max leans in, just a breath. “Next time you speak her name, it better be with respect. Or not at all.”

Then he turns, takes your hand, and leads you out like nothing happened.

Your heart doesn’t slow until you're back at his place, leaning against the door while he kicks off his shoes, jaw still tight.

“Max-”

He holds up a hand. “I know. I shouldn’t have. I know.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not-”

He exhales, sharp. “I just saw red.”

“I know,” you say again, quieter now.

“I didn’t want you to hear it. I didn’t want you to feel that way. Like you're less.”

You step into him. “I didn’t.”

His hand curls around your waist. “But you could’ve. And I’d never forgive myself.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. “You stood up for me.”

He lifts his eyes to yours. “I will always stand up for you.”

The kiss is slower this time.

No heat. No anger.

Just need.

Just want.

***

It happens later — after dinner, after soft conversation, after you laugh so hard at a video he shows you that your ribs ache and your makeup smudges from tears.

You’re standing in his bedroom doorway, shirt too big, your hands gentle on the back of his neck, and you say, simply:

“I want you.”

His eyes search yours. Careful. Serious.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a breath, slow. Measured. Then presses his forehead to yours.

“Then I’m going to take my time.”

And he does.

***

It’s not rushed.

Not some fevered tangle of limbs or gasping urgency.

It’s reverent.

It’s slow hands under fabric, Max murmuring praises against your skin like scripture.

“So perfect,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

He never stops looking.

Not once.

He undresses you like he’s being given a gift. Touches you like you’re something he’s memorizing for a time when the world is dark.

You tremble beneath his hands, and he notices.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers, mouth trailing down your neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

And you are.

You feel it in the way he checks in with every touch. The way he waits for you to nod before he moves. The way he groans when you whisper his name like it’s a secret meant only for him.

He’s everywhere. Hands, lips, voice.

Guiding. Worshipping.

“Let go for me,” he says against your ear, tone wrecked. “I’ll catch you.”

And when you do, it’s not with noise — but with surrender.

The kind that only comes when trust is absolute.

***

Later, you lie tangled together in the sheets, his chest to your back, hand resting over your heart.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

The mask is gone now.

For both of you.

***

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it — tucked between a utility bill and a flyer for a French tutoring service you don’t need. The envelope is heavy, your name written in raised black letters, the seal pressed with something official.

You open it with the caution of someone who’s learned that good things don’t always come without cost.

Max is in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring coffee like it’s just another quiet morning. One of his hoodies drowns your frame. Phoebe is perched on the windowsill, blinking slowly at the rising sun.

And then you’re holding the future in your hand.

“Max?” Your voice wavers.

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You hold the letter up.

He stills. Puts the coffee pot down.

You don’t have to say anything. He knows.

The logo at the top says everything: New York Philharmonic.

You stare at the words like they might vanish.

They don’t.

You’ve been offered a position. A permanent one. Full-time, first-chair piano. They want you.

“You okay?” He asks gently, crossing the space between you.

“I-” You look up at him. “This is everything I wanted.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Before.

Before him.

Before Monaco and rainstorms and kittens and coffee shops and a Dutchman who looks at you like you’re made of sunlight.

You sink onto the couch. Max sits beside you, silent, waiting.

“It’s New York,” you say finally, like that’s the problem and the answer all in one.

“I’ve heard of it,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile.

You almost do. But your eyes blur a little.

“I don’t know what to do.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to know yet.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” you say. “But I don’t want to regret staying.”

Max nods again. No flinch. No disappointment in his eyes.

Only patience.

Only love.

“I’ll never ask you to stay,” he says softly. “Not if it means giving up something you’ve dreamed of your whole life.”

You swallow. “But you’re everything I never dreamed of. And now I don’t know how to want both.”

He takes your hand in his.

“If you go,” he says, voice steady, “I’ll come to you every free weekend. I’ll fly out after every race, I’ll sit in the first row of whatever concert hall they put you in. I’ll drink burnt American coffee and learn the subway system and wait outside rehearsal with a sandwich if that’s what it takes.”

You laugh, eyes damp.

He keeps going.

“If you stay,” he murmurs, “I’ll make Monaco feel like home. I’ll move us closer to the sea, or the mountains, or wherever you sleep best. I’ll build you a studio. I’ll buy you ten pianos and soundproof walls and whatever else you need to play until your fingers are sore.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care where you go,” he finishes. “I care that I go with you. So just … say the word.”

Silence stretches between you. Not tense. Just full. Full of every version of your future playing out behind your ribs.

Then you press the letter flat on the coffee table.

And you say, softly, “I want to stay.”

Max doesn’t speak.

He just pulls you into his arms like he knew all along.

***

You don’t waitress anymore.

One day you show up to work, and the manager meets you at the door with wide eyes and a folded note.

You open it slowly.

It’s Max’s handwriting.

Come home. You don’t need this job anymore. Your job is playing. And writing. And being exactly who you are when no one’s making demands on you. I bought the place. They can keep running it — unless you want it. Then it’s yours.

PS: The espresso machine’s still broken. Tell them I said to fix it.

You stare at the letter for a long time before smiling so hard it hurts.

And you do go home.

But not before waving goodbye to the café that’s now owned by a Dutchman with sharp eyes and a soft smile who only has eyes for you.

***

At night, the café changes.

The lights dim. The chairs shift. A piano appears at the front like it’s always belonged there.

Your concerts start quiet — friends, regulars, a few curious neighbors.

But word spreads.

You begin to compose your own pieces. Sometimes inspired by rain. Sometimes silence. Sometimes Max’s laugh or the way he breathes your name when he’s half-asleep.

He listens to every note like it’s a secret meant for him.

“You should record these,” he says one night, lying on the rug with Phoebe curled under his arm and Sassy on your shoulder.

You snort. “Right. Because everyone’s dying for a six-minute ballad about emotional intimacy and unresolved childhood grief.”

Max smiles, slow and sure.

“I am.”

You meet his eyes.

He means it.

***

You play at the café again that Friday.

The room’s fuller than usual. A couple journalists. A few photographers. Max sits in the back, quiet but unmistakable. Always watching.

You wear black tonight — simple, elegant. Your fingers skim the keys like they’ve always known where to go.

Before your last piece, you clear your throat.

“This one’s new,” you say, voice low. “I wrote it about someone who makes everything feel … easier. Even when it’s not.”

You glance at Max.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

The first chord is soft. Then swelling. A little sad. A lot hopeful.

When the final note fades, the room doesn’t move.

Then, applause.

But you only hear the sound of Max’s hands, steady and certain.

Afterward, he meets you at the edge of the stage.

You smile. “Was it too dramatic?”

He leans in, kisses your temple.

“I like dramatic.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

His mouth brushes your ear. “I’m in love with dramatic.”

***

You find the recording equipment a week later.

Just … waiting.

Set up in the spare room. Wires. Mics. A soundboard you can’t name.

There’s a post-it on the chair.

In case you change your mind.

You roll your eyes. Laugh to yourself.

And start writing again.

***

You don’t take the job in New York.

You don’t regret it.

Not because it wouldn’t have been beautiful. Not because it wasn’t a dream.

But because some dreams change shape when you see what’s possible.

What’s real.

Like playing under golden café lights while Max sits in the shadows, looking at you like music was invented just so he could hear you play.

Like your name written in his handwriting on folded notes left by the stove.

Like Sunday mornings wrapped in each other’s arms, no performances, no cameras, just skin and breath and warmth.

And maybe someday you’ll tour. Maybe someday you’ll go to New York — not to live, but to play. To be heard.

But for now?

For now, you stay.

Because love like this?

You don’t walk away from it.

Not when he’s willing to give you the world.

And not when the life you never knew to dream about turns out to be everything you ever wanted.

[iris-qt]

Okay okay I keep thinking about oblivious reader who doesn’t think Theo is flirting with her because ~clearly~ he doesn’t even know her name. Meanwhile, Theo is confused because usually girls swoon when he calls them “Bella/Cara/Amore”

careful, cara

the way i immediately started writing when I saw this request...ily.

You’re rounding the corner outside the library with three books, an inky quill stuck behind your ear, and a half-eaten biscuit in your mouth when you slam directly into a wall.

Except it’s not a wall.

It’s a very tall, very warm, very alive boy who smells faintly of old parchment and something expensive and intoxicating, like stormy weather. Your biscuit goes flying. Your books scatter. You just about lose your dignity.

“Oh my—sorry!” you gasp, already dropping to the floor to collect your books and the crumbly remains of your breakfast.

A hand reaches out to help you. Long fingers. Calloused knuckles. You follow the trail of his arm up to a loosened tie, an open collar, and the annoyingly perfect smirk of Theodore Nott.

“Easy there, Amore,” he says, voice like velvet and mock concern. “You alright?”

You blink up at him. He’s doing that thing. That leaning thing. The one girls whisper about in Potions.

“Oh, uh, thanks. I didn’t see you.”

You give him a polite smile and reach for your last book, brushing his hand in the process. You barely notice.

He does.

“Careful,” he murmurs, helping you up. “Wouldn’t want Hogwarts losing its brightest star.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Pretty sure Hogwarts would survive.”

He laughs soft and surprised, then, with a practiced sort of charm, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You freeze. He smiles. Like a boy who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You… do not.

Because, obviously, he’s just being polite. Or flirty. Or… whatever he usually is. He calls everyone Amore, doesn’t he? Or Bella. Or Cara. It’s practically punctuation with him. It’s probably because he doesn’t know anyone’s actual name. Especially not yours.

You smile back, half apologetic, half amused. “Thanks again. See you.”

And just like that, you walk off. With jam on your sleeve. And crumbs in your hair. And not a single thought in your head that Theodore Nott was very much genuinely flirting with you.

Behind you, Theo watches you go, something almost betrayed flickering across his face.

He mutters under his breath, half to himself, "Merlin, what do I have to do, serenade her under her window?"

Then he smirks, slow and dangerous.

Maybe he will.

.ೃ࿐

You slip into your usual seat for Charms, dropping your bag with a soft thud. You’re mid-rummage for a quill when you realize: There’s someone sliding into the seat beside you. Someone tall. Smirking. Smelling again unfairly good. You glance up.

Theodore Nott.

Again.

He drapes himself lazily across the chair, like he owns both it and the air you’re currently breathing.

"Morning, Amore," he says, low and easy.

You blink as he offers you a polite, confused smile. He must think you’re someone else. Maybe Isabella Hampton, she’s much prettier and sits somewhere nearby, right?

"Hi," you say awkwardly. "Did you need something?"

Theo leans in just slightly, a casual tilt of his shoulder, a lazy curve of his mouth. You could swear the entire room tilts with him.

"Only your company," he says, sounding devastatingly sincere.

You laugh, a little panicked. "Ha — that's funny."

You busy yourself yanking out your textbook and drop a quill in the process. It rolls dramatically across the floor. Before you can even react, Theo is already crouching down, retrieving it with a little flourish like a knight presenting a sword.

"Your weapon, mia cara," he says, handing it back.

You snort, which is not the sound you meant to make. Merlin, this poor boy is so theatrical. He must flirt like this with everyone.

"Thanks," you say, cheeks warm again.

Theo watches you for a second longer than necessary, something fond, almost wonderstruck, lighting up behind his eyes. Then he slouches back in his chair, spinning his wand between his fingers as if nothing unusual just happened.

You face forward, heart thudding, willing yourself to focus on Professor Flitwick's lecture.

You do not notice the way Theo leans slightly closer whenever you scribble a note. You do not notice the way he half-smiles every time you chew the end of your quill. You definitely do not notice the faint, hopeful look he sends you when Flitwick assigns paired spell practice for homework.

But you do notice, vaguely, that Theodore Nott is oddly...friendly. You chalk it up to him just being charming. Behind you, Pansy Parkinson drops her quill in shock, nudges Daphne Greengrass, and hisses, "Did Theo Nott just choose a partner?? Voluntarily???"

The Slytherin girls watch the scene unfold like it’s the third act of a very dramatic opera. Theo doesn't even notice.

He’s too busy smiling, a real, soft, slightly crooked smile, as you mumble, "Alright, I guess we’re partners, then?"

Like you’ve just handed him the bloody moon.

.ೃ࿐

You and Theo spend the next hour practicing Arresto Momentum for Flitwick's assignment.

Well... you practiced.

Theo mostly watches you with a look of soft, patient amusement, correcting your wand angles only when absolutely necessary.

(And each time he does, his fingers brush yours a little longer than they need to.)

You try not to think about it. You try very hard.

Finally, when you manage a perfect, object-slowing Arresto Momentum, you grin triumphantly. Theo grins too, wide and gorgeous, like you’ve just invented magic itself.

"You're brilliant," he says, voice low, warm.

You tilt your head, embarrassed. "I'm sure you say that to all your partners."

"I don't," he says simply.

You laugh it off again, assuming he's just being polite. Sweet, sure. But probably just friendly. Right?

(You are so stupidly, gloriously wrong.)

Class ends, and you're packing your things when it happens. You're struggling to jam your stupidly fat Charms book into your bag when Theo leans in, close enough that you catch that parchment-and-coffee smell again, and says:

"See you tomorrow, Y/N."

You freeze.

The book slips from your hands and thuds to the floor.

Theo straightens up, amused but obviously trying very hard to hide it, like he knows exactly what he just did.

You stare at him, heart thumping.

He knows your name. He knew your name. The whole time.

"You—" you start, stupidly.

He arches a brow, smirking, all lazy confidence. "What, Amore?"

You flush so hard you’re surprised you don’t combust on the spot.

"I—I thought you didn’t—"

"Didn’t what?" he says, looking genuinely entertained now.

You open your mouth, realize you have absolutely no idea what you’re trying to say, and shut it again.

Theo’s smile softens.

"I've always known your name, you know," he says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can even begin to untangle that emotional catastrophe, he reaches down, picks up your fallen book and tucks it carefully into your bag for you.

Then, with another soft, almost secret smile, he brushes a hand against yours and strolls out of the classroom leaving you standing there, red-faced and stunned, clutching your bag like a lifeline.

You still haven't moved.

[pearlywritings]

Who said the night was over?

pairing: Alhaitham, Childe, Gallagher, Ifa, Jing Yuan, Kamisato Ayato, Phainon (seperately) x fem!reader

prompt: morning after 😏

word count: 4.2k+ words in total

tw: NSFW, nudity, hints of sex in the shower, hints of public intimacy, oral (female recieving), consensual (!) somnophilia, implied breeding, cockwarming

~ The Music of the Night event ~

gathered all the requests down here! also, yes to the anon who requested Ayato, i'd be glad to put you down as either of these two emojis! (why not both though?)

Alhaitham

With Alhaitham’s dislike for early mornings, it’s an often occurrence for you to wake up while he is still in bed with you. Today, however, blindly feeling the spot next to you with a patting hand makes your sleep-heavy mind aware that your husband is gone. But the sheets and the pillow are still carrying the warmth of his body, so he couldn’t have been absent for long. 

Satisfied with the thought that he might’ve gone to the toilet and that your alarm clock hasn’t rung yet, you steal your lover’s pillow to hug it close to your chest and settle back into the mattress to catch some more minutes of sleep, especially after the busy night you two had. And also before you have to face the reality in which you have a teaching job.

When the alarm goes off, however, and you shut it down with a dissatisfied yawn, the other side of the bed appears to be empty, with the only difference being its coldness.

Huh, how strange.

But you don’t have time to question the lack of the man in your shared bed. Just as you are sitting up and tugging your askew-sitting sleepwear in all the right places, the door to the room opens, and your half-dressed lover steps in with a tray balanced on his open palm. Delicious smell of food and coffee fills the air and your nose, making you sniff the taunting aroma with a blissful smile.

“Coffee and breakfast in bed? My, aren’t you romantic this morning,” you tease, but when you finally meet his eyes, the discontent etched into his handsome features cuts your already-prepared teasing short. There is a furrow between his brows and a scowl tugging on his lips, when he closes the door and walks further into your shared space. “Habibi? What’s up?”

“Our dear roommate is ‘up’,” he huffs, putting the tray on the space between his and your halves of the bed and carefully climbs onto it. Your eyes widen.

“Kaveh? But wasn’t he staying over at Cyno’s tonight?” Suddenly your whole body is crawling with dread. If the architect was here the whole night when he definitely heard you two-

“He was,” Alhaitham says sharply, grabbing his mug of coffee and taking a gulp to calm his already spiked nerves. “But apparently he forgot to grab some things to bring to the meeting with the client this morning, and came back earlier to finish it, waking me up in the process. I’m actually surprised how you didn’t jolt awake when he dropped the pile of scrolls he was carrying from his room to the living room.”

“I had no idea…” you murmur, still a bit shaken from your initial thoughts, but willing yourself to focus on something else - for example those delicious-looking pita pockets. “But that’s a total bummer then.”

“Oh for sure,” the Scribe rolls his eyes, picking one of the filled breads too. “Though it’s surprising to hear this from you - you like Kaveh.”

“Yes, I like Kaveh,” you sigh, scooting closer to your husband, leaning your shoulder to his. “But I don’t like him very much right now.”

Alhaitham actually stops chewing and stares at you.

“What do you mean?”

“Had hopes for the morning sex before I have to get up and ready to deal with the students,” you grumble, grabbing your drink and taking a sip, “but it’s fine, I’ll manage.”

“...I can kick him out if you want to–”

“No!” you grab his wrist, even though he hasn’t moved yet. “No need, it’s fine, really. Tonight was more than enough.”

“Clearly not, if you are still feeling needy, habibti,” Alhaitham’s arm slithers behind your back and settles on the hip. He leans his cheek onto the top of your head. “I have an idea. Let’s finish our food and then we can fuck in the bathroom. The running water should mask the sounds– if you are quiet enough,” he wears a smirk, though hides it in your hair with a kiss. “Even if you are not - it’s our house, we can do whatever we want.”

...Well, not looking Kaveh in the eyes for a week it is then.

Childe

Do not look the Fatui Agents in the eyes, do not look the Fatui Agents in the eyes, hold your head high and proud as you walk down the hall of the Eleventh Harbinger’s capital residence, and try not to think about the burning marks hidden under the layers of warm clothes and how evident the limp in your steps would’ve been, had Tartaglia not offered you his elbow to latch onto.

The mask, gifted by the Lord Pulcinella, is covering the upper half of your face - just for good measure, even though the soldiers are trained to not ask questions or gossip. The black furred coat you arrived in is replaced by a pretty azure one, perfectly matching the lapis pools of the man by your side. You look like a refined noble from a long-running bloodline, so it’s hard to imagine you are to be interrogated for the business you could possibly have with one of the Harbingers.

Finally, the exit from the manor. The morning chill is biting at your cheeks and chin, and with it, your worries are swept away. The purely white snow is crunching under your boots as you are descending down the wide-stepped staircase. Then, led by your partner all the way through the alley caged between well-taken-care-of pines from both sides, you walk right to the carriage, waiting in front of the gates.

You are truly exhaling in relief only once you two are settled inside, and the coachman whistled, flicked his whip and the horses started off.

“Phew, now I understand your struggle at keeping your identity a secret,” you say in a low tone. You don’t doubt the people who work for Tartaglia, but being too careful never hurts.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” his big hand slides out of the mitten and covers your gloved ones, resting in your lap in a tight lock. “I am so proud of you, my sneaky little mouse.”

You can’t help but giggle, gazing at him from behind your mask, eyes sparkling with joy.

“Thank you! Oh, I am so excited to see the capital! I am so happy you got half a day off to spend time with me.”

“You better believe this feeling is mutual,” the gingerhead smiles widely, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips. You practically melt, reciprocating the affection, and wiggle your hands from under his palm to cup both his cheeks. It was probably a mistake to leave his own limbs unguarded - because the moment your attention got occupied, his fingers went wandering.

It’s warm inside the carriage, and it soon becomes a little bit suffocating - the fervor with which Ajax is devouring your mouth, stealing one kiss after another, is enough to rival the furnace’s flames. You notice too late when all the clasps of your fur coat come undone, and your lover pushes it down your shoulders. It’s only once he breaks one of the scorching kisses, staring at you with hooded eyes, burning cheeks and swollen lips, the understanding dawns on you.

“Ajax, wait–!” You whisper-scream at him, trying to dodge a new wave of kisses. “We are not doing this in the carriage!”

The young man promptly stops, closing his mouth and staring into your eyes. He has the audacity to be pouting! After igniting a wild fire in your chest!

“But why not?” He murmurs dejectedly, settling both his palms on your waist. “It is a lengthy ride and I hoped to make up for the rushed awakening. Feels like after the night of passion I owe you an equally affectionate morning.”

That’s true, in order to enjoy the little ‘journey’ to its fullest with your lover, you two woke up at an ungodly hour and made quite a haste to get ready. Which significantly shortened your usual morning routine. Ah, you can admit now that it was a bit disappointing.

“Fine…” You sigh, sliding your arms back around his neck, much to the ginger’s delight. “But nothing that can alarm the people outside.”

He is nodding like crazy, before diving back in, and you just hope that you hold enough power over your partner to stop him when he goes too far.

Gallagher 

Standing before the mirror in nothing but panties, you cannot mask your horror. Bright, almost angry-looking hickies and bite marks are littering the expanse of your neck, shoulders, chest and– oh shit, thighs!?

Your lover, with only his sweatpants thrown on, returns from the balcony after finishing the first cigarette of the day, scratching his stomach and yawning when you jump on him with a punch to his shoulder. The yawn is cut mid-action and with a strange noise of a strangled cat the man looks at you. His thick brows fly up in confusion.

“Watcha doing, pretty thing? Is it one of your playful fights to get us both tangled in the sheets?”

“‘Tangled in the sheets’ my ass!” You throw your arms in the air. “Look at me, Gallagher!”

Vermillion eyes observe your face for a few seconds longer before casting their gaze down. Understanding immediately appears on his face along with a smirk. A quiet appreciative whistle makes your cheeks heat up and arms cross over your breasts right after.

“‘Tangled in sheets’ is what left me in such a state! Damn, Gal, I know I joke a lot about it, but maybe you’re really a dog? I’m all bitten like a pack attacked me!”

“And yet all of these belong to just one mutt,” he releases a low chuckle, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, pressing your almost naked body flash to his barely covered one. You have half a mind to punch him again, but when he starts kissing your cheek and temple, you squint with a pout and plant your hands onto his pecs, trying to shove him off.

“Go shave!”

“Don’t remember you complaining when this face was between your prettily marked thig-” you butt his chest with your head, wrapping your own arms around his wide frame. Gallagher hisses when you dig your nails into his back. “Careful, kitty, you are not the only one covered in the reminders of last night.”

“Like I care,” you mutter, but nevertheless put your palms flatly. The kiss is pressed to your shoulder right after, yet this time you do not complain about his stubble.

“You are cooking breakfast by the way.”

“Oh? And what will my beautiful girlfriend do?”

“Spend who knows how much time in the bathroom trying to cover with a concealer the damage you caused. Thighs are alright, chest is too, but my NECK!”

“Never looked better,” Gallagher says seriously and before you could retort, crouches and grabs you under the knees. With a horrified shriek you are thrown over his strong shoulder, and are patted on the ass three times.

“Atta girl. Now let’s go and take a shower. We can talk there about how pretty your neck is and have you give me some more hickies as well. And then we’ll discuss the breakfast part.”

You are fucked.

Ifa

The mouth-watering smell is what makes you leave the warm bed, throw on the first thing you grabbed from the chair and leave the bedroom. Led by the delicious aroma you tiptoe to the kitchen of Ifa’s house, and find the man himself standing in front of the phlogiston-fueled stove. You should’ve guessed that the vet, dressed in nothing but pants, apron over his bare chest and with his signature hat gone (probably still lying somewhere in the bedroom…) is the reason for your awakening. 

You can’t help but lean on the doorframe and stare: at his back, at the way his shoulders roll when strong arms move, at the way that pretty tattoo circles his neck in a zig-zag pattern, at those soft, white with a tint of light mint hair, which are still the definition of a “bed head”... Oh, and not to forget that fine ass of his that looks so good in those pan–

“Good morning, sunshine,” a mirth-filled greeting shakes you out of the dreamy stupor, and you have to shake your head to chase it away.

When you look at your lover again, Ifa is bringing two plates to the table and gives you a cheeky smile. You mirror it with one of your own, stepping into the kitchen and skipping right into his arms.

The man doesn’t waste a second, leaning down the moment your arms wrap around his neck and capturing your lips in a morning kiss. You giggle softly at his eagerness, relishing in the moment.

“Good morning to you too, love,” you murmur between kisses and immediately squeal when he turns your body around, cups his palms under your ass and lifts you onto the counter. “Ifa!”

“Damn, babe, you look good in my shirt.”

Ah, so it was his. To your defense, you were so focused on the smell of the breakfast that you really didn’t care what you wore in your boyfriend’s house.

“And it looks like it stayed unbuttoned just to the point of you losing your patience last night and dragging it over my head.”

You notice how his gaze slips down your body, and have to also look. Oh... The shirt is open and barely covering your breasts, giving your lover a perfect view of all the marks he’s decorated your skin with. As the blush is rapidly creeping up your cheeks, you grab the hems, closing them. 

Ifa laughs, flexing his grip on your hips and dragging you closer to the edge of the table. As he presses his pelvis into you and puts his mouth on your neck, you can feel the outline of his semi-hard cock through the pants. 

You need some form of distraction. Urgently.

“And where is–mmm–where is my feathered baby?

“Cacucu?” The way his breath fans over your cheek makes you shiver and try to close your thighs. To no avail, of course. “Probably went outside for the night. Have you forgotten the last time we had sex? You moaned so loudly, the poor guy burst into the bedroom thinking you were being hurt.”

“Ifaaaa!”

So much for the distraction.

Jing Yuan

Even through the veil of sleep, you feel your body ache in a pleasant languor. You also feel a gentle, almost intangible caress on your cheek, which travels down, slowly, following the length of your neck and then the line of your arm. Goosebumps appear in its wake and you can’t help but shiver, jerking your shoulder.

There is a quiet, affectionate chuckle next to you, and the touch returns to your cheek, brought by a thumb that starts rubbing circles on your skin.

Something in the back of your mind tells you to summon the willpower to fight the clinging sleep and join the world of the awake. It’s so hard though - the lovely scent of the fresh bedding and the softness of the mattress and the pillow seem to make your eyelids heavier and body - more indolent.

But then the thumb gently swipes across your lips, dipping between. Instinctively you bite, and a hitch in breath in front of you is finally enough to tear you away from the sleep’s clutches.

It's hazy and you have to blink a couple of times. The display must be amusing to the disrupter of your dream, since he is chuckling again, and the sound is rich and warm and totally belongs to your husband.

“Good moooorning,” you drawl around his thumb, eventually releasing it and giving the pad a sweet kiss. Jing Yuan hums, reaching both hands to your waist to tug your bare body close to his, and kisses your forehead.

“Good morning to you as well, my love,” you smile blissfully at his response, throwing your arms around his neck and one leg over his hip. Your husband gets the hint and rolls onto his back, effectively moving you on top of him.

As you use his shoulders to lift your upper body, his wide palms slide down to your ass, kneading the supple flesh. You giggle, looking down at him with a half-lidded gaze, and the general has the images of last night flashing before his eyes. More specifically the ones where you pushed him onto the bed and straddled his thighs like a queen claimed the throne.

He can feel his cock stir. You can feel it too, right under you.

“Oh?” There is a smirk on your pretty lips. “Does my lion have something to tell me?”

“Hmm… I suppose he has,” Jing Yuan smiles, letting go off one of your cheeks and softly grabbing at your tit instead, working a quiet mewl from the back of your throat. “I propose you a few courses of action, my dear, and you can pick, agreed?”

“Sounds intriguing,” you can feel your own arousal gathering in the form of slick. “What options do I have?”

“First: we get up, dress up and go have breakfast,” by the way you grimace at that, Jing Yuan laughs. “Second: we stay in bed for a little bit longer and let the night’s love-making proceed.”

“And what if I chose the second option?” You shift so his cock is right between your labia petals and roll your hips to smear the juices all over his length. The man groans, palming at your breast.

“Then you can choose either the oral way of doing things or penetration.”

Something - maybe it's the way he hungrily looks at you - tells you that the answer is ‘both’. And you are all too happy to respond in kind.

Kamisato Ayato

Mornings at the Kamisato Estate were always quiet. Despite numerous retainers that took care of the mansion’s inside and outside, the early hours of the day were filled with serenity and a warm breeze entering the room through the window, slightly cracked open.

You are shielded from the little ray of sunshine that's peeked into the bedroom and began its travel across your lover’s body, yet are still coaxed from the dreamland by the soft calls of your name.

“My darling wife, be so kind and grace me with your lovely gaze,” one of the murmurs is against your hair, ghosting across your temple. “I know you hate it when I leave the bed without you, but the duty always calls,” you huff through your slowly dissipating sleep, inching even closer to the warm body behind you, tucking your head under Ayato’s chin, much to his amusement. “Come now, my beloved. If you keep squirming and pressing yourself to me like this, I won’t have any choice but to pick up from where we stopped last night.”

Last night… Ah, right, last night. The first time in two weeks when Ayato managed to clear his schedule for the evening completely. The marvelous moment spent together, which he started with gifting  you a new skilfully sewn attire, proceeded at the restaurant and a night stroll and ended with your bodies tangled in the sheets.

The last night, when your husband got determined to cum inside as many times as his body allowed it, all because you teased and were handsy with him when no one saw. Because you put your hand onto his chest and whispered into his ear, like it was some well-guarded secret, that you were ovulating and would love to try for a child again.

The head of the Kamisato clan cannot deny his wife many things. Well, not for long at least, if his own teasing and edging is anything to come by. But he knows that everything is worth it, when with an exhausted but absolutely satisfied exhale she settles with her back against his chest, his cock plunged into her pussy and an arm wrapped around her middle, as the two of you drift off to sleep.

And wake up the next morning, positioned in the same embrace.

Ayato’s breath hitches when you clench around him unconsciously.

“My precious jewel,” he tries again, not losing hope to perform the morning routine together, “we should really get up, before one of our retainers comes storming through the doors, worried that we are still absent.”

“Not my problem you usually get your ass up at the crack of the dawn,” you finally groan, voice thick with sleep, and surely hoarse from all that moaning he railed out of you. “I’m exhausted, Ayato, let me sleep.”

“Exhausted? My, you say it like you weren’t the one jumping my bones the moment the bedroom door closed yesterday,” your husband hums, using his free hand to move your hair to the side. When he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your neck and rolls his hips, you arch slightly, letting out a quiet moan.

“Well, I was horny and I am not sorry for it,” huffing you try to settle on the bed with the full intention of falling back asleep. But the hand that slips between your thighs and presses on your pelvis to move you flash against him, suddenly makes you hyper aware of his hardening cock still resting between your walls.

“W-wait, Ayato,” you gulp, snapping your eyes open and trying to turn your head to look back at him. You do not like the way his eyes squint and lips pull into a knowing smile. “Didn’t you say that ‘duty always calls’?”

“Oh, so you were listening,” his smile gets wider and fox-like eyes even more cunning, as the pads of his index and middle finger press into your clit. It makes you throw your head back on the pillow with a mewl. “But we’ll discuss your lack of response later. Now my duty is my wife and it calls for giving her a few more ‘tries’.”

Phainon

Your morning begins with a wanton moan and an arched back. Your thoughts are a bunch of incoherent sparks of conscience, running through your head and incapable of forming a thing, but your body knows to try and close your legs and hands gripping the pillow and sheets.

Something stops you from slamming your thighs close, there is a strong grip on them, forcing them open and holding in place. And there is blinding pleasure, coursing through your body, tightening the knot in your stomach and hardening your nipples, that got exposed to the morning breeze with the blanket’s and shirt’s absence.

You have to blink and forcefully rub at your eyes with a trembling hand to finally chase away the sleep and see the ceiling of your bedroom. Your and Phainon’s bedroom.

A new surge of pleasure makes you moan louder, and your hand shoots down, grabbing the messy locks of your lover and pressing his head harder into your pussy. This time the moan is not yours, vibrating against your clit and driving you insane. There is slurping and needy whines, as well as a hot heavy tongue sliding between your labia and pressing against the tight numb.

Just one suck and you are gone, letting the knot in your abdomen snap and body go lax with a breathless plea of his name.

“Phainon…”

Your lover perks up, unlatching his mouth from your poor loins, and, feeling your grip on his white locks lessen, lifts himself on his elbows.

“Good morning, princess,” he says cheerfully, and when you find strength to glance down at him, it gets hard to believe that this man was just eating your pussy out seconds ago.

“M-morning…” you rasp out, still shaken by the orgasm. “What w-was that?”

The way he cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy makes a warm feeling bloom in your chest. How can a man be both this cute and indescribably lewd? It’s like the two images can’t exist together.

“Oh, you mean this?” He points at his mouth first and then between your legs and suddenly you want to kick him in the ribs. “You see… After we had sex yesterday, - which was the first time after so long, - the yearning seemed to become…more prominent, and I–” you notice the red tinting his cheeks and his gaze avoiding yours, “I had a wet dream.”

Your eyes widen at the admission, mouth going slack.

“You had a wet dream? About us?”

He nods, almost shyly. The mattress sinks when he pushes himself up, and a moment later he is resting on his side next to you, supporting his head with one hand and putting the other on your stomach.

“I woke up hot and needy,” he murmurs, lovingly rubbing your belly. “And I remembered how you told me you’d like one day an experience of being woken up by oral. So…”

So instead of being mean and shaking you out of sleep just to fuck, he decided to bring you pleasure by fulfilling your little fantasy, not even hoping you’d reciprocate upon arising. 

Which leaves him hard and leaking still. Which, in turn, makes you smile and reach out for his face to drag your beloved in the morning kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and turning your still aroused body to his, being trapped into the embrace of two strong arms.

How can you not reciprocate?

author's note: fun fact, but Childe's part was actually written with my A birthday surprise fic in thought hehe~