#just wanting to see and be. nothing more. just to know that the other is okay

[softaestluv]

prev. | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the last place he visits before being sent off on an assignment.

‘Jus’ need somethin’ to tide me over, yeah dove?’

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but when he’s away, his rugged and calloused hands don’t feel like yours, can’t get off unless he pictures you.

Above him. Below him. On your knees. On your back. In your mouth. Buried in your cunt.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but your apartment is the first place he visits when the mission is finished, doesn’t even bother going home.

And you answer, despite it being three in the morning.

“There’s my girl.” He breathes. Relieved. Dropping his bags on the floor before lunging forward to cup your face in his palms.

The claim makes you whine quietly, digging your fingertips into his wrists, arching on your tippy toes to meet his lips halfway. It’s ravenous, leaves your breath ragged, and lips thrumming with swelling blood.

He hoists you in his arms, burrowing his hands under your thighs and ass, pinching the flesh so hard it’ll bruise, but he can’t help it. He’s greedy. Selfish. Hasn’t quite coaxed himself down from the harsh realities of being ‘Ghost.’

“Ah—Simon,” You whimper, huffing hot air against his lips, “You’re hurting me.”

“Sorry, baby,” He smooths his hands, petting the backs of your thighs, “I just-”

The ‘missed you’ dies on his tongue, stops it from rolling off and filling the empty space between the two of you, but you know.

That night when he asks you to repeat him, tell him you’re all his, you don’t respond like usual. He tries his best to coax it out of your pretty lips orgasm after orgasm because he needs to hear it, but you don’t give him the pleasure.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, so he has no other option but to accept it because you’re not his. The lack of acknowledgment eats at his skin, brutal talons gnawing at his flesh when you slowly stop responding to his texts.

Shows up at your doorstep anyway because you don’t get to tell him when this stops. When you answer the door, you’re all dolled up, a tight little skirt hugging your figure, lip gloss smeared on your lips like you have somewhere to be other than on his cock.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at him, “I’m busy.”

“With what?”

You frown, “I have a date.”

He snorts, pushing past you, making a show of taking off his boots and placing them next to yours, has no intention of leaving.

“Simon,” You sigh, closing the door behind you, “I don’t have time for this right now. He’ll be here any minute.”

The statement alone pinches his temples with irritation, but that’s when he sees it, one small hickey adorned on your neck, just below your ear. His vision narrows, tunneling red, nudging you against the wall with one swift movement, tilting your jaw to get a better look at it.

“The fuck is this?” He snarls, runs his thumb over the bruise, and makes your breath hitch slightly.

“Nothing.” You mutter quietly.

“Your little date give you this? Huh?” He grits through clenched teeth, grip tightening on your jaw, drawing dimples in your skin.

“None of your business.” You spit back, but it’s far too gentle to have any real bite like it always does with him, pup with baby canines.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he seethes at the idea of another man inside of you, another man marking you as theirs when you’re his.

Sinks his teeth around the stupid mark, dragging sharp fangs against your delicate flesh, and sucks the skin viciously. Covers the ugly bruise with his own claim.

Fuck buddies with Ghost who tells you it means nothing, doesn’t want anything more than sex, but he presses you right up against your front door, so your date can hear him fucking you in two when he comes to pick you up.

‘Can yer little boyfriend fuck you like this? Huh, baby? Did he know jus’ how you like it?’

Fucks you messy and pretty, until your cheeks are tear-stained and your breaths are wrecked, hiccuping over your moans that’s he’s so mean, so cruel, asking you to say you’re his when he doesn’t even have the courage to say he missed you.

‘Be a good girl f’me, yeah? Tell me you’re all mine.’

And when you do finally say it, he carries you to your bed, fucks you slow and deliberate like he always does, like he really means it, and whispers the words against your skin.

@bbygirl9 @ailanbutterfly @amberbalcom14 @h0lydrag0ns

[prkhaven]

that big chain hoon was wearing dangling and swinging in ur face as he practically folds u in half and pounds you til u cant walk….. cough…

nico…. let’s talk a walk into the sunset, hand in hand.

warnings: smut minors do not interact, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, profanity, best friend’s loner brother!sunghoon, petnames(princess, good girl)

SUNGHOON doesn’t have a girlfriend, never has and never will according to his sister. little does she know her very own best friend screams and pulls at his chain every other day.

he takes the empty remarks thrown to him by his sister.

always waving her off by going up to his room and ignoring the following gaze coming from you beside her to lock himself in his room until the dead of night where you would come knocking.

and every time he opens the door, he sees the same shimmering eyes you always give him when no one is around and he falls deep.

that’s how he finds himself ramming into your soaked self. your legs perched on his shoulders as he pressed his body weight down onto you.

you let out gasps and strained whines to keep quiet, not feeling in being caught but sunghoon hates when you do that. and you knew that. “you know i love to hear you princess” he drags himself out before pushing back in a slow manner

you clawed at his biceps, the cold chain dangling over your face as he whispers in your ear. “Don’t get shy on me now, you were just riding me with no shame in my car last night”

you blabbed incoherently leaving him to chuckle at your state “can’t fucking think straight without my cock buried deep inside of you huh”

a louder moan than anticipated slipped past your lips when his pressed down into your clit. you slap a hand over your mouth to keep quiet but weak moans melted into your palm.

sunghoon gripped the flesh of your legs, his fingers digging into them while he pistons his cock deep past your gummy walls. a stretch that you will never get used to. “answer me princess”

“yes! yes!” you muffled into your hand but he stopped his thrust and gripped to your wrist to yank the restraint that stopped him from properly hearing you

“repeat it” he told and your bottom lip quivered however not a thought processed when he dragged his shaft out again, his tip hanging inside of you before pushing back in one swift motion, “say it”

“please sunghoon! yes” you slipped out loudly uncaring of who heard you, merely wanting sunghoon to take care of you

“that’s my good girl” he rubbed a hand over the back of you thighs as he picked up his pace, ranging from fast and sharp to long and soft

the drag of pleasures made you dizzy. your hand balled into a fist which didn’t last long when he pried open your hand and made you grab his chain.

instantly you pulled down at the cold metal hovering your face to press his forehead against yours. sunghoon smirked wildly when your face contorted when he reached inside your cervix.

“you look pretty” he slurred making your heart flutter in your chest, “you always do”

“i need to make you mine. breed your pussy and ruin it just for me”

your mind accepted the words as truth—in your mind they were nothing but that. “hoonie” you mewled his name sending him into a haze

pushing his cock harder into you, you pulled harder on the necklace. he groaned at the burn at his neck but he pressed on.

each stretch and push made your head lol back into his pillows, your senses becoming overwhelmed by him, “take it princess- i’m going to fill you up until it swishes in your stomach, you’ll be feeling me days”

your hand weakened around the chain allowing it to dangle over your face. your hands fisting his sheets as your body jolts forwards with each push.

“more. more” you blabbed and he laughed at the incoherence

“what was that?” he teased and you knew that but not in a mood to mess around, you gave up all strength and melted into him

“need more- want more please” your wish was his command

each thrust made you see stars like the ones that sparkled in his eyes. your heart clenched in your chest while catching a glimpse of his gaze. so focused, so enthralled.

sunghoon grunts everytime you clamped around him until he let out a guttural moan when you convulse around his shaft and covered him in your release, quickly prompting his own orgasm.

he strains a moan as he spilled into your velvet walls, painting them white of him. the grasp on your legs loosened and you were left to think that was it and you’d go back to your best friend’s room like nothing happened as always.

however you were mistaken when sunghoon suddenly adjusted himself in between your legs, your lower half slightly lifted off the bed and onto his lip.

his cock still lodged in you as you feel a hold metal on your chest. peering open your eyes and looking down to see the big silver chain resting on your marked chest before looking up to sunghoon who softly smiled—different than the polite ones he always gives whenever everyone else is around.

“looks way better on you then me” he softly says but suddenly hooks his fingers around the jewelry and lifts your neck up by it as he slams his hips upwards to meet yours

bringing his mouth to your ear, he chuckled loudly, “keep it safe for me okay princess”

you were in for a long night.

and that following morning you stumbled into the kitchen, your hands on the countertop to stabilize your weaken legs as you tried to squeeze your thighs together to stop the leaking cum from dripping down anymore.

“what the hell is wrong with you?” your best friend points out and sunghoon who just walked in has to hold back a smile as he takes a sip of water

but the water spits from his mouth in shock at your next words for his sister’s question while you stare dead into his eyes.

“your brother happened”

——

[fuddaround]

HOME › paige bueckers x fem!reader

⌗ summary : paige makes sure to see her ex girlfriend one last time before leaving for dallas.

⌗ warnings : mentions of other people, arguing, toxic, cunnilingus, slut shaming, slapping, strap-on (r!receiving), degrading.

⌗ word count : 4.5k

⌗ kay’s notes : pazzi one is coming trust😓

you’re still fixing your shorts when the front door opens.

no knock. no heads up. just unlocked and walked the fuck in.

you freeze in the hallway, half-dressed, barely done saying bye to the girl who just gave you the worst head you’d had in weeks—and there she is.

paige fucking bueckers.

standing in your doorway like she lives there.

her eyes flick from you to the girl behind you. the one adjusting her top, all flustered and confused, like she just walked into some shit she shouldn’t be a part of.

“oh,” paige says. flat. emotionless. “you’ve been busy.”

you don’t answer.

you’re too busy trying not to argue with her right there.

the girl mumbles something awkward, grabs her phone off the table, and slips past paige without even looking at her. the door shuts soft behind her.

then it’s just you and paige.

your heart’s still racing. your lips still swollen. and she’s just standing there with that look on her face.

arms crossed. jaw locked. eyes burning.

“you fucked her,” she says.

“you’re leaving,” you shoot back.

wrong move. her eyebrow lifts.

“you know damn well that’s not the same thing.”

you roll your eyes. grab your water off the counter like you’re not shaking inside.

“you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t say shit. what, you thought i was gonna sit around and wait for you to come crawling back?”

she steps closer.

“i wasn’t gonna come crawling.”

“clearly.”

you both stare at each other for a second too long. it’s heavy. old.

you’re both breathing hard. and not because of the girl who just left.

“why are you here, paige?”

“you know why.”

you snort. look away. sip your water even though your throat’s dry as it possibly be could be.

“what, one last fuck before you go play house in texas?”

“nah,” she says. “i wanted to see if you’d say that shit to my face.”

you look back at her. and there it is.

that look.

the one that used to make you fold mid-argument and drop to your knees without a second thought.

you hate how fast your body remembers.

she notices. of course she does.

“did she make you cum?” paige asks, voice low. loaded.

you don’t answer.

“nah,” she smirks. “she didn’t. you’re still wound up. i can see it.”

“fuck you.”

“you tried.”

you slam your cup down. too hard. water splashes onto the counter.

“get out.”

she doesn’t move.

just watches you. eyes soft now. like she knows she’s already won.

“i’m not here to fight, baby.”

“then what are you here for?”

she walks over. real slow. stops in front of you, close enough to feel her breath.

“you already said it.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking ‘til she touches you.

thumb brushing your jaw. hand sliding into your hair. soft, but not gentle.

never gentle.

“one more,” she says. voice barely above a whisper. “then i’ll go.”

you swallow.

“one more fuck, and you leave for real?”

“if that’s what you want.”

you stare at her. chest tight. throat burning.

because you don’t want her to go. and you hate yourself for that.

but you nod anyway.

because you do want her.

and she knows it.

her hands are on your hips before you can blink.

strong, sure. like she’s done this a thousand times. probably with a thousand girls.

she lifts you up like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing without her, and sets you on the kitchen counter. hard enough to make the cabinets rattle.

your thighs spread on instinct.

and she steps between them like she never stopped belonging there.

you don’t say anything.

just breathe hard as her hands slide under your ass, squeezing until you whine into her. its like she’s pissed that someone else got to touch you. taste you. fuck you.

her mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and heat. you kiss her back just as rough. desperate. angry. dizzy from the way her lips move like punishment.

she pulls back, breathing heavy, lips slick with spit.

“so,” she says. low. dangerous. “you let that bitch fuck you on our couch?”

you look away. jaw clenched.

wrong move.

her hand snaps up. grabs your chin. not hard, but enough to make you face her.

“answer me, baby. use your words.”

you blink at her. your whole body’s on fire.

“yeah.”

she smirks. slow. mean.

“that’s crazy.”

her fingers trail down, brushing the hem of your shorts.

“you ride her face?”

you flinch.

“paige—”

“nah, mama. don’t start actin’ shy now. you looked real bold when she was zipping up her jeans. so go ahead. tell me what you let her do.”

you squirm. her fingers press harder. not inside, not yet. just enough pressure to make you feel every damn word.

“she ate me out.”

“how long?”

you breathe through your nose. feel your pulse in your throat.

“not long.”

“yeah,” paige scoffs. “figured. probably didn’t even know how to hold your thighs right. probably had my girl so uncomfortable.”

you bite your lip.

she leans in, mouth brushing your jaw.

“did you cum?”

you don’t answer fast enough.

she slides one hand into your waistband. knuckles pressing into your pussy. not moving, just sitting there.

“did you cum, baby?”

“no.”

“fucking knew it.”

she kisses your neck. bites it.

“she ever make you beg?”

“no.”

“make you cry?”

“no.”

“make you say please like a good fuckin’ girl?”

you shake your head, eyes glassy.

paige grins.

“thought so.”

then her fingers slip under your shorts completely.

no panties again.

“damn, ma,” she breathes. “you’re so fuckin wet.”

you gasp when her thumb finds your clit, already swollen and aching.

“see what happens when you stop fuckin around and let me handle it?” she murmurs, dragging her mouth along your collarbone. “pussy’s throbbin for me.”

her fingers slide lower. she teases your entrance. just circling. not giving in yet.

“you gonna let her see you like this again?”

“no.”

“you moan for her like this?”

“no.”

“you save it all f’me, huh?”

you nod. frantic.

“say it.”

“saved it for you.”

“that’s right, baby. my pussy.”

her fingers push in slow.

and your whole body folds into her.

she shoves her fingers in deeper. slow at first. deep. steady. then rough.

your hips jerk. you choke on a moan. her hand grips your throat, light but warning.

“keep fuckin still.”

you nod, trying. but she curls her fingers just right and your body bucks.

“needy ass bitch.” her voice drops. full of heat. venom. love. “you let someone else warm me up? really, baby?”

you gasp.

she slaps your tit. quick. sharp.

your back arches off the counter.

“answer me.”

“i—i didn’t mean to—”

“nah,” she spits. “you meant to.” her fingers slam into you harder. your thighs shake. you claw at the counter.

“you wanted someone to touch you,” she growls. “you just picked wrong.”

“paige, fuck—”

she slaps your other tit. watches it bounce.

smirks.

“look at you. such a fuckin mess for me.” her thumb finds your clit again. circles slow.

“you like that? huh?”

you nod.

“yeah, you do. such a slut, aren’t you? sittin here drippin like you didn’t just cum for someone else.”

“i didn’t—i didn’t cum—”

“damn,” she laughs. dark.

“you let her eat you out and you didn’t cum?”

you shake your head. tears welling.

“then why the fuck you let her touch what’s mine?”

you don’t know what to say. you don’t even care.

“you wanted to feel something,” she mutters. “but this the only thing that ever made you feel, huh?”

she thrusts deeper. faster. you scream.

her hand claps over your mouth.

“shut up.”

your eyes roll. you nod.

“that’s right. take it.” her fingers keep going. relentless. you’re so close it hurts.

“gonna cum?” she asks.

you nod, frantic.

she pulls out.

you whimper.

“aww,” she mocks. “poor baby.” she taps your clit. soft and taunting. your legs tremble.

“you don’t get to cum yet.” slaps your pussy. just once. you jolt.

“slut.”

you bite your lip. sob.

she pushes her fingers back in. slower this time.

but deeper. crueler.

“you know why i do this?”

you blink up at her. lost. wrecked.

“’cause nobody else can.” she kisses your jaw. your ear. “nobody else will.”

you moan. desperate.

she licks your neck. grins against your skin.

“you gonna cum for me now, baby?”

you nod. crying. grinding against her hand.

“you better make a mess.” her voice is thick. rough. serious. “i want it on my fuckin fingers. on the counter. everywhere.”

you cum hard. loud. shaking. clenching around her like your body was waiting for this all damn week.

and she doesn’t stop. she fucks you through it, hand tight on your throat. your eyes flutter. body going limp.

“my nasty little whore,” she whispers. “always knew how to make a scene.”

you’re still shaking when she pulls her fingers out.

slow. wet. dripping.

she kisses your forehead, soft and warm.

too gentle for how she just ruined you.

then she picks you up. arms under your thighs, chest to chest. like you don’t weigh a thing.

you bury your face in her neck. you’re still twitching. still soaked. she smells like sin and safety.

“you good, baby?” she murmurs.

you nod against her skin.

“words.”

“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m good.”

she carries you into the bedroom. lays you down easy. like you’re breakable.

paige brushes your hair back. kisses your cheek.

lets you breathe. lets you settle. then sits on the edge of the bed, hand on your thigh.

“what’s the color?” she asks.

you blink up at her. already floating.

“green.”

“you sure?”

you nod, “green, mama.”

her jaw tightens like she’s proud and she’s starving.

“you want more?”

you nod again, “please.”

she leans down, kisses your mouth slow, “good girl.”

she kisses you once more. then stands up, eyes raking down your body like she’s starving.

“look at you,” she says. low. thick. filthy. “laid out for me like. i only wanna see you like this for me.”

her fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.

pulls ‘em down slow. slow like punishment.

her eyes never leave yours. not even when she drops to her knees.

“this body?” she mutters. “this shit’s only mine, mama.”

your thighs spread on instinct. she licks her lips.

“fuck,” she whispers. “you’re so pretty when you’re ruined.” kisses your inner thigh.

“bet she didn’t even look at you like this.”

a kiss higher.

then a bite.

you gasp.

“bet she didn’t worship this pussy.”

her tongue presses to your clit, light. a tease. a warning.

you whimper.

she pulls back. grins. “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

then she devours you.

mouth locked. tongue ruthless. not sweet. not soft. just raw.

she eats you like she’s pissed. like she needs to make you forget anyone else ever existed.

your hips jerk. she throws her arm over your stomach. holds you down.

“don’t run, baby. take it.”

her tongue circles, flicks, drags over your clit.

you’re already shaking. already crying.

she moans into you. moans. like she’s the one getting off.

“fuck, ma,” she breathes. “tastes like you missed me.”

you grab at her hair, mind gone.

“she didn’t even know what to do with this, did she?” another slow lick.

you sob.

“you let her try?” she spits on your pussy. sloppy. filthy. rubs it in with her tongue.

“but you saved this mess for me.”

your thighs close around her head. she slaps the inside of your leg.

“open.”

“yeah. that’s it, mama. let me ruin you.”

she starts sucking your clit. hard. wet. relentless. no rhythm. just chaos.

you’re already close. too close. you cum with a scream. loud. raw.

but she doesn’t stop. just keeps licking. teasing. working her fingers in now. slow. two deep.

you cry out. your whole body jolts.

“one’s not enough,” she mutters. “this pussy’s just so greedy, huh?”

you nod. crying. shaking.

“fuckin perfect. all of it.” she kisses your stomach. your hip. then goes right back to sucking your clit while her fingers curl inside you.

you cum again. it rips out of you. like your body’s got no choice.

she still doesn’t stop. over and over.

“you’ll never let anyone else touch you again,” she growls. tongue dragging down. “they don’t deserve you.”

you try to pull away. she grabs your thighs. pulls you back to her mouth.

“don’t you dare.” she slaps your pussy again, making you cry out.

“take it, slut.” she grinds her tongue into you. you’re soaked. ruined. gone.

“my mess. my girl. my fuckin pussy.” each word is a followed with a kiss. a thrust. a claim.

“say it.”

you sob, “yours.”

“louder.”

“yours.”

she kisses your clit one more time. soft, like a thank you.

and you collapse. eyes fluttering. body twitching. completely gone.

you’re still shaking when she climbs off the bed.

your thighs glistening. twitching. pussy pulsing.

you whimper when she moves away. voice all broken. soft.

“where—where are you going?”

paige smirks. glances over her shoulder.

walks to your drawer. her drawer. where the strap’s already waiting.

“calm down, baby,” she mutters, digging it out.

“actin like i’m not about to ruin you again.”

your breath catches. eyes wide. pupils blown.

“but i want you now,” you whine, so soft. so sweet.

she raises a brow.

“oh, now you want me?” straps it on slow. cock heavy, mean-looking. snug against her hips.

you nod, lip trembling. “please.”

she chuckles. low. condescending.

“you don’t even know what you’re beggin for.”

walks back over. lazy. cocky. like she’s got all night to break you.

you spread your legs, still leaking.

“look at you,” she mutters. grabs your hips, flips you over. you yelp.

she presses your face to the mattress.

“needy fuckin brat.” spits on her hand. strokes the strap. lines it up with your soaked pussy.

“you sure you can take it, mama?”

you nod. whiny again, “please, i need it.”

“oh, you need it?” she leans down. mouth by your ear. grinds the tip against you. not in. just teasing.

“say that shit again.”

“i need it. i need you. please, paige—”

that’s all she needed.

she pushes in slow.

you gasp. arch.

she grabs your waist, pulls you back onto it.

buries it deep.

“there you go,” she growls. “take it. just like that.”

you’re already moaning. can’t help it.

“f-fuck, it’s big—”

she laughs. dark. “nah, ma. you’re just tight. ain’t been fucked right in a minute, huh?”

you whine. nod into the sheets.

she starts thrusting. slow at first. deep. rough. her hips smack your ass, rhythm mean.

you’re sobbing again. back arching.

“what happened to all that shit you were talkin earlier?” a slap to your ass. sharp.

you cry out.

“you was bold when she had her tongue in you.”

another slap, “now you’re just my whiny little slut again.”

“i am—i’m yours—”

she grabs your hair. yanks your head back.

bends over you.

“say it like you fuckin mean it.”

“i’m yours,” you cry. “all yours. nobody else—”

“that’s right.” she lets go. slams her hips in harder.

“this pussy’s mine. this body’s mine. this fuckin mouth—” leans down, kisses the side of your face.

“mine.”

you’re clenching around her. it’s too much.

you can’t stop whining.

“shhh, baby,” she coos. mocking. gentle. fucks you through every moan.

“you wanted this. remember?” drives it in deep. holds it there. you scream.

“you fuckin asked for this.” pulls out. slams back in.

your legs give out.

she grabs your waist, holds you up. makes you take it.

you’re babbling. nonsense. praise. desperate apologies.

“you look so pretty like this,” she mutters.

“gettin fucked dumb. can’t even think straight.”

you sob. eyes rolled back.

she slows, just a little and rubs your lower back.

“you good, mama?”

you nod. barely conscious.

she kisses your shoulder. then starts up again.

paige slows down just to watch it. her hands spread across your ass, big and possessive. thumbs pressing into the dimples on your lower back.

“god damn, baby.” she moans like she’s the one getting fucked. like your ass alone could get her off.

grinds her hips into you, slow and deep. drags the strap all the way out just to slam it back in. your whole body jolts forward with the impact.

she stares down, eyes glassy. obsessed. you’re leaking down your thighs. ass flushed, moving with every thrust.

“look at this fuckin ass,” she breathes. rakes her nails down your sides.

you whimper, barely holding yourself up.

she smacks it. loud. sharp. the sound bounces off the walls.

you moan like it’s your name.

“you know how long i missed this shit?” another slap. harder. she grabs both cheeks after, spreads you wide.

“nobody else gets this view,” she mutters. “nobody else even deserves it.”

your face is buried in the sheets, crying, ruined.

“you been walkin around actin like this ass don’t belong to me,” she says. starts fucking you harder. deep, cruel strokes.

“but i know it does.” she’s panting. voice cracked.

you’re babbling again, sobbing into the bed.

“you hear that?” slap. grind. thrust. “that’s mine, mama.”

her hands stay on your ass. one gripping, the other slapping. then both squeeze hard enough to bruise.

you whimper into the sheets, “too much—”

she grabs your hips. yanks you back. the strap drives in deeper than before.

“don’t care.” her voice drops. deadly calm. “you wanted me, remember?”

you nod. choking on your moans.

“wanted to fuck one more time before i leave.” another hard thrust. your legs almost give out.

“this what you wanted, right?” she pulls out. slaps your pussy with the tip.

you sob.

“answer me, slut.”

“yes—fuck—yes.”

“yeah you did.” she slams back in.

you scream.

“nobody ever gonna fuck you like this again.”

her hands trail up. grabs your tits from behind. pinches your nipples.

“not like me.” she bites your shoulder.

you shiver. melt.

“they don’t know this body. and won’t ever knownit like i do.” her hand reaches down. rubs your clit slow while she fucks into you hard. over and over. like she wants to imprint herself inside you.

“you know why you keep lettin me back in?”

her voice is ragged. desperate.

you shake your head. can’t even speak.

“’cause this pussy belongs to me.” she leans forward, cock buried deep. grinds into you. you feel her everywhere.

“this ass—” grabs it again, spreads you wider “all mine.”

you’re losing it. legs twitching. body soaked.

she starts fucking you faster. rough. hard. unrelenting. her hips slamming into your ass like she wants to live there.

“cum for me,” she growls. “make a mess all over my cock.”

you try. you fight it.

she slaps your clit. just once.

you explode. scream into the sheets. body collapsing.

she doesn’t stop.

“that’s my girl.” thrusts slow now. deep. lets you feel every inch.

“fucked dumb. used up. perfect.”

you can’t move. can’t breathe.

she finally slows. pulls out. watches your hole twitch. open. dripping.

“so so beautiful,” she whispers.

she leans down. kisses the small of your back.

“you still mine, baby?”

you nod into the mattress, “always.”

she lays over you, still in the strap. lets you feel her weight. mouth against your spine.

“my good girl.”

you’re still shaking when she rolls onto her back.

chest rising slow. cock still strapped in, glistening with you. hands behind her head. eyes smug.

“come sit, mama.” voice low. taunting. like she didn’t just break you for the billionth time.

you blink down at her. ruined. but something in you switches. snaps.

you crawl up. slow. straddle her waist. reach back and grab the strap.

her brows raise, “you got more in you, huh?”

you line it up. sink down. both of you gasp.

“fuck,” you whisper.

“yeah,” she grins. “that’s it.”

you start to move. hips grinding slow.

she doesn’t touch you yet. just watches.

“look at you,” she mutters, “bouncin on my dick like you ain’t just get your soul snatched.”

you roll your eyes, “you act like you’re the only one who knows how to fuck.”

she laughs. smug, “prove me wrong then.”

you start riding harder. hands on her chest, using her for balance.

“don’t worry,” you pant. “i will.”

she reaches up, grabs your tits. squeezes. plays with them, “these still mine too?”

you slap her hands away, “you wish.”

she grabs them again anyway. harder.

“nah, mama. they always been mine.” leans up, mouths at one. sucks hard. you moan, grind down rough.

“you’re so cocky for someone i made cry like a lil bitch ten minutes ago.” she pulls off your tit with a pop. smirks. “you’re still crying.”

you are. you don’t care. you’re still fucking yourself on her.

“maybe ‘cause you talk too fuckin much.” you dig your nails into her chest.

she laughs again. cocky. feral.

“keep runnin your mouth, baby. all you do is prove how much you love this dick.” she grabs your hips now. helps you grind. just to watch your face crumble.

you try to stay mean. but it’s too much. she’s too deep.

you stutter out a moan. hips slowing.

“tired already?” she taunts. “thought you had somethin to prove.”

“shut up,” you breathe.

“make me.”

you lean down. kiss her hard. bite her lip.

she moans into your mouth. hands still on your tits. still playing. like they’re hers.

“fuck, ma,” she groans. “this pussy was made for me.”

you bounce harder. faster. chasing it now.

“you ain’t shit without me,” she whispers. “just some messy lil slut that needs my dick to feel whole.”

you hold onto her chest, “and you ain’t ever gonna fuckin leave me alone.”

she grins. wild. possessive.

“never.” her thumb finds your clit. circles it.

you gasp.

“you’re mine, mama. all of you.”

you start falling apart again.

body jerking. mouth open.

“cum on it,” she growls. “right now. let me feel it.”

you do. hard. violent. you scream her name, claw her biceps.

she grabs your ass while you’re twitching.

presses you down. keeps you there.

“fuckin knew it,” she whispers. “can’t fuckin leave me.”

you collapse on her chest. shaking. wet.

“i hate you,” you mumble. voice hoarse.

she kisses your temple. “i know, baby.” grins. “i hate you too.”

you’re still on her. chest to chest. breath ragged.

cock still buried deep inside you.

she’s got one hand on your ass, squeezing. other in your hair. but you’re glaring.

“so who the fuck was that girl?” your voice is cracked. still breathless, but angry now.

paige blinks. scoffs.

here we go.

“seriously?” grips your waist tighter. ruts her hips up once. sharp.

you moan. slap her shoulder.

“don’t fuckin dodge it, bueckers.”

she laughs under her breath. that condescending one.

“you were literally getting fucked when i walked in.” another thrust. deeper. “and you’re seriously worried about me?”

you flinch. gasp. but you don’t stop riding. if anything, you slam down harder.

“you didn’t look bothered,” you spit. “walked in like you still owned the place.”

“i do have a key still.” her voice is flat. eyes sharp.

you grip her shoulders, nails digging in.

“you fuck her?”

she grinds up into you slow. smirks, “you want the truth?”

you hesitate.

she leans up. mouth to your ear. thrusts slow, brutal.

“nah. i didn’t. but i could’ve.”

your whole body tenses.

“fuck you.” you start riding again. angry. fast.

she groans. loves it.

“you’re so full of shit,” she mutters, palming your tits again, rough.

“actin jealous while this pussy’s still mine.”

“you don’t own me.” you’re breathless. grinding hard.

“nah?” she sits up. wraps her arms around you.

starts fucking up into you, rough now.

“then why you still let me in here?” kisses your jaw. your neck.

you moan, try to pull away.

“why you still let me fuck you like this?” bites your collarbone.

“because i love you, dumbass!”

that makes her pause.

just for a second.

then she slams up into you again.

you cry out. nails in her back.

“say that shit again.” her voice is low. cracked.

“i love you.” you’re sobbing. grinding on her like you need it to breathe.

she groans. throws her head back.

“fuck, mama.” hands on your ass again, bouncing you.

“you love me like this?”

slams up harder.

you nod. gasping.

“you love me when i fuck you like i hate you?”

another thrust. mean. deep.

“when i own you?”

you sob out a yes.

“you love me when i’m a fuckin problem?”

“always,” you cry. “always, paige.”

she pulls you down. kisses you hard. all teeth and tongue.

“mine,” she growls. “mine forever.”

you fall apart in her arms again. crying into her mouth. clenching around her.

“say it back,” she demands.

“yours,” you breathe. “always yours.”

she fucks you through it. slow now. deep. possessive.

“i love you.” she whispers as she kisses your neck. “don’t ever forget it.”

she wipes you down with your favorite towel.

the one she bought you. kisses your thighs like an apology she’ll never say out loud.

wraps you in her arms after, still naked.

still inside the mess of it. you’re both quiet. just breathing.

“i’m gonna fuckin miss you,” you whisper.

barely more than a breath.

she pulls you closer.

“i never stopped.”

you blink.

“what?”

“missin you,” she mumbles, lips against your shoulder, “even when i was right here.”

you turn to face her, press your forehead to hers.

“don’t be soft now,” you whisper. smile cracked, eyes glossy.

she shrugs, “too late.”

you kiss her. slow. tired.

she stays the night, arm over your waist, face buried in your neck. you both pretend it doesn’t hurt. just for a little longer.

© fuddaround

[thekitsunesiren]

Dc x Dp #54

Dan wondered if he was about to keep most of his mind due to his own existence being an anomly amonst time itself, or if Clockwork somehow interevened because he believed that it was best he had his mind instead of being a complete child with his ridiculous powerset. Probably both, if Dan was being honest. Or should he say "Dante" now? Honestly, he knew his momma wasn't original, but seriously? Dante was the best he could do?

Momma-heh. Dan looked up at his younger counter part as he frantically moved around their small cramped apartment as he tried to wrangle Dani into her pajamas for bed. The younger child flying around and going intangible whenever her momma was too close to putting the clothes on her after their evening bath. It was domestic, somewhat, if you didn't know more about them.

Three out of four of their only kind in hiding. Hiding from those who don't understand them. Who wants to hurt them jsut because they are viewed as non sentient.

Danny could've left him alone. Simply take Dani and leave. But he didn't. He looked at him as a child. His child. Made sure he was just as safe as Dani as they disappeared from Amity and far away from the GIW. Now playing a happy family in one of the most crime ridden towns in the United States. Far enough for the GIW to not immediately look there

Dan remembers his original timeline. When he killed every hero, vigilante, and villain that stood in his way of greatness until there was nothing but weak humans who couldn't defeat him. Every alien invasion wasn't a threat, it was a work out to him. And it lead him to crave more. His need to fight. For Power. To become the strongest until there was nothing left. And yet, even then, the only person that could stop him was him.

Honestly, Dan didn't remember much during his reign. The heroes were strong, but not enough. Even the villains that turned against him weren't anything but a small distraction of the bigger things. But the biggest threat, unsurprisingly, were the bats.

Smart. Cunning. Stubborn. Put up a better fight than anyone else and got closer to anyone else to figuring out how to stop him. How to hold him down. How to make him bleed.

Yes, they lasted the longest out of all of them, and it wasn't until Dan stood over the remains of the infamous bat family did he realize: this was his family.

While only his ghost half, Dan still remembered being Danny. And more than that, he remembered Danyal: the shadow of the heir to the al Ghul name. Twin to Damien Wayne, but treated nothing but a shadow and a bodyguard.

Congratulated none for his efforts but punished twice as much for if Damien failed. He was nothing, while his brother was anything. Scars physically and mentally that he pushed into the back of his mind when he finally left the League. It was easy to see how little how they felt about him when none of them left.

When he left and was adopted by the Fenton's, everything was great. He actually succeeded about forgetting about his past life. Especially with all of the ghost business and trying to hide his identity from his parents.

But as he stood over the corpse of his brother, the youngest Robin, he wondered if Damien ever wondered about him. Wondered if he looked for him. Wondering if the great Batman knew he had another son out there. Would he turn him away if he did? Would he haved turned away Dan? It was too late to find the answers.

Until now that is.

Now, his future was a distant timeline. Broken and forgotten with no going back. But that didn't mean that the people weren't still here. He knew his father was Bruce Wayne. He just didn't know when Damien was introduced to the Wayne family.

Dan startled out of his thoughts when momma picked him up into his arm, Dani in the other dressed and snuggled against momma's chest in a sleepy daze.

He rested his head on momma's shoulder as he was carried into their small bedroom and tucked into bed. His eyes briefly closing as he felt cool lips press against his forehead in a goodnight kiss. A soft and fond voice wishing him and Dani a good night.

Dani responded but Dan stayed quiet. Not opening his eyes until the door clicked shut and his mommas ectoplasmic presenced lessened as he went to the next room. Then, his eyes opened to reveal a glowing red as he stared out the window into the cloudy and smog covered sky that was Gotham.

He was going to get the help his momma needed. He just hoped this trouble was worth that it was.

[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: It’s been ten years of holding it together — just you and your son, building a life from nothing. But when you walk into his ER in one of the worst moments of your life, everything you’ve carefully kept in place starts to unravel, taking you right back to rock bottom — remembering how it really began.

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), female reader.

warning: graphic portrayals of a depressive episode, injured minor.

notes: i lied, it’s actually longer than the first one. Also, i wanted to thank everyone for their kind messages, they made me actually melt ​💗​💫​

word count: 4 k

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

Just for an instant, a second really, everything appeared to stay still. You were both staring at each other with some kind of distant recognition that didn’t really feel right anymore. 

Time stopped—or maybe it just cracked. For a second, all Robby could do was stare, breath frozen, stomach caving in on itself like the room had suddenly lost oxygen. 

Everyone had seemingly gone silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop—for the story to wove itself in front of their very eyes. 

Then everything moved at once.

The trauma bay around him hummed—orders being barked, the sharp beeping of a monitor, a pair of gloved hands reaching for suction—but it all blurred at the edges, sound thinning to a high-pitched whine, like air being pulled from the room.

But he looked at you, really looked at you. Breathing you all in. 

And you looked exactly the same.

No, not the same. Older. Stronger. Tired in that way only a mother could be, like you’d carried the weight of a thousand nights with no sleep. But still you. Still you.

His heart stuttered in his chest.

You, on the other hand, were just frozen.

Like something inside of you had stopped working.

Like your brain couldn’t process what you were seeing, and your body was bracing for impact. Your lips parted, soundless, and your expression turned glassy. Like you’d just stepped on a landmine and heard the click.

Michael felt something inside his chest fracture.

Your eyes—god, your eyes—looked through him, then past him, then back again. Like you thought you were hallucinating. Like you wanted him to disappear.

His mouth opened. He didn’t know what he was about to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe just your name again, missing how it felt falling from his lips. 

Maybe just please.

Finally, you stepped back. 

No—stumbled.

Your hand shot out toward the edge of the table, missing it, and your shoulder hit the wall instead. "I—" you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. "I can't. I can’t do this right now." 

And your voice broke on the last word.

He opened his mouth again, throat dry. "Wait—"

"I just—" your hands came up like you could block him out with your palms. "I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I can’t—"

"Hey, it’s okay, just—"

But you were already shaking your head, already turning, already backing toward the door with panic in your eyes like he’d set the place on fire just by existing in it.

You didn’t look at him again. Not really. Your eyes fluttered shut like it hurt to see him. Like his presence was too loud, too heavy, too full of old ghosts and wounds that never healed right.

"I’m sorry to interrupt," Whitaker said gently, stepping in at the exact wrong—and—right time. "They’re ready for us upstairs."

Robby didn’t blame him. Whitaker was just doing his job—by the book, probably didn’t even realize the air had gone thin with something heavier than oxygen. Still, Robby felt the moment rupture like tissue paper.

Of course, it had to be him. Of course, it had to happen like this.

You didn’t even look at him again.

"I have to go," you said. Firm. Final.

He reached for you, instinct more than thought. "Wait."

Gone.

The door swung shut behind you, and then it was just him and the echo of your voice in a room that suddenly felt too quiet.

Michael stood frozen. Stupid. Helpless.

He watched you vanish around the corner—following behind the gurney. Watched the back of your salmon-pink scrubs disappear into the chaos of the ER. Watched you leave him. Again.

But all he could see was you.

The way your hands trembled, like you didn’t know what to do with them.

The way you kept pressing them to your chest like you were holding yourself together from the inside out.

The way you walked—fast, clipped, stiff—like if you didn’t keep moving, you’d collapse.

He barely noticed the rest of the trauma team shifting back into motion around him, unaware that something tectonic had just cracked open right there between the trauma room and the nurses’ station.

Because the second you left, everything else fizzled out.

All he could hear was his own heartbeat. Slamming.

All he could feel was the ringing silence you left in your wake.

And all he could think was—She’s here. She’s real. She saw me. And she left.

And behind that, behind the shock, behind the confusion, something darker twisted in his gut.

That boy.

The boy on the gurney.

Michael staggered back a half step.

The timeline rushed in and hit him straight in the face like a brick. Ten years. Ten years since he left. Since he disappeared with nothing but a coward’s note and a bleeding heart.

You hadn’t told him. Not a word. Not a single whisper. And why would you?

He was the one who vanished.

He was the one who chose the silence.

And now here you were, thrown together by whatever cruel god governed the ER, with you looking like you were about to shatter and him finally realizing—maybe he was the one who broke you to begin with.

He blinked hard, his pulse racing, and looked again at the door where you and the kid had left through.

The math wouldn’t stop spinning. The way you looked at the boy. The panic in your voice. The grief.

God.

Is he mine?

The question hit him like a blow to the chest. He couldn’t breathe.

He thought of you walking away, your eyes filled with unshed tears, hands shaking as you whispered those few words.

He thought of that kid, gaunt and still, hooked up to machines, and the way he flinched when someone called out Mom.

It didn’t feel like fate. It felt like punishment.

Like every choice he made led straight to this moment—where everything he’d buried rose back up and God himself asked if he was man enough to face it now.

Michael didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He just stood there—chest tight, stomach twisted, breath caught somewhere between guilt and disbelief—as the trauma team carried on around him, not seeing that he’d just been gutted from the inside out.

He stood there for a long moment, stunned. Then he laughed, under his breath, humorless and tired.

Funny.

The last time he saw you, he’d walked away without a word.

You didn’t stop walking. Couldn’t.

Not until the elevator doors shut behind you with a soft ding and the metal started climbing, floors ticking past too fast. Your hands were still shaking. You tucked them under your arms, tried to breathe through it, but it felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs and replaced with something heavier. Thicker. Like you were drowning.

Beside you, Dr. Whitaker said something—not yet, hopefully soon enough—but it barely registered. You nodded because it felt like the right thing to do. The only thing you could do.

Then you were upstairs, in imaging. There were hands guiding your son into the MRI room. Gentle voices. Paperwork. Another nod. Another smile that didn't reach your eyes.

And then you were alone. Finally. 

They told you it would be about thirty minutes, maybe more. Long enough to spiral. Long enough to remember.

So you sat.

The plastic chair outside the radiology wing creaked beneath you as you leaned forward, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands.

You’d seen a ghost.

No—that wasn’t right. He wasn’t a ghost. He was real. He was there. The same hands. The same voice. The same stupid little furrow between his brows when he didn’t know what to say.

And he’d looked at you like—like he’d only just realized everything he left behind had a heartbeat.

Your throat burned.

Ten years.

Ten years of silence, of wondering if he was alive or dead or just fucking cruel. Ten years of birthdays and fevers and nightmares and firsts you had to witness alone. And then he just—appeared. In a trauma bay. In a pair of scrubs. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry.

Not now.

You’d already done that once.

ten years ago...

The apartment was too quiet. 

So quiet it rang in your ears, high-pitched and shrill, like the aftermath of an explosion. The silence didn’t sit still—it crawled. Under your skin. Behind your eyes. In the space between your ribs, where your lungs refused to expand right.

It was never this quiet when he was here.

Even when you were asleep, there was always something—is breathing, the hum of the AC, his dumb phone alarms going off too early, his voice grumbling into her shoulder. Now, it felt…emptied. Like something had been ripped out, and the air still hadn’t settled.

The apartment felt hollow without him. 

The walls pressed in—close, too close—like they were waiting for you to crack. You kept thinking that if you were to turn your head fast enough, you might catch them shifting. Watching. 

The shadows moved wrong. The light hit strange. The floorboards groaned like they were in pain.

Your phone lit up. Then went dark. Lit up again. Dark again. Nothing.

You didn’t remember sitting down.

But you were curled up on the floor of your—your—bedroom, phone clutched in one hand, knees drawn to your chest, trying to make sense of the nothing he left behind. 

Waiting.

Begging.

Please. Please. Please.

Not even a call. Not even a fight.

Just a note.

A fucking note.

Not even a period at the end.

Just gone. 

Your hands had been shaking then, too.

You couldn’t cry. Not properly. It’s like your body wouldn’t let you—couldn’t. It held everything tight, like it was scared you’d unravel completely if it loosened its grip for even a second. So you shook instead. Buzzed like a broken wire.

Your brain kept folding in on itself fighting to understand what happened—why? 

You’d tried everyone. His old roommate. Coworkers. That one friend from med school whose name you always forgot. But no one had heard from him, said maybe he needed space. Or maybe they had and were lying for him. You didn’t know which hurt more.

Time blurred together after that. 

You’d called in sick. Voice hoarse. Hands shaking. Could barely get the words out to your chief resident.

She didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t even hesitate.

Just said, “Take the time,” like she already knew. Like everyone already knew.

And of course they did.

He was a junior attending in the same hospital—had been? They'd all worked side by side, shared vending machine coffee and overnight shifts and quiet glances in scrub rooms. 

The day he left, he didn't just disappear from your apartment—he disappeared from the job, too. Vanished from badge logs and email chains. Left behind the kind of silence that carried weight. The kind that people tiptoed around.

They all knew before you did.

You could feel it in the way the chief spoke to you now—soft, deliberate, like you were a glass too cracked to carry water.

And maybe you were.

Because all you could think was: God, they must all think I’m pathetic.

Still showing up with his coffee orders memorized. Still wearing the same necklace. Still smiling like you weren’t about to be gutted out for everyone to see.

A resident falling for her attending—how fucking cliché. Tragic, really. 

How many of them had smiled back, already knowing? How many had covered for him, lied for him?

You curled tighter into the blankets, the shame curdling in your stomach like bad milk.

Once a respectable doctor—a future star in her field—with her perfect pink scrubs, perfectly color-coded charts, and “good morning, everyone!” predisposition at six a.m., now reduced to a silence that soaked the walls of their apartment—your apartment—like mold. 

The knock on the door came hours later. Or maybe a day. Time had stopped meaning anything long ago.

Had you eaten? Showered?

Had the sun come up? Had it ever been up?

You could taste metal in your mouth and bile at the back of your throat.

The world felt wrong in your bones.

You kept thinking maybe none of it had been real. 

Maybe you’d made it all up. Maybe there’d never been a him at all—Michael, Robby, or whatever.

Just a ghost wearing his face, leaving behind traces of himself to fuck with you: the crooked toothbrush, the mug by the sink, the hoodie he’d probably forgotten in the dryer.

The knock on the door was distant. Like hearing it through a dream.

Then another knock. Louder. And finally, the scrape of the spare key jamming into the lock.

It was your sister. Probably.

Still, you didn’t move. 

The door opened. Footsteps.

Then just a low mutter—"oh my god."

She didn’t say a word at first. Just dropped to the floor next to you and pulled you into a hug so tight it finally broke something loose. 

She was warm and real. Smelled like home—and that cloying cinnamon Bath & Body Works scent she swore by. Too sweet, too strong. It hit your nose like a punch, and for a second, it almost made you gag.

"I don’t know what happened," you whispered. Voice hoarse from little use. Barely there.

"You don’t have to—"

"I don’t know what I did."

That cracked something. 

The sobs came sudden and raw, like your body had been waiting for permission. Like your cells had finally given up.

"I—I woke up and he was just gone."

She held you like she used to after you had a bad nightmare. One hand buried in your hair. A slow rock. Whispered words that didn’t matter, because it wasn’t about the words—it was about being held together by someone else, because you couldn’t do it by yourself anymore.

"He didn’t even say goodbye."

"Then he’s a fucking coward," she murmured. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

But your body disagreed.

Everything hurt. Your stomach curled tight into itself. Your skin buzzed. Your bones ached. And your head pounded in a slow, steady throb that never let up.

You muttered, "I feel sick."

"You look sick," She said, pulling back just enough to study her. "You’re pale as hell. Have you eaten anything?"

"I can’t. I keep throwing up."

The words made her sister still. Brow furrowing. Concern slowly creeping in as she watched you. 

But she wasn’t really there anymore.

You were staring. Blinking. Staring again.

Because when you looked at her—really looked—someone else took her place.

The eyes. Those same eyes.

Dark brown. Deep and unreadable, but soft in that specific, sickeningly familiar way. Like melted chocolate in sunlight. Like every time you’d caught him looking at you during early rounds, like he could see right through you and liked what he saw.

His eyes.

Right there, on your sister’s face. And it didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. Logic had left the room days ago.

Your breath hitched. The nausea came back all at once, brutal and specific.

Not just grief. Not just panic. Something else.

Your hand went to your mouth as the room spun. You shoved yourself up and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time. 

The cold tile was unforgiving as you dropped to your knees, your stomach lurching so violently it knocked the breath from your lungs. Bitter, sour heaves wracked your body—nothing left but acid and air.  

You clutched the edge of the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing keeping you here, in this reality. When your forehead met the cold porcelain, an involuntary sigh slipped out—half relief, half despair—followed by shallow, stuttering breaths that scraped against your ribs.

Your sister followed—quietly, gently—and was behind you in seconds, no questions and no hesitation. She moved like someone who had done this before. Who had been here before.

Without a word, she gathered your hair, pulling it back with practiced ease. One hand rested steady on your back, the other stroking slow circles between your shoulder blades.

"I’ve got you," she murmured. "Just breathe."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your whole body trembled—not from effort, but from something deeper. Something bone-deep.

Eventually the wave passed. You coughed, spat, and flushed. Tried to rinse the bitterness from your mouth with shaking hands, but your limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

So you just sank back onto your heels, arms limp, forehead pressing against the cool wall beside the toilet.

Your sister knelt beside you. "Are you late?" she said quietly, voice low but edged with something cautious.

Silence.

"And now this."

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She shifted closer beside you, hand still holding a light grip on your arm. "Hey. Look at me."

You turned.

And there it was again—that look. Worry, yes, but something stronger. 

A mirror of a fucking mirror.

Because your sister’s eyes were dark. Chocolate brown. Just like his.

The realization hit like a bruise from the inside out. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes locked on the color you hadn’t been able to stop seeing.

The exact shade.

Your sister’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering, then concern. "What?"

But you didn’t answer. Couldn’t explain. Could only look.

Because it wasn’t your sister’s face you were seeing—it was his. Not fully, not clearly. But there. In the eyes. In the color.

Same warm brown. Kind. Deep. Unmistakable in the sunlight.

And for one terrifying second, it was like time bent sideways, and you could already see it.

Those eyes on someone smaller. Someone impossibly familiar.

You dry-heaved again.

But there was nothing left.

Your sister reached out instinctively, steadying you, voice still soft. "Babe…I think you might be pregnant."

The words didn’t echo. They detonated. 

The world tilted. The shadows closed in. The silence wasn’t empty anymore.

It was loud.

A voice broke through the quiet. "Miss?"

You blinked up. Whitaker—scrub pants too short, scuffed badge, steady blue eyes—stood in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Uh—hey. Sorry, I—um. The scans came back. No internal bleeding. The head MRI’s clear, no swelling. They’re planning to keep him overnight just to be sure, monitor for delayed stuff, but… he’s stable. He’s okay."

The world tilted again. This time in relief.

"Thank you," you breathed, voice cracking, hands pressed to your chest. "Thank you so much."

He nodded—then hesitated, chewing his lower lip. "There’s just… one thing. There’s no open bed upstairs yet, so they’re going to keep him down here for now. In one of the trauma bays. They’ll curtain it off, make it private. Just temporary."

You nodded without thinking—until it hit you.

Trauma room. Downstairs.

Your stomach clenched on reflex. 

Fuck.

Robby was still down there. Which meant you’d all be in close proximity. Same hallway. Same noise. Same oxygen. Which also meant having to talk to him at some point during your stay.

You weren’t a monster. After today, after everything, you couldn’t just slip away without a word. That wasn’t who you were. You refused to be. 

But holy shit—why now?

You rubbed your face with both hands. Tried to push the day back, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, it would stop sinking its teeth into you.

It felt like too much. Too soon.

You could picture him already—playing in the nurse’s stations, standing near the room with his arms crossed. 

Probably rehearsing what he’s going to say. Probably thinking too much. Or not enough.

Just watching and waiting for the right moment to step in and wreck your life all over again. 

He’d come in with that voice—low but tight—and try to stay calm, but you’d hear the cracks in it. You’d feel the weight of everything unsaid pushing through the seams.

He wouldn’t yell. He wouldn’t have to.

He’d just talk, and somehow it would still feel like an accusation.

Like he was grieving something you took from him. Like you’d been the one holding the clock all this time.

Every sentence would be punctuated by a move of his hands—cutting through the air, trying to explain nine years of silence like it could all be mapped out in a few breaths.

You’d sit there, swallowing the heat in your throat, thinking—you left.

But it wouldn’t feel like a win.

It wouldn’t feel like justice.

It would just feel heavy. Sad. Like two people holding the same loss from opposite ends and breaking under the weight.

In the end, when there was nothing left to say, he’d take off his glasses and sigh—like that would make it all go away. Like blowing the air out of his lungs might somehow undo the last ten years—the same way he always did after a bad call earlier in the shift, when guilt started to creep in.

You hated that you remembered that.

You hated that part of you was waiting for it.

You breathed in, shallow. Let it out slow.

Okay. You’d do it.

So you nodded again, carefully this time, like the motion might somehow make the pieces of your life come apart.

Whitaker seemed to notice, but didn’t push. "You’ll be able to see him soon. They're just finishing the last few checks."

You sank into the nearest chair before your knees could give out entirely.

Whitaker hovered awkwardly for a second like he wasn’t sure if he should leave—then sat beside you with a quiet breath, clasping his hands between his knees. "You look like you’ve been through it today."

You let out a shaky, humorless laugh. "That obvious, huh?"

He offered the faintest smile. "I mean… I’ve only been here six weeks, so I don’t really have a baseline. But yeah. Kind of."

A small silence stretched out. Not awkward. Just there.

Then he glanced at the ID still hanging around her neck. "You a doctor?"

You blinked, like you’d only just remembered you were wearing your scrubs. "Yeah. Attending. OB/GYN."

"Ah." His voice softened. "You work here?"

You shook your head. "No, St. Luke’s. But I know some of the attendings here, sometimes I get called in for high-risk emergencies."

"Cross-trained?"

You nodded. "Emergency med. Just enough to be useful when everything goes sideways."

"That’s kind of badass." He let out a quiet whistle. "Bet you’re good in a crisis."

You huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh. "Usually better than my own."

He nodded like he understood. "And your little guy—how old is he?"

"Nine." A smile tugged at your lips despite everything. "Well. Nine and a half, if you ask him."

"Good age."

"Yeah," you said quietly, "he’s a good kid."

"Was it just the two of you today?"

"Yeah. We were headed to—"

You froze mid-sentence, eyes wide.

"Oh my God," you whispered, scrambling for your phone. "Show and Tell."

"What?"

"Career day. It was today. I was supposed to talk to his class about my job—he was so excited—I have to call the school—"

You fumbled to unlock the phone with trembling fingers, heart suddenly thudding all over again, but in a totally different rhythm. Whitaker didn’t stop you. He simply reached out and rested a hand on your arm, grounding.

He just hesitated—and then, gently, offered, "Do you want me to get someone? Or… I can just sit here."

You shook your head, already scrolling. "I just—I have to let them know. His teacher. So they don’t think we just didn’t show."

"I’m sure they’ll understand."

"I know. I just…" Her voice cracked. "He was so proud. He kept practicing how to introduce me."

She swallowed hard, staring at the screen like it might swallow her back.

"I promised I’d be there."

Because that’s what you do, right? You promise. Even when there's nothing left to give.

next chapter ↠

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[mwphisto]

LaDs Men and Some of Their Kinks

Includes: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x implied female reader (separate of course)

Warning, this post includes: somnophila, dacryphilia, brat taming, scent kink, squirting, masturbation, master/pet play, spitting, cockwarming, and more.

A/N: I finished all of my work for university! Now I just have a final presentation next week (which I already did), and then I'll have earned my bachelor's degree! Now I can do some celebratory smutty writing to get back into the swing of things :)

Xavier

Somnophilia is high up there on Xavier's list, but not because he wants to use your body while you sleep. No, Xavier wants you to use him while he is somewhere far off in dreamland. He really wants to wake up to you with his cock down your throat. Even better? He's positive he'd cum on the spot if he woke up to you riding him.

Mutual Masturbation could send Xavier into a frenzy. He loves watching you pleasure yourself, especially when your eyes are glued to the way his fist pumps up and down his length. But he can never truly handle it for long, losing his composure before either of you can make yourselves cum. You're just too cute for him to resist.

Outdoor sex is right up Xavi's alley, though it really should count as he loves fucking you on his balcony. Xavier is quite accustomed to falling asleep in the cozy paradise he has put together on his balcony. Which means, it's also well equipped for him to fuck you stupid. Maybe it's the thrill of someone hearing, perhaps even seeing, or maybe his need to make sure everyone knows you are his (looking at you, Charlie). Regardless, he's rather fond of making you his.

Rafayel

Master / Pet had started off as a joke, almost an inside joke between the two of you after Ebb day had passed. Then, slowly, the joking terms of "pet" and "master" made their way into your intimacy. It didn't matter who donned what role; it just depended on the mood and perhaps even the situation that led both of you to the bed.

Squirting, Rafayel is utterly addicted to it. The first time he got you to cum that intensely, he ended up cumming himself. The lemurian isn't satisfied anymore if he doesn't end up soaked in your juices. He'll go as far as to ensure you are well hydrated before making any moves. This man has done his research, and so far it hasn't failed him.

You're his real-life canvas. Rafayel was shocked that you agreed the first time he asked the question. You had shamelessly stripped for him, nothing but a pair of panties clinging to your ass and hips. Your skin was his canvas, and the gentle, cool strokes of the paintbrush had goosebumps erupting across your arms. He didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with you than he already was, nor did he think it was possible to crave you as badly as he did when he dragged the paint-slick brush over the swell of your tits.

Zayne

Brat-taming just comes naturally for Zayne. Lucky for him, being a brat just happens to be second nature for you. Cool, calm, collected Zayne being pushed to his limits over and over again until he finally cracks. It's the outcome you've been craving from your stoic lover. And once you got it - ass cheeks bruised and your entire lower half being so sore that you're limping - you find that you're utterly addicted. Good thing your lover is on the same page.

Quickies in public spaces are a guilty pleasure. Everyone always expects Zayne to be so good, to follow the rules. Stepping out of line is far more addictive than being the goody two-shoes he's been his whole life. Having you half undressed, speared on his cock while your back is pressed into his desk? Your tits bouncing as you ride him in the front seat of his sports car? Fingering you while you sit beside each other in a dimly lit and crowded restaurant? He's on cloud nine.

Recording your little escapades had been the outcome at the end of the spiral. A spiral you started one evening as you bounced yourself stupid on Zayne's cock, the legs of the couch creaking under your efforts. You were being bratty, and he hadn't quite crossed the threshold yet to feel comfortable putting you in your place. Testing your limits, you had reached for your phone and began taking pictures of you and him as you ground down on his dick. Faces flushed and eyes glossy, Zayne still had those selfies on his phone, under a special album only he could see.

Sylus

Dacryphilia caught Sylus by surprise. He didn't realize how badly it would turn him on until you were choking on his cock with fat streams of tears flowing down your cheeks. You looked like such a mess, so utterly destroyed and he hadn't even gotten into that sweet pussy yet. Bless him, he came before he could warn you, too entranced by your sobbing face and mouth full of his dick to speak.

Cockwarming you has been Sylus' favorite activity besides getting to love you so thoroughly it left you breathless. He wants to be close to you, as close as his body could get and as close as you'd allow. Even on nights when you two haven't made love, he'll ask you rather shyly if he can slip it in. Much to his pleasure, you always let him, especially since you know he sleeps much better when he gets to hold you close... inside and out for that matter.

Sex toys are not off limits for Sylus, honestly, he quite enjoys them. He's well aware of his capabilities and, in turn, he is well aware of his limitations. He can finger fuck you until you're crying, sure. But shoving a vibrating dildo in that pretty little cunt is far more amusing to him. He gets off on having the control, watching your entire body tremble from vibrations so intense that nothing he could do himself would ever get close to replicating. His trick is that you don't get any access to the toys he uses on you. They are his use only, taken out just to drive you mad before he gives you what he really wants. You genuinely have no idea where your lover hides them afterwards.

Caleb

Spitting but not in a way you'd think. Caleb wants you to spit in his mouth, on his dick, use it as extra lubricant. Doesn't mean Caleb will deny you if you ask him to spit on or in you, but god does he crave the feeling of your saliva coating his tongue. He wants to devour you whole, in any way he can, spit included.

Power play is right up his alley. As long as you are consenting, Caleb will go to whatever extreme you desire. It could be as simple as using "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" or as complicated as full-on BDSM with safe words and real leather, cuffs, gags, and paddles. Whatever you're willing to give him to fulfill the fantasies, the colonel is willing to accept, and never once will he complain.

A big ole scent kink, he can't help it, you just smell so utterly addicting, it drives him insane. Your shampoo, your body wash, your perfume, your sweat, your arousal. You name it, if it's something on or from you, Caleb will probably love it. You didn't realize it started with your worn panties, ones he stole from the hamper after you would hop in the shower. Caleb was a pervert for it, and he knew it damn well, but it didn't stop him from fucking his fist while inhaling the heady scent of your dirty panties.

[piratesexmachine420]

> be me > dumbass > barely graduate high school > decide to enlist in the army 'cause I don't know what to do with my life > spend six weeks in training, then immediately deployed to Europa > shitshitshit.jpg > it's exactly as bad as you think it is > war is hell and hell has frozen over > get dumped into this trench complex in Arran Chaos defending a big ice harvesting operation > "p-something ice extraction and research"

> founded by some big tech guy on Earth apparently > most of us are stationed around their big office building instead of the ice fields > whatever at least it breaks up the horizon > nothing around but ice and rocks and our trenches and the other guys' trenches and bodies and stars > can't even see Jupiter > fuckingcomeon.ogg > they've got this big sign with their logo a hundred yards or so from the entrance > just a bunch of big metal letters > theyre like two feet high each > that's where they've got me and this dude kyle camping out > only thing between us and the...*other guys* are some sandbags and the aforementioned bigass metal letters > plus my MA-75 and my heatsuit and kyle and his heatsuit and his MA-75

> not that the heatsuits are worth much > coldasfuckhere.xlsx > can't even stay above 280 kelvin > i think that's something like fifty degrees fahrenheit > feels like thirty > whatever at least we just have to sit here and not get shot > direct quote from the lieutenant > nobody is willing to leave their trenches so it's mostly just sitting around waiting to get sniped > not much to really do but shoot the shit complain about the cold and eat the mres in our heatsuits > so we do > kyle is cool > i like kyle > we alternate twelve-hour shifts so we only chat when the other is supposed to be sleeping

> but sleeping is hard and talking is easy > kyle deployed the week before me > was stationed here alone until i showed up > begs the question why we're defending this fucking sign if they know its worth leaving unguarded half the time > why the hell aren't we out in the ice fields > why the hell are we fighting over ice in the first place > sign's probably more valuable by weight > kyle laughs > we talk about our home lives for a while > neither of us did much interesting > kyle's mom was really into astrology apparently > we start trying to name constellations > i'm no good at it > he tells me hes gonna finally try to get some shuteye > and leans into me > for warmth, probably

> the heatsuits don't conduct much but it feels good anyway > start to doze off myself > fuck this sign and fuck this building and fuck this moon i'll do whatever i want > set down my rifle and wrap my arms around kyle > for warmth, probably > fall asleep > dream of california and beach volleyball > wake up groggy > really groggy > something hurts > my head?

> something...a sound > theres a loud sound > it keeps going and going and... > fuck > its the heatsuit's oxygen alarm > struggle to sit upright > something heavy on me > its kyle > he's not moving > take stock of my surroundings > shrapnel everywhere > don't see oxygen tank > or our umbilicals > heatsuit's switched to a backup but it's leaking > there's this film of red ice everywhere > ... > kyle...

> i roll him over and there are so many holes > glance over the sandbags > see a glint from a distant trench > duck down and hear something hit the ice behind me > fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck > FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK > rage > grab my rifle and start spraying over the barrier > no response > probably didnt hit him but id like to think i did > oxygen is running out > goodbye hell world > close eyes for second time today > dream of nothing > wake up groggy again > in field hospital

> goddammit > whole thing was captured by a satellite > so they sent a patrol to go recover our equipment > im lucky to be alive they say > sure > end up spending a sol in the hospital > they ship me back to the sign after that > same rifle and even the same heatsuit > bastards didnt even clean it off its still got his blood on it > still not sure what the objective of this post even is > alone > freezing my ass off > too cold > cant sleep > too much blood > spend a couple sols half-awake sprawled face-down in the ice > not gonna hit me again

> eventually rotate back to the fob for a sol > sign is unguarded the whole time > what am i even doing here > skulk around the barracks for a while > overhear that a big inspection of the ice company's facilities is coming up in the next couple sols > gonna be a big push among the grunts to clear out the snipers so the bigwigs can check the place out > everybody is writing letters home for when they dont come back > i, of course, am being sent back alone to the fucking sign > lieutenant tells me that if my station isn't up to spec they're sending my ass to callanish to die painfully > direct quote

> fine > decide im sick and tired of being so goddamned cold out there though > talk to the fob quartermaster about taking a heat lamp into the field > he tells me its too dangerous with all the thermal optics the enemy is using > i tell him he can have my next ten sol's pay > he hands over the lamp > hell if im gonna last that long out here

> rotate back to the sign > heat lamp makes things more tolerable but its a big battery-powered thing so i cant keep it on all the time > spend another sol lying flat on the ice > pick out a star near orion and name it kyle > maybe ten minutes before the inspectors show up i just wig out > start yelling and throwing things > knock over part of the sign > the big letter 'I' > fuck it and fuck the ice it stands for and fuck me > calm down > inspectors are gonna be here any minute now

> fuck i dont wanna go to callanish > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > i dont wanna die > try to stand the sign back up > wont stay upright > shitshitshit > hide the letter under a tarp > look around for something to replace it > grab the heat lamp > MFW I'm Pixar

[willowsnook]

Papaya Was Never the Problem

request: Y/N spends months crushing on Lando, only to be heartbroken when he moves on with someone else. Ready for something real, she realizes she had her eyes on the wrong McLaren driver all along—maybe it was Pato she should’ve seen from the start.

pato o’ward x reader

—----------------------------------

Your 16-year-old self would be disgusted at you if she knew that you’d be 23 and simping over a man who did not feel the same about you. But you couldn’t help it, everytime you thought it was over, Lando would pull your right back in. 

It wasn’t really even his fault, you had both agreed to keep things casual, that you weren’t looking for anything more. But somewhere along the line, it became a little blurred. You tried to take a step back, but everytime you did he pulled you right back closer. Whether it was random flowers he sent to your door, making sure that everyone knew he took your opinion the most serious out of all the McLaren strategists, or coming over to watch a movie and not hooking up. 

You felt crazy. You knew logically that you needed to cut it off but damn you just loved his attention. He could make you feel like you were the only girl in the world. 

But you knew that wasn’t the case. If you weren’t there on his arm, someone else was. It was never anything serious – until it was. 

It was a race day just like any other and you were buried in data, trying to figure out what you could do between now and qualifying to ensure Lando started P1 on Sunday. You had been at it for a while now, interrupted only by the clearing of a throat. Max Fewtrell stood next to your desk, and the look on his face had you instantly stopping. He looked…guilty? 

“What’s up?” You asked, and he hesitated. 

“I need to tell you something that is going to hurt you,” he started. “But you’ve become one of my closest friends so I can’t let this go on any longer.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked, heartbeat raising. 

“Lando is bringing his girlfriend ot the race tomorrow,” Max said and it felt like you had been doused with a cold bucket of water. 

“Girlfriend?” You asked, the word foreign on your tongue. 

"Yeah," Max winced. "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew. It's serious apparently. They've been together for a few months."

A few months. The words echoed in your mind as you tried to process what Max was telling you. All those nights, all those moments that felt like something more—they had meant nothing.

"Who is she?" The question left your lips before you could stop it.

"Some model he met at a party in Monaco." Max's hand came to rest on your shoulder. "You deserve better, Y/N. You always have."

You nodded numbly, tears threatening to spill. "Thanks for telling me."

After Max left, you sat motionless at your desk, staring at the data that suddenly seemed so meaningless. Months of your life wasted on someone who had been leading you on while building a relationship with someone else.

The next day, you kept your head down, focusing entirely on work. When you spotted Lando in the garage, you ducked out of the way, avoiding him for as long as you could. You were forced to finally see him during the pre-race briefing and you doing everything in your power to not look at him did not go unnoticed. 

“Y/n,” Lando called as everyone walked out. “Can we talk?”

You nodded, gaining the courage to look him on the eye. You knew he knew what was happening the second his eyes met yours. 

“I-I I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I should have told you, but we always said it was casual between us right?” 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” You asked, your sadness melting into anger. “Like what’s fucking wrong with you Lando?”

He flinched at your tone, the guilt written all over his face. “I know. I just wanted both of you as long as I could have it.”

“And then you decided that you wanted her more,” you said for him, your heart ripping in half. “Quite frankly I never want to see you again.” 

Hurt flashed across his face but you didn’t give him a chance to respond, moving past him and out the door. 

The race went horribly. Lando dropped from P2 to P10 and it was just a disaster all around. You knew it was your last race, you’d made the decision last night, before even talking to Lando. There were plenty of things you could do with an engineering degree so you weren’t worried. You could go anywhere you wanted. Away from all of this. 

Zak was in a conference room when you found him and you shut the door behind you as you walked in. He looked up at you in surprise, the doom and gloom from the race on his face. 

“Hey y/n, tough day today,” he said and you nodded. “What can I do for you?” 

“I’m going to be leaving McLaren,” you told him, trying to not let your voice waver. This was your first job and you loved the people here. Loved the work, the environment, everything. But you couldn’t stay. 

“What?” Zak veered back, shocked. “After one bad race?” 

“It’s more than one bad race,” you said quietly and in that moment he knew. He’d seen the two of you together, and wasn’t the only McLaren employee that was confused by another girl’s presence today. 

“What are you going to do?” He asked and you shrugged. 

“I don’t know yet,” you admitted and he shook his head. 

“Y/n, you are one of the most talented young strategists we’ve come across,” he told you. “I can’t let you leave.” 

“I can’t stay Zak,” you said, exasperated. He thought for a moment before lighting up. 

“IndyCar,” he said and your eyebrows furrowed. “If you’re okay to move, let me put you on one of our IndyCar teams, probably Patos.” 

You hesitated. You were open to moving somewhere new and across an ocean was pretty far away from Lando. Plus you’d get to stay in racing, which was definitely ideal. 

“Okay, I’ll do it,” you said and Zak grinned. 

“It’s settled then.” 

—-----------------------------------------

“Welcome to Indianapolis!” Your new coworker, Hannah beamed at you from outside of the Arrow-McLaren office in downtown Indy. 

“Thank you,” you said politely.

“I know we don’t go to as many glamorous places as you’re used to but Indy is pretty historic for racing,” she said. 

“Yeah, I actually grew up in Kansas City,” you told her and her eyes widened it surprise. “So I’m familiar with all of this, even if it’s been a while. “

“Sorry! They never tell me anything,” she grumbled. 

“No worries,” you told her sweetly. She led you through the lobby and to the upstairs floor, where different mechanics were working. She was around your age so you felt comfortable chatting with her, happy to have someone to be friends with in a new place. 

“Okay Tony is waiting for you in his office up there,” she told you and you thanked her before stepping into the room. 

“Ahh, y/n, pleasure to meet you,” Tony said, standing up to shake your hand. “Zak sings your praises all the time so I’m happy we got to steal you away.” 

“I’m happy to be here,” you said, sitting down across from him. 

“I’m going to put you on Pato’s team - he’s our best driver here and I think you guys will get along,” he said and you nodded. “Ah here he is, Pato! Come in here for a sec.” 

You turned as the door opened, and in walked a man you'd seen on TV but never in person. Pato O'Ward had a vibrant energy to him, his smile genuine as he entered the room. His eyes landed on you, and for a moment, you felt a flutter of something you couldn't quite place.

"Welcome to the team," he said, extending his hand. His accent was thick but endearing. "Tony has been talking about you all week."

"Has he?" You shook his hand, noticing the calluses that came from gripping a steering wheel for hours on end.

"All good things," Tony assured you. "Pato, Y/N is coming to us from the F1 team. She's one of their top strategists."

"Was," you corrected with a small smile. "I'm all IndyCar now."

"Well, their loss is our gain," Pato said, his gaze not leaving yours. You smiled shyly before turning back to Tom. 

“Well, let’s get started.”

—------------------------------------

IndyCar was a whole new puzzle to crack, but you were loving the challenge. The other strategists had welcomed you with open arms, eager to hear your ideas for the car as you headed into a race weekend. 

Pato was fast, but Alex Palou was faster and it was a problem you were drowning trying to figure it out. It was late, the warm air of Riverside blowing gently through your hair as you stepped outside, eager to take a break. No one else was at the track, just you and a bunch of numbers, just like you preferred it. 

Switching to IndyCar had been a good move. Max had called you a couple of times to check in and you were honest when you told him: you were happy here. Much happier than you were back there. You’d become fast friends with Hannah, and she’d introduced you to her friends, quickly accepting you into the group. 

Working with Pato was a breeze. He was focused and driven but also fun and lighthearted. You ignored the way you caught him looking at you every once in a while. You’d seen that look before, just on a different man in a papaya suit. 

“What are you still doing here?” 

Speak of the devil, you see Pato coming up to you, a boyish smile on his face. You smile back, appreciating the way the track lights hit his face. 

“Trying to get you a win,” you said and he laughed. 

“I thought I was supposed to be doing that,” he replied and you shook your head amused, turning back to stare out at the track. 

"No, I think it's a team effort," you replied, leaning against the railing. "I'm just used to working late. It's a hard habit to break."

"You don't have to do that here," Pato said, moving to stand beside you. His shoulder brushed against yours, and you tried to ignore the warmth that spread through you at the contact.

"I want to," you admitted. "I want to prove that I belong here."

"You already have," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Everyone can see how talented you are."

You turned to look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. There was something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat.

"Thank you," you said softly. "That means a lot."

A comfortable silence fell between you as you both gazed out at the empty track. The distant sound of cicadas filled the air and you were too lost in your own thoughts to see the way Pato was looking at you.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence. “I was supposed to meet you last year in Brazil but I was told to stay away.” 

“By who?” You asked, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you turned to look at him. You sighed as you saw his face, already knowing the answer. “Lando.”

“Mhm,” Pato answered. “Is that why you came here?” 

“Yes,” you said honestly. “I needed a fresh start.” 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said and you looked at him once again, his eyes on yours. “He didn’t deserve you.” 

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing to him. "You don't even know me," you said softly, but there was no bite to your words.

"I know enough," Pato replied, his voice gentle. "I know you work harder than anyone else on the team. I know you care about the success of everyone around you, not just yourself. And I know that anyone who couldn't see what they had with you is an idiot."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You're just saying that because I'm trying to get you a win."

"No," he said, turning to face you fully now. "I'm saying it because it's true."

The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. For months, you'd been so focused on getting over Lando, on proving yourself in this new environment, that you hadn't allowed yourself any opportunity to open your heart.

“I can’t start something with you Pato,” you said sadly. “No matter how much I want to. I can’t go through it again.” 

“I don’t think you understand that it would be completely different,” he said but you didn’t say anything, just looked down at your hands. “Okay, if I have to spend the rest of the season proving that to you then I will.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------

It felt like you were back in F1, watching Max lurking like a shark in the background, quickly gaining on whoever was in front of him like a shark who had seen it’s prey. Except this time the shark was Alex Palou and Pato was unfortunately the prey. Pato had led almost the whole race but Alex did what he did best: win. 

The garage was dejected, despite taking second and third and you fully expected the silent treatment from the drivers. Lando always shut down after races, always so in his head that there was no point in talking to him. Pato was quiet during the debrief but you were used to it so it didn’t bother you. 

Picking up your stuff, you headed out the door. Pato was waiting for you outside and you looked at him in surprise. You would have expected him to get back to the hotel as soon as possible. 

“Do you have plans?” He asked and you shook your head. He was still in his fireproofs, sweat and champagne stained on his face. “Get something to eat with me and talk about the race?”

“We just had a chance to talk about it, but you didn’t say much,” you countered and he rolled his eyes. 

“I just want to talk to you right now, okay? I’ll talk to the rest of the team when we’re back in Indy,” he said. 

You hesitated, caught off guard by his directness. This wasn't what you expected after a race that didn't go his way. But there was something in his eyes—an earnestness that made it impossible to say no.

"Okay," you agreed. "But you should probably change first."

He grinned, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Give me ten minutes."

True to his word, Pato emerged from the motorhome shortly after, dressed in jeans and a simple black t-shirt that hugged his frame. You tried not to stare.

"There's a little place around the corner that's pretty good," he said, leading you away from the track. "I found it last year."

The restaurant was small and unassuming, tucked away from the main streets where most of the racing crowd would go. The hostess greeted Pato by name, clearly recognizing the driver and led you to a table in the back. 

"So," you said, taking a sip of your wine. "Second place isn't bad."

"It's not first," he replied, but there wasn't any bitterness in his tone. "Palou is just... consistently good. But we're getting closer."

“We have the advantage on some of the upcoming tracks though – you’ve performed better than he has in the past.” 

Pato’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smirk growing on his face. “Watching my old races huh?”

You rolled your eyes but a smile was evident on your face. “Doing my job.” 

The rest of dinner was spent going through the race almost lap by lap until you really just had nothing left to say. Pato paid the tab and held out his hand to you almost challenging as he got up. You rolled your eyes but took it, letting him lead you out of the restaurant. 

“Tired?” He asked, once you were outside and you nodded. “Okay let’s get you home cariño.”

You blushed at the term of endearment and he grinned widely before tugging you along to the car. The ride back to the hotel was short and he walked you back up to your room, gently pressing his lips against your cheek before saying goodbye. 

Remember what happened with Lando

Remember what happened with Lando

Remember what happened with Lando

You chanted this to yourself as you got into your room but it was becoming hard. Pato seemed to be everything Lando was not but you had built up a lot of walls around your heart. You still didn’t know what you wanted, not sure if you could handle another situationship during a season just hoping that it could be something more in the offseason. 

—---------------------------------------------------------

There was a few weeks in between races so you packed your bags to head off to a nice vacation during your free time. Hannah had begged you to join her and her friends so you found yourself on the sunny beaches of Punta Mita, baking in the Mexican sun. By day three of the vacation your skin had a nice glow to it and you decided you never wanted to go home. 

You were sitting on loungers outside with your friends watching the sunset, a margarita in your hands when you saw a familiar face sitting at another lounge area, his eyes trained on you. Your head snapped towards Hannah who looked over your shoulder then smirked. 

“Did you know he was going to be here?” You asked. 

“I swear I didn’t, but I’m definitely not complaining,” she said with a smirk and you groaned. Soon enough, Pato was walking over with his friends, asking if they could join you all. The seat you were sitting on was definitely big enough for two so you begrudgingly scooted over as Pato plopped down next to you. His arm rested behind you on the back of the lounger and he gave you a small smile. 

“Hola hermosa,” he said cheekily and you couldn’t help but smile at his antics. 

“Are you stalking me Pato O’Ward?” You said and he let his head dip backwards, laughing. 

“Oof, using my full name, does that mean I’m in trouble?” He asked. 

“Maybe,” you teased. 

“I’d love to see what the punishment is,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to your chest. Your face flamed which only made his smirk deepen. He pulled you in closer to his side and you panicked, feeling yours and his friend’s knowing eyes. 

“Pato, everyone can see us,” you whispered. 

“Kind of the point cariño,” he replied, letting his hand fall to rest on your upper arm, tracing the skin with his finger. You started to say something else but he jumped into a conversation with his friend next to him. 

You couldn't help but feel conflicted as you sat nestled against Pato's side, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. The sun was setting over the ocean, painting the sky in vibrant oranges and pinks, and despite your internal protests, this felt... right.

After a couple more rounds of drinks, the group decided to head to a nearby restaurant for dinner. Pato's hand found the small of your back as you walked, guiding you through the crowded beachfront. The gesture was small, but intentional. Public. A statement.

"You're not being very subtle," you murmured as you reached the restaurant.

"I'm not trying to be," he replied, his eyes meeting yours. "I told you I would prove that I'm different."

At dinner, Pato insisted on sitting next to you, his leg occasionally brushing against yours under the table. The conversation flowed easily, most of his friends having been around a lot of his racing so they could keep up with you and Hannah. When it died down, most of the group decided to turn in for the night but you weren’t ready to retire just yet. 

“Walk with me?” You asked Pato and he nodded, slipping his hand into yours as you headed down the shoreline. Being with Pato was easy. You were never stressed, never waiting for the second ball to drop. 

He walked you back to the resort, stopping before the staircase that led up to your floor. You turend to him in confusion but were cut off by his lips against yours. They moved slowly and you found yourself moving against him, bringing your hand up to cup his face. His rested on your waist, holding you close to him. 

You pulled away after a bit, biting your lip as you stared at him. 

“What are you thinking cariño?” He asked. 

You hesitated, heart hammering in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was the warmth of the kiss still lingering on your lips, or the way his voice sounded like honey under the moonlight, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“I like you,” you admitted, eyes dropping to the sand. “But I’m not sure I want to do this again, just be someone there for your convenience not able to commit during the season. I’ve already done that before.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, one you almost regretted the second you said it. But Pato didn't say anything right away. His expression shifted, the playfulness draining from his face, replaced by something sharper—something that almost looked like hurt.

“Wow,” he finally said, his voice low. “You really think that little of me?”

Your eyes widened, head snapping up. “Pato, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “You meant it. And maybe that’s on me—maybe I was too forward, maybe I made this all feel too easy. But I’m not him, Y/N.”

He took a step back, still looking at you like you’d just slapped him.

“I’ve never once treated you like an option. I never played games. I’ve shown up, I’ve been honest, and I’ve waited—for you to see me, to trust me. And I would’ve kept waiting if you needed more time.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and it cut you to your core.

“I’m not asking you to be mine right now,” he added. “I’m not asking you to give me anything you’re not ready for. But I am asking you to stop treating me like a placeholder for your past.”

Your throat tightened, your own eyes stinging with tears you didn’t expect.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Pato nodded slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll wait for you as long as you need, Y/N. But only if you’re willing to believe I’m worth waiting for too.”

And then he turned, starting to walk back toward the resort, leaving you with your bare feet in the sand and your heart unraveling in your hands.

—----------------------------------

You didn’t hear from Pato for the rest of the break and you tried to not think about the silence. It was hard to not compare him to Lando but it felt like you were right back in it. Big fight, usually a misunderstanding, and then he wouldn’t look at you and you’d pretend it didn’t hurt. 

That’s why you were dreading the return to the office, you knew he was going to be there today and you weren’t ready for the silent treatment in person. Hannah gave you a sympathetic look when she saw you, having heard everything that happened when you both travelled home. You spent the first half of the day at your computer, analyzing some data before deciding to get up to grab some coffee. 

Rounding the corner you ran straight into someone, your sorrys were cut off by two arms wrapping around you, pulling you into their chest. 

“Hola hermosa,” Pato whispered into your ear and you relaxed into him, letting your guard down. You couldn’t help the tears starting to gather in your eyes as he pulled away. “Oh cariño, what’s wrong?” 

You tried blinking away the tears, but one fell and was quickly swiped away by his fingers. 

"I thought you were going to be mad at me," you admitted, voice shaky. "I thought you wouldn't want to talk to me anymore."

Pato's face softened, understanding replacing his initial concern. "Is that what he would have done? Gone silent on you?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

"Look at me," Pato said gently, tilting your chin up. "I meant what I said on the beach. I'm not him. I was hurt, yes. I needed space to think, but I wasn't going to throw away what we have because of one fight."

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "For comparing you to him. For not trusting that you're different."

"I know," he replied, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "And I'm sorry I walked away. I should have stayed, talked it through."

The admittance that he could have done something differently didn’t go unnoticed by you and you started to say something else when someone called out your name. 

“Y/n!”

You turned around to see Zak Brown coming down the hallway and your face broke out into a massive smile. 

“Zak,” you greeted and he pulled you into a bear hug, lifting you off your feet. 

“Oh how I’ve missed you,” your old boss said. “I hope you’ve been keeping up with the F1 races, I need your advice.”

“Of course you do,” you teased. Zak reached out to shake Pato’s hand before Pato excused himself to head to lunch. 

You walked with Zak to the conference room, chatting about the previous F1 races and what he was thinking. 

“I saw you and Pato,” he said as you reached the doors and you froze before deflating. 

“Just hopping from one driver to the next aren’t I?” You asked quietly. “I know what you’re going to say.” 

Zak looked at you carefully, “Lando didn’t deserve you, everyone knew that. But Pato’s different. He looks at you like you’re his whole world so what I was going to say is that I’m happy for you.”

You looked up at him in shock. "You think so?" you asked, a note of vulnerability in your voice that you rarely let anyone hear.

"Y/N, I've known Pato for years now," Zak said, leaning against the doorframe. "That man has always been passionate about racing, about winning. But I've never seen him look at anything the way he looks at you."

You felt warmth spread through your chest at his words.

"Besides," Zak continued with a knowing smile, "I didn't transfer you here just because you needed to get away from Lando. I sent you here because I thought you'd be brilliant with this team. And maybe, just maybe, I thought you and Pato might hit it off."

"You were playing matchmaker?" You laughed incredulously.

"Call it an executive decision," he winked. "Now, about these race strategies..."

The meeting with Zak flew by, and by the time you emerged from the conference room, it was late afternoon. You checked your phone to find a text from Pato.

Dinner tonight? My place. I'll cook.

After stopping by your own place to change into something comfier, you headed to Pato’s. He smiled as he opened the door when you knocked, stepping aside to let you in. 

“It smells amazing,” you commented. You knew you were no longer going to enjoy your family’s white people taco nights after just one glance at what was cooking in the kitchen. 

Pato grinned, stepping back over to the stove to stir something in a pan. “It’s my mom’s recipe,” he said. “I figured if I was going to earn your forgiveness, I should start with food.”

You laughed softly, walking toward the kitchen island. “You already have my forgiveness,” you said, watching the way he moved so confidently around the kitchen, barefoot and in a soft black t-shirt. “But if you want to impress me, this is definitely the right way to do it.”

“Good to know,” he said with a wink. “Because I plan to keep trying.”

Dinner was relaxed, the two of you sitting across from each other at his kitchen table, a bottle of wine between you. He kept your cheeks warm with compliments and your stomach sore from laughing. It was comfortable—easy in a way that didn’t scare you anymore.

After the dishes were done (you washed, he dried), Pato grabbed a blanket and led you out to the small balcony that overlooked downtown Indy. The sun had long set, but the glow of the city lights made everything feel soft and quiet.

You curled your legs beneath you as you settled onto the outdoor couch, Pato sitting next to you and draping the blanket over both your laps.

“It’s kind of wild,” you said after a few minutes, your voice low. “That I ended up here. That it took me going through all of that mess just to realize the right person was someone I hadn’t even met yet.”

Pato turned to look at you, his profile lit up by the warm patio light. “I hate that he made you feel like you were hard to love,” he said quietly. “Because being with you? It feels like the easiest thing in the world.”

You swallowed, heart thudding in your chest as you met his gaze. “I was so scared of getting it wrong again.”

“You didn’t,” he said, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You just hadn’t found the right person to get it right with.”

A beat passed between you before you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “Are we really doing this?” you whispered.

Pato smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. “We’ve been doing this for a while now, haven’t we?”

You kissed him again, slower this time—deeper. It didn’t feel like a maybe or a placeholder or a temporary distraction. It felt like a beginning. When you finally pulled away, Pato rested his hand against your cheek.

“So,” he said, eyes dancing, “do I get to call you mine now?”

You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your face. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours again. “Because I’ve been yours since the day you walked into that office.”

And under the stars, wrapped in his arms, you finally believed it.

[itsseriouslyridiculous]

I haven’t been on tumblr for quite as long as a lot of people but over several years I’ve noticed this interesting gradual sorta,, shift in the general culture?

that it went from this mostly depressed, nihilistic outlook where people would regularly joke about hating themselves and being hopeless and depressed, to a wave of vehemence of “STOP hating everything actually the world is Good and you deserve love!!!” type posts, to now, where those aggressive ‘PSAs’ have faded away

and instead I regularly see people romanticizing simple things like stars and hot tea and rainy mornings, and waxing poetic about their friends, and just trying to put love out there.

and I don’t know exactly what that means (someone who knows more than me could probably say something smart about generational expression and trauma or popular perception of mental health and whatnot),

but I do know that it makes my heart very full to see people learn to love the world and themselves by extension, and a whole userbase adopting healthier coping mechanisms, and therefore teaching the younger users to do so as well.

I might just be following different people, but I really do think we’ve grown.

everyone has grown.

five years ago it wasn’t unusual for the next post on my dash to be a scathing commentary on why nothing matters or an anon ripping into someone they barely knew or someone complaining about how pathetic their interests are.

now I have mutuals who get excited and spam reblog art of cows and friends I see tagging each other in pictures of frogs and strangers writing paragraphs about how much I matter.

it makes me happy.

idk. just an observation I wanted to make. I think people are good and everyone’s just trying their best at the end of the day

I haven’t been on tumblr for quite as long as a lot of people but over several years I’ve noticed this interesting gradual sorta,, shift in the general culture? that it went from this mostly depressed, nihilistic outlook where people would regularly joke about hating themselves and being hopeless and depressed, to a wave of vehemence of “STOP hating everything actually the world is Good and you deserve love!!!” type posts, to now, where those aggressive ‘PSAs’ have faded away and instead I regularly see people romanticizing simple things like stars and hot tea and rainy mornings, and waxing poetic about their friends, and just trying to put love out there. and I don’t know exactly what that means (someone who knows more than me could probably say something smart about generational expression and trauma or popular perception of mental health and whatnot), but I do know that it makes my heart very full to see people learn to love the world and themselves by extension, and a whole userbase adopting healthier coping mechanisms, and therefore teaching the younger users to do so as well. I might just be following different people, but I really do think we’ve grown. everyone has grown. five years ago it wasn’t unusual for the next post on my dash to be a scathing commentary on why nothing matters or an anon ripping into someone they barely knew or someone complaining about how pathetic their interests are. now I have mutuals who get excited and spam reblog art of cows and friends I see tagging each other in pictures of frogs and strangers writing paragraphs about how much I matter. it makes me happy. idk. just an observation I wanted to make. I think people are good and everyone’s just trying their best at the end of the day

[munsonsmixtapes]

Through the Window

perv!eddie x fem!reader

Your best friend Eddie comes back to get his jacket but sees you changing through the window. When you catch him, you surprise him but letting him inside to take care of his little problem.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) oral (m receiving) fingering, Eddie spies on reader changing

Eddie knows it’s wrong. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but how can he not? You’re right there, on the other side of the window, unknowingly putting on a show for him as you take off your shirt to reveal a bright red bra.

He sees the jacket he had initially come back for sitting in your bed but that’s not even what he’s thinking about right now. He can’t seem to stop wondering if he’ll get to see you naked. It’s not something he’s seen before but now that he’s gotten a little taste, he can’t help but want more.

Even though he’s your best friend, he’s thought about you this way before. And how can he not? Especially when you’re even more beautiful than he imagined. You look like someone out of a magazine in his eyes. Your body that he just wants to worship, your thick thighs that your jeans are hugging tightly. He wants to see them more than anything.

He’s hard beyond belief, unbuttoning his pants to get some relief, only stopping when he hears the window in front of him open. He looks up and there you are, smiling at him, somehow not at all creeped out that he was spying on you.

“Hey, handsome,” you greet. “Need some help with that?” You ask, nodding towards his rock hard cock that’s sticking straight out underneath his jeans.

“Please,” he whines and you help him crawl through the window. You pull him to stand in the middle of the room as you pull down his jeans since he’s already unbuttoned them for you. They hit the tops of his shoes and as you pull down his boxers, you get down on your knees, his cock right in front of your face, already leaking with pre cum.

“Already coming for me, huh?” You ask. “I didn’t even do anything.” You spit into your hand and grab hold of the base and begin to pump, looking up at Eddie to see that he’s already come undone.

”You didn’t have to,” he says through a gasp. “You’re just that hot.”

“Well I’m flattered. And it’s only right that I take care of you. That’s what friends are for.” None of his other friends have given him a handjob before but he supposes that there’s a first time for everything.

“Right,” he responds, looking down at you just in time to see your tongue glide along the tip. He presses his hands against the wall as you put him in your mouth, hating how he’s already close. He feels like he’s losing his mind when you begin to suck on him, his fingers threading through your hair, pressing into your scalp as you get even more of him into your mouth.

Eddie feels like it’s the least he can do to hold your hair back for you, trying his best to stay still even though his knees are buckling. You’ve got him so far inside that your nose is buried into his bush. Your eyes are watering as his cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag, but you try to stick it out until he comes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says as you’re sucking even harder, yanking on your hair that he’s holding for you and as you feel rope after rope of cum leaking into your mouth, you know that your job is done. You pull his cock out with a loud pop and he lets go of your hair, feeling like he could collapse to the floor any minute. Especially when you make eye contact with him as you swallow.

He’s done for, he knows it. This is all he wanted and you did more than enough to give him his release. This is something he’s going to think about for the rest of his life and he will forever be grateful for it.

Eddie watches you stand up and just when he thinks you’re going to step away, you stay there, looking at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. You press yourself against him as your hands press against his cheeks, your thumbs rubbing back and forth along them as his brown eyes look back at you, searching your face to see if he can read your actions.

“Can I-” You can’t even finish your sentence because Eddie cuts you off.

“Whatever it is, yes,” he breathes. “I need you.”

You lips slot between his and he’s quick to respond, kissing you hungrily as his arms wrap around your waist tightly. Just when his tongue flicks against your bottom lip, you pull away to help him take off his shoes, jeans, and boxers before your lips find his again.

You grab hold of his hands and guide them to your own jeans, letting him unbutton them before you take them off. You then take his hands again and and have one rest on your waist while the other is slowly shoved down into your underwear. Eddie seems to know what you’re wanting because his fingers find your cunt easily, getting inside quickly.

His fingers pump in and out as he watches you, your moans even hotter than he imagined. For a second, he feels like he’s dreaming but feeling his fingers inside your sopping wet cunt leads him to believe that this is in fact real and not just a figment of his imagination. Especially when your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whine. “Feels so good, Ed.” This is far better than anything your own fingers have done. He’s able to reach spots you’ve never been able to and when they reach a certain spot, you can feel your knees buckle as moan again and again.

“Yeah? You like that?” He asks. “How about this?” His fingers pump even harder and you swear that you’re already close, whining for more so he can get you there already even though you don’t want him to stop.

“Eddie, please,” you beg and those words make him even harder, willing to do whatever you ask.

“What do you need?”

”Faster,” you command and he listens, moving as fast as he can as he wraps his arm around your waist tightly to prevent you from falling to the floor. You reach your orgasm as he keeps pumping, holding onto you tightly as he does so, getting even harder as you scream his name, giving him an ego boost that will last a lifetime.

He pulls his fingers out of you and cleans up the mess on them by sticking them in his mouth, licking up the remnants of your slick from them. He then picks you up and carries you over to the bed, laying you down onto it as he lets his eyes rake over your body, the pretty lacy set you’re wearing and your plush body he so desperately wants to get his hands on.

You’re lying there, taking off your panties and holding them out to him which only confuses him. You let them swing on your fingers, raising an eyebrow and he finally gets the hint, taking them from you, feeling like this is the highest honor. Because it is.

“I want you to have them,” you say. “To remember this night by.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll have a problem remembering tonight sweetheart,” he replies as he takes off his shirt, tossing it along with your panties onto the floor. He then places himself on top of you, his lips finding yours in yet another kiss, his tongue finding yours again as his hands slid underneath you to unhook your bra before taking it off of you, pulling back to look at your now fully naked body.

“You are absolutely-” he cuts himself off to find the right word. “Amazing.” His lips find yours again and he smiles against them as his hands travel down your body, grabbing hold of your thighs as he spreads them. “Beautiful.” Another kiss. “Fucking hot.” He emphasizes the last words as he takes the condom you’re holding out to him.

He takes it and you watch him open it and roll it on before he slowly pushes inside you, watching you as he grabs hold of your hips. He’s thrusting in and out slowly, wanting to savor it because he’s sure that it’s never going to happen again. This is a one time thing and he’s going to make the most of it.

You never imagined this happening, well, maybe you’ve thought about it, but you never actually thought it would happen. You were sure that it was always just going to be something you fantasized about as you got yourself off.

But seeing him hovering above you as he’s fucking you, makes you feel like the luckiest woman in the world. He’s your best friend, the man who you’d trust with anything, even this. Especially this.

And he makes you feel so good. Better than anyone ever has. He was able to make you orgasm with just his fingers so you can only imagine what he can do with his cock.

His pace picks up as he spreads your legs wider, pressing them into the mattress as he pounds into you harder and faster as your nails scratch down his back, digging into the skin as you moan over and over.

Your hips buck against his as he pours harder and harder, his moans and whines mixing it with yours as he somehow manages to compliment you in between, making you realize that you don’t think you’re ever going to be able to do this with anyone else after this.

“Taking me so well,” he says. “And you always look pretty, but I think this is the prettiest you’ve ever looked.”

“You too-fuck-” you reach yet another orgasm and Eddie is not far behind before collapsing on top of you, letting out a sigh of relief. You push his sweaty hair away from his forehead before he leans in for a kiss before leaning his head on your shoulder.

You stay like that for a while until he eventually pulls out and cleans you up before you both get dressed. Once he’s got his pants on, you stuff your panties into his back pocket before sending him on his way, making sure that he doesn’t forget his jacket this time.

“You know, I never pegged you as a peeping tom,” you tell him as you both stand on your front porch.

“Wasn’t meaning to,” he shrugged. “I came back for my jacket and when I saw you, I just-” he cuts himself off. “And you let me in so I guess you weren’t offended by it.”

“Not in the slightest,” you reply, pulling him in for another kiss. “We should do this again sometime. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Oh, never,” he shakes his head, kissing you one more time before heading out to his truck. Yeah, there’s no way either of you are okay with this being a one-time thing.

[fatehbaz]

weekly navel-gazing update: this week is most consequential event in long time. keyword search: "scared" "is it ok to be scared" "beaten and tortured by the ogre"

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔚𝔞𝔰𝔫’𝔱 ℭ𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔫

A/N: OHHHH we’re starting like this??? Yes. Yes, we are. 😌 Welcome to the fic where the Batfamily fumbled so hard they created a monster. A genius. A legend. And then had the audacity to be surprised when they saw what they lost. This is not your usual redemption arc. This is the reckoning. This is "you had one job and still chose emotional neglect" energy. This is found-family-who-found-better-family energy. So grab a snack. Grab your emotional support crowbar. It’s time to show them what happens when you build yourself from the ashes they left you in.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea! I don't think this is that good (suffering from writer's block😭😭) I still hope you like it!

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 2

You showed up at Wayne Manor the week Jason Todd’s body was lowered into the ground.

Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong life.

Grief soaked the halls like rot. No one spoke louder than a whisper. No one looked you in the eye. You were just another weight dropped onto a family already breaking.

Bruce didn’t welcome you. He tolerated you. Barely.

You could feel it every second—the tension, the blame, the absence. Jason’s ghost loomed larger than any living presence. His name was written in the silences. The locked doors. The way Bruce never quite looked at you when he spoke.

Still, you begged to stay. Begged to be part of it. You saw the cave, the mission, the masks—and you thought maybe you could matter if you bled for the same cause. You thought pain could buy you a place.

Bruce said yes.

Not out of hope.

Out of apathy.

You were never trained. You were thrown to wolves. Half-hearted lessons. Cold shoulders. Every patrol was a test you weren’t told how to pass. You were a cautionary tale in the making. The other kids avoided you. Damian sneered. Tim didn’t even register your presence.

And then you messed up.

It was supposed to be simple. In and out. You panicked. Damian got hurt. Bruce’s voice over comms was the coldest thing you’d ever heard.

You were benched. Permanently.

No conversation. No second chance. Just silence.

You became furniture in that house. A shadow. A mistake no one wanted to acknowledge. Alfred stopped knocking on your door. Meals went cold before they reached you. You were invisible—but not gone enough to be mourned like Jason.

So you pivoted.

Desperation turned inward. If you couldn’t fight beside them, maybe you could outthink them. Outshine them. Outgrow them.

You stopped sleeping. You studied until your hands shook. You pushed your body until it gave out. You vomited from stress and kept going. You begged the universe for one thing—see me.

Then came the others.

Dick came home. Tim got promoted. Cassandra arrived like poetry in motion. Bruce remarried. And the new daughter? She was everything you weren’t.

They loved her instantly. She had your dream. Your place. And she didn’t even have to ask for it.

You hated her.

You hated yourself more.

One fight. One moment of pettiness. You said something cruel. The kind of cruel that comes from years of being nothing. And they turned on you like wolves.

Even Alfred.

Especially Alfred.

They made it clear—you were the problem.

So you vanished.

Not physically. But emotionally. Mentally. You became a ghost with a pulse. But outside the Manor?

You became a monster.

You devoured every competition. Dominated every room. Wrote like your soul was burning. Played music like it was a scream for help. You climbed ranks in circles that didn’t even know what a Robin was.

Gotham called you a prodigy.

The Manor never called at all.

So you made new homes. The Queens in Star City. The Kents in Metropolis. They gave you warmth you didn’t know you missed until it wrapped around you.

Clark looked at you like you mattered. Lois praised your fire. Oliver bragged about you at every event. You were someone to them.

And that was everything.

Until the League got a threat.

Someone wanted to expose them. Hurt their families. Drag the secrets into the light.

So they gathered everyone.

And for the first time since you were benched, the Batfamily saw you again.

And they didn’t recognize what they’d thrown away.

A/N: AND THAT’S HOW YOU CLEAR A WHOLE ROOM WITH A SINGLE VIBE. They looked at you like a stranger—and you? You looked like a legacy they never deserved. This chapter is for every reader who's ever been benched, pushed aside, or underestimated. Who found their worth in new rooms, louder voices, and softer families. You weren’t broken. You were unseen. And now? Now they see you. Too late. 😈 Next chapter? Gloves off. Power on. Let’s give them something to regret.

—Your drama-feeding, applause-giving, justice-wielding author 💅🖤✨

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas

Let me know if I missed someone!

[differenteagletragedy]

Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.

He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.

When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.

"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."

"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"

"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."

He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.

"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."

The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.

One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.

"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.

He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.

"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.

You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.

He doesn't care for it.

"What's on?" he asks.

"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."

You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.

It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.

"Tell me about it."

You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.

Yours too, now.

After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.

Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.

"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.

The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.

Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?

At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.

"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.

"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."

It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.

But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.

He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.

After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.

"Hungry?"

"Generally."

Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.

"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"

"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.

With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.

You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.

A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.

Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.

"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.

"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.

"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."

The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.

"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."

"I don't want you to stop."

With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.

He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.

Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.

He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.

In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.

[sramoonlight]

Bad feeling

What if Conner saw the light on someone?

Content you’ll see here: Conner Kent x Bat!sis, platonic!yandere!batfam, neglected reader

English it’s not my first language, please be patient

One thing you hate about your family is how they keep telling you how much they love you but then they send you to this kind of galas

They don’t want to deal with having a social persona who keeps telling everyone what they want, so they just send the least favorite

The one who they don’t care if it’s not on movie night.

You always thought it was okay, maybe one day you’ll be feeling their gratitude, so you kept telling them when you were leaving

Dressed in fancy clothes, bag in hand as you tried to catch their attention

Never works.

They say a quick bye before going back to the TV, you hate how they just act like nothing happened

Like you weren’t waiting for someone to tell you to not go, for someone to invite you to this movie night, for someone who offer you a seat next to theirs.

It never happens.

You’re their sacrifice, but maybe one day they’ll see how much you do for them

Always talking to people who try to have a place on the Wayne family, they just don’t know how neglected you are.

You sighed before taking a sip of your champagne, you just walked away from a rich couple who tried to have a relation with your family

And you can feel the urge to run, it’s getting late, you usually call Alfred to send a chofer for you (because they complained about Alfred leaving in middle of the movie)

You took your phone and then a voice made you stop your movements

— Is it my eyes or is a cutie here? — you turned, ready to face this bold guy who tried to flirt with you

Surprisingly, your eyes shined at the sight

Black hair and ocean blue eyes, locked on yours

The worst part, that smile like your attention was the best thing he could ever have

A gorgeous look, one that made you melt in an instant.

— Such a boring night, isn’t it? — he offered a hand, without hesitation you gave him yours

He kissed your knuckles, he never stopped looking at your eyes.

It made your heart beat like a lion was chasing you, you tried to ignore it with a smile but the color on your cheeks was enough to make him smile even more.

— but I must say, it got better when I saw you, Miss..? — He asked for your name with that charisma that kept on your knees

Wait, he doesn’t know your name? He doesn’t know your name!

You wiped out the blush on your cheeks clearing you throat

— (Reader) Wayne, but please just call me (reader), may I know your name? — You smiled at him, he trapped that smile and you noticed how he kept holding your hand

He doesn’t want to let your touch go..

— Conner Kent, what about if we leave this place? — you don’t know why, but you found yourself following him like your life depended on it

He’s the first man who ever looked at you for what you were and not what you could do.

By the time you were back at the manor it was passed midnight, you can hear how a few voices are on the living room and a couple of games sound

They grow old of the movie, in other circumstance you would ran to tell your father how bad the gala it was only to hear a quick “oh, must’ve been horrible, go to sleep” but now you can’t hide the smile on your face.

Floating steps as you walk to the room, Alfred was picking up the plates of popcorn before facing you

— Ah, master (Reader) I thought the gala ended at eleven o’clock — he acted like it was nothing to not noticed if you arrived or not

But now you don’t care

— Yeah, it did — you chuckled, a laugh filled with joy as you kissed his cheeks running upstairs.

— That’s new — Tim said, before going back to the game.

Everything felt like cake and stars since then, texting Conner at all times and smiling at you phone was a routine everyone looked weird

You never smiled that much, you always had a dark aura around you, it will usually grow when everyone finished their meal and you were left there eating by your own.

Now, you eat quicker than ever leaving the room in a rush while you smiled at the phone

It was weird, and still they let it pass.

Then you started dressing up, wearing perfume and you got yourself some makeup

And the worst was, you asked Bruce for some money

You were used to always shut you mouth when you needed money, because you didn’t want to be seen as a spoiled brat

But now you asked him for money, not only that, money for going out

Bruce is scared, he doesn’t know why you don’t see him with that glowing eyes anymore, he remembers how you used to look so excited when he asked you how you were

And now, it looks like he is someone else to your eyes.

You get downstairs, a scent of Chanel filled everyone’s nose

Stunning as ever but still casual, Dick had to control the ached on his heart when he noticed you were wearing makeup

— Dinner is almost ready, master (Reader), are you joining us? — Alfred said with a plate on his hand, small cookies everyone eat before dinner on it.

You fixed your hair looking at a mirror on the hallway

— Oh, I’m sorry Alfred, but I’m leaving now for my date —

And the silence was set on the room, even Damian stopped playing with Titus.

Dick was the first one to talk

— Do you… have a date? How wonderful! — that last part sounds too forced, and it was, he can’t hide the bad feeling on his chest.

You faced Alfred hugging him as a goodbye, he’s the only who doesn’t look surprised, of course you’ve told him about this days ago

— May we know who it is? — Bruce tried to wipe away the sudden jealous feeling in his chest, he stood walking to you.

You looked at him, those eyes that doesn’t shine with excitement for some attention

— You may know him, it’s Lex Luthor’s son — you smiled at the mention of him, even if it was just a mention of his father

— Conner?! — the most surprised was Tim, he tripped out of the couch before running to you

His arms trapped your shoulders as he shake you, he knew Conner was seeing someone, but his sister?

— He isn’t someone you want as your boyfriend! He would cheat on you the first week! — he doesn’t hate his best friend, but God he knows he is such a womanizer

Well, every men are womanizers if they are dating you.

Your eyes trapped how Jason left the room, good to know at least one isn’t crazy like them.

— Good, so we passed the curfew two months ago —

Two months ago?! You have a boyfriend and none of them knew? The one who is most hurt is Dick, his little sister didn’t tell him! He can understand if you didn’t tell the others, but HIM? He could’ve stop you from doing this big mistake

— Little bird, you’re too young to be dating someone — he tried with all his heart to make you realize it was bad

Not only you were dating a man, but Conner Kent! He can’t date you! You’re so small and so innocent, he can’t let him stain your pure beauty, you’re just fifteen!

— I’m eighteen, Dick — ouch, it hurt to notice how he doesn’t know a thing about you being older than that

And you’re not surprised, with a sighed you turned to see Alfred

— I’ll be back before midnight — you smiled at him ready to go, and you could see how his eyes opened wide

bang!

You felt onto the floor in a loud noise, Damian was carrying a pan on his hands, the weapon he used to knock you out

Jason behind him, leaning on the door frame

— What? You were taking too long, we couldn’t let her go out with that Kent trash — and no one complained about that

Dick picked you up, now he could see how beautiful you were looking, all of this for a boy? God no, he won’t let anyone have his gorgeous sister.

— Tim, go for the Kryptonite on the Batcave — Bruce said as he followed Dick upstairs like a worried dad, what about if you fall? His baby can’t fall, you need to be okay.

Somewhere, a place where Conner was leaning on a wall, his eyes closed

He is used to hear you before going out, it was a way for him to know when you were ready so he could just appear on your door

And he opens his eyes, a little smile on his face

— So we are fighting for her, huh? —

And he was ready for it, because the day he met her, it was the day he knew he could have a soulmate

They are not taking you from him, he worked so hard for it.

[riverbends]

BLUEBIRD

(andrew “pope” cody x f!reader)

part one: wingspan | mdni | MASTERLIST

this fic is a continuation of this concept.

synopsis: your daughter leads you to the brooding, shark-eyed man who quietly lingers down the aisle.

tags: ANGST, season 4 pope, more angst, age gap, heavy yearning, very brief mentions of violence, eventual smut soon i promise lmfaoo wc: 2.4k (i definitely intend to write much longer chapters) cat says: this is set some time around s4ep1 and the perspectives shift back and forth.

He finds you here again. The same day, two weeks later.

Only, this time, he can’t hide from your child, who springs up on her toes upon seeing him linger by the bread racks. Ten feet away, give or take. As soon as she tugs on your sleeve, he blinks and shifts his attention to a bag of rye bread slices in an attempt to feign intrigue with something other than you.

Still a blur in the periphery of his sight, you lean down to catch her whispers while she cups a little hand around your ear.

“Ohhh,” you coo in a hushed voice. He hears you laugh then, and it seizes his heart. He has nowhere to run; nothing to conceal him. A ‘deer in the headlights’ kind of dread. His throat dries and tightens when blurred shapes approach his right flank. Your daughter is dragging you toward him with all the might in her four-year-old body. “Slow down, please, Sam,” you try to warn her.

He’s left with no other choice but to glance to his side and acknowledge the two of you (The haunting image of something he could’ve had, once upon a time, if Smurf didn’t get into his head. Another woman, another child, neither of which he felt he deserved).

“Hi, I’m so sorry,” you smile apologetically, feeling the ache of regret gnaw on your innards. You see his jaw tense. His arms remain firmly crossed and you take note of the way they bulk up and swell under his shirt sleeves. A vein snaking along his freckled forearm. “She just really wanted to say hello,” you look down at your child, who beams and swings her hand with yours. He looks down too, stone-faced and unconcerned.

A fading purple welt brands his cheekbone and it draws your attention to how worn he looks. Little nicks and scars peppering his nose with the ghost of someone’s locked fist crashing into the cartilage. You notice his hand curling over his bicep as shades of yellow and red bloom like withered flowers under the marred skin of his knuckles.

He must be a handful of weeks out of an old fight, and you wonder what kind of man throws his body into a torrent of violence and then gifts a kid—and quite morosely at that—some snacks (presumably) out of the kindness of his heart.

For a moment, you’re mortified by the possibility that your daughter has mistaken him for the wrong man. Or that he, for whatever reason, has entirely forgotten the random interaction he initiated in the parking lot two weeks ago. The box of chocolate pretzels he bought for your daughter is still sitting half-empty in your pantry.

“Hello,” Sam waves with her free hand, but she’s suddenly shy after all that nagging and pulling. She moves to wrap herself around your leg, squishing her face against the side of your thigh.

Pope watches you rest your hand on the crown of her head, and he has to chase his breath while keeping a straight face. Lena echoes in the back of his mind. Haunts him. Your child is probably a few inches shorter than she would be, though he’s not even entirely sure if she’s still the same height now. He knows it’s a ridiculous notion that his niece could have grown so significantly in only a matter of months. But even a day without her feels longer than a lifetime, and then some.

Pope has also never really been smooth with people, let alone beautiful young mothers such as yourself. Wouldn’t blame you if you confuse his muted wonderment with blunt apathy.

You’re flooded with relief when he finally nods at her, even when he says ‘Hi’ in a colourless tone. You wonder if he’s ever spoken to a child before. It’s a little sweet, nonetheless.

“That was really kind of you,” your voice pulls his eyes back up to you, “buying the pretzels for her last week. I don’t know how you noticed.”

You search his face as if the set of his features will give him away and answer all your multiplying questions. It’s pathetic how much the gesture had moved you—a memory you haven’t stopped revisiting since that day he found you and Sam by your car. When was the last time somebody paid attention to her? To you?

“Just mildly observant,” he shrugs. Mildly doesn’t even begin to cover it, but you don’t know that.

You wouldn’t say that you find his stare to be too unnerving, but it’s not exactly comforting you either. His eyes are a shade you can’t properly distinguish and the way he looks at you seems to darken his irises significantly. Pupils blown wide; colour, swallowed up. You might as well be trapped in some configuration of a microscope, your myriad cells all laid bare for his study.

Sam decides she longer has any interest in the man and circles around your legs to look at the rows of bread beside you. She’s crouching by your feet, attempting to count past thirteen and repeatedly starting back at one. You look up again to find his eyes boring into a fraction of your bare collarbone.

All this time, his body has been facing the bread racks while his head is angled to the right. You wonder if his neck might be sore.

Your hands sink into the pockets of your shorts, “You really didn’t have to, but thank you. Again.”

He leaves a pause like he has to chew on your words before finding his own.

“You couldn’t afford it,” he says. “Wasn’t a problem.” Maybe you’re kidding yourself, but he sounds a touch softer. Again, you’re trying to figure out where he could’ve been when you had to say no to Sam and how much of the conversation he remembers. No matter how much sense you try to make of it, nothing about him seems to add up.

“Money is tight,” you say with a nod before averting your eyes almost in shame. Like you’re trying to sand down the sharp corners of your deficit so as not to further humiliate yourself. But, to Pope, you don’t do a very good job of it. Hiding your shame, that is. He can’t figure out how to communicate his sympathy without coming on too strong.

Before he can stop himself, he tilts his head, asking, “Where’s her father?”

The bluntness of it stuns you a little bit, but then you’re laughing again, as soft as the first time. His insides liquify at the sound.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” you sigh, “I’m not sure these days. Probably the other side of the planet.”

You say it so casually, but you still can’t get a laugh out of him. He’s scanning your face like he knows you’ve got more to say, and you probably do, but you’ve never cared enough to remember her father’s name because he sure as shit doesn’t remember hers.

“He doesn’t support you?” Pope presses before he wonders why he even bothered asking. Who, in his life, can stand up and say that their father actually acted like one? Out of all of his mother’s lovers, who had been the least deplorable? How many of them had actually cared about anything besides themselves?

He once thought that Baz, at the very least, would break the cycle of abandon.

You glance down at your kid, wary of her ears, before manoeuvring around her and stepping closer to him. The proximity has him feeling lightheaded, but he pivots to face you with his whole body this time. You lower your voice, sharing half-secrets with a brooding stranger in a grocer’s aisle.

“We weren’t really together,” you start, a little scared that he might think differently of you now (You don’t know that it’s near impossible to scare him off with whatever you’re about to confess). “I was young—too young. He was older. And charming, at first.” Your mind revisits old memories like spoiled milk.

Something burgeons deep inside him, closely comparable with the need to disinfect. To clean. To wipe your skin free of the residue of that man. He doesn’t think it makes you dirty, not in the slightest. But he sees it as a stain on your life and he finds himself incensed by the idea that you’ll have to spend year after year trying to scrub it all away. Betraying his better judgement, he has already half-convinced himself to do it for you.

“How young?”

You think on it for a moment, swallowing a knot of worry. “Eighteen.”

Pope remembers his sister, then. Youth: so forcefully ripped away.

“What about him?”

“He was in college,” you shrug. The bastard never actually disclosed his exact age – one of the many things you’re too embarrassed to admit. “Hosted ragers every weekend and breezed through study. Sam’s almost five now and I still try to convince her that I had her all by myself. But I can only lie for so long.”

Pope can guess that you’re in your early twenties, a little younger than Deran. He’s only met you twice and he can already feel his resolve burning. There is a temptation to keep you here until you’ve told him every harrowing detail you can recall from the moment you learned Sam was growing in your belly up until now.

If you couldn’t afford an extra item on your grocery list, then he’d wager you really don’t have anyone at all. What he feels now is foreign to him; has him abandoning logic and sense when he plucks his wallet from his back pocket.

“What?” You’re laughing nervously as you watch him thumb through folded cash, holding out three 50s and a 20 like he’s just giving you simple change. He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t do anything to encourage you to take it either, but the notes are just loosely lodged between his index and middle fingertips. He moves his hand a fraction forward. You start shaking your head when you realise he’s being serious. “No, Jesus Christ, I can’t. I don’t even know your name.”

“Andrew,” he says it like it scraped his throat on the way out, but his eyes soften when you repeat it under your breath. A sacred thing on your tongue. He almost asks you to say it once more.

“I still can’t take this,” you shake your head again, smiling like you’re apologising. He is adamant in his stillness. “Look, I appreciate it, really. But—”

Before you can anticipate his movement, he’s swiftly slipping the cash into the front pocket of your shorts, tucking it in further even when you try to move away from him.

He steps back when you surrender, his arms hanging limp at his sides. You’re both frozen on opposite walls of the aisle with nothing but four feet and a heavy silence between you two. You start to breathe a little fast when guilt boils beneath your chest.

“It’s too much,” you bow your head and bury your face in your hands, conflicted. Under most circumstances, you’d take offence to the size of his insistence, the way his fingers demanded space for the notes in your pocket. The way he almost crowded you against the shelves behind your back, despite your attempts to swat him away.

But there were fractions of seconds where you caught the troubled crease in his brow as he fussed with your hands and your shorts. Part of his containment had cracked and sent pure anguish flashing across his face, like he’d fall apart in front of you if he couldn’t make you accept his offering. Didn’t seem motivated by pity, but rather driven by some anxious necessity.

You sniffle and audibly exhale into your palms.

His hands twitch with the ache to move. To fix. Bruised and bloodied as they are, he is overcome with the urge to wrap them around your wrists and uncover your face. Not to force you into baring the shame you’re trying to mask, but to fervidly show you that he is no stranger to it—the kind of shame that careens out of helplessness.

“For her,” he says quietly, almost pleading across the gap. Sam looks up at Pope from the floor. “Take it for her,” his voice wavers and he’s not entirely sure if he’s still referring to your child, or the one he entrusted to a family in the suburbs. The child for whom he would’ve moved mountains. And wouldn't he still? Isn't that why he continues to buy whatever he used to feed her and let it expire in the pantry? Isn't that why he's here?

You pull your hands away; eyes, glossy and red. The sight strikes him where it hurts, and he kicks himself for putting you under pressure.

He shifts on his feet, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean,” he pauses briefly, trying to breathe again, “to come on so strong.” Pope watches you dig the cash out of your pocket and reconfirm to yourself exactly how much he’s given you before you’re shaking your head again.

“Fine. I’ll…I’ll keep the 20,” you sift through the green notes in your hands, “but I am not taking the rest—”

“No, no,” he backs into the bread racks, a hand motioning in the air for you to keep the money to yourself. The moment you try to speak again, he’s off. Leaves you with nothing but a flat “goodbye” before charging down the aisle like you’re suddenly the last person he wants to see. Your heartbeat resounds in your skull.

Sam babbles about something but it’s nearly indecipherable because that man seems to have dragged all the sound away with him. Her calls accumulate and you’re pulled back into yourself. While you reluctantly slot all $150 into your wallet, your daughter reaches into the basket he left on the ground.

“What’ve you got there, Sammy?” You try to smile, coming to crouch down beside her.

Two jars. Smooth peanut butter and sweet strawberry jelly—that’s all he left. Of course, this aisle just indicates that he was initially looking for bread.

“Hmm,” you watch Sam twist the jars in the basket. “He’s a little funny, don’t you think?” You ask Sam, smoothing her hair back from her face, “An adult man shopping to make PB&J.”

You wonder, then, if he had intended to make sandwiches for a child, and have you prevented him from doing so? Did you really scare him away? You stall with Sam a little longer, guarding his basket with the pathetic hope that he might return.

One moment, and another longer. Your knees grow sore. You take the ache as your cue to leave.

[lovepotionsz]

Haiii ^-^ Full mask x reader smut?? Can be a sort of dub con thing where he takes you back to his universe (or tries to) if you like!!! Honestly I just need more full mask/dark invincible content he’s so silly

-🫀

Full Mask Mark x GN! Reader (Dark NSFW)

CW: Non/Dub-con, blaming the reader for his actions, rough sex, sexual thoughts about blood. I think this could be labeled as Dead-dove do not eat. You have been warned.

WC: 580

A/N: I got wayy too into this, I hope it's to your liking.

Full Mask is a very manipulative man, even if he doesn’t realize it. When he first tries to convince you to go back, he tests out the emotional route. Clinging to your legs like a dog, crying his heart and begging, “please! I promise I’ll take such good care of you, you won’t need anyone else in your life!”, just full on sobbing and latching onto you like a desperate animal. When that doesn’t work, he finally uses his much more superior physical strength to ‘convince’ you. 

The whole thing starts with you finally pushing him off of your leg, then he gets… eerily quiet, which scares you because you can just feel his intention when he looks at you through the lens of his mask. You can’t see his eyes nor mouth, but you can just tell you somehow fucked up.

He tries to be gentle, really he does! He does his best to not snap your bones as he’s thrusting into you, your cries and hisses of pain truly do sting his heart, but– he can only hold back so much. No matter how hard he tries, he’s far too violent for the gentleness he craves. Holding you like this feels like with a little more push he could snap every bone in your body, and goddammit he’s trying, okay!? You just wouldn’t stand still, you kept kicking and yelling at him, and he got scared and bruised your hips so hard you could feel the way your muscles bruised under your skin and it made it so hard to breathe– oh he knows, he knows and he’s so sorry! If you had just stayed still, this wouldn’t have happened, would it? That’s right, you need to stop being such a fidgety, shaking thing and let him love you!

He’s crying under his mask too, but his tears are the result of the sheer ecstasy your body has him feeling. The way you cry out and claw at his back, violently thrashing around as he hits that sweet spot, the way you tighten around his cock so well has his brain spinning and throbbing inside you.

Oh, but his favorite thing is when you finally stop moving, clawing, crying and get so, so docile under him. You just let out these quiet whimpers and sniffles as he’s filling you up so full that he feels his cum drip out of you with every pump and every thrust inside you, he loves coating your insides full of him. Marking you in ways no one other than him can, he deserves this, he loves this, he wants more of it. 

He keeps going, he’s missed you so much after all, has been saving himself for you before you up and went to hell knows where, he is so, so pent-up. Five rounds would never be enough, it won’t ever be enough. He’ll keep fucking into you, he’ll keep making you scream, he’ll keep swearing that he doesn’t want to hurt you, but he won't stop raking his nails on your ass with the sole purpose to make you bleed and watch your blood mix with his cum on your entrance. He says he hates seeing you cry, but you can feel his cock twitch and throb inside you every time you do cry out.

He’ll tell you that he’s loving you as gentle as he can, but to you, his ‘love’ is nothing but terror on your body and psyche.