#so i'm just taking that and running with it

[muliwamm]

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Boxer!Toji Fushiguro loved when people did things for him.

He loved when fans gave him gifts. He loved getting gifts during holidays. And he especially loved getting free samples from food establishments—he thinks the samples were deliberately put out for his enjoyment.

"How did you know I love raspberries?" Toji would smirk, winking at the innocent cafe worker before grabbing one three more samples and walking away.

But Boxer!Toji Fushiguro did not like doing things for other people. The only people he's ever willingly helped in his life was his mother, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Doing things for people meant you were below them and they were above you and that was not Toji's way of life.

Doing things for people showed you cared—which shows vulnerability which then gives the other person the impression that you like them and Toji does not like people.

Especially if he's not getting anything out of it.

So why, you ask, was Boxer!Toji Fushiguro following you around Tokyo, carrying your shopping bags as you shopped to your hearts desire?

On his card, of course.

Boxer!Toji Fushiguro blames himself for this, honestly.

when he asked if you were single, your hand slowly raised, preparing to land a harsh smack to his cheek.

"Wait, wait, wait, okay hold on," He pleaded.

"Look, I'm-" he runs a hand through his hair before sighing.

"I'm sorry, okay? I was being an asshole, let's- let's restart okay? Hi, I'm Toji," he said as he put a hesitant hand out.

But before you got a chance to give him your two cents, fans came crowding asking for autographs and pictures, which was when you put the dots together and realized he was famous.

You smirked, and patiently waited until the crowd cleared out, watching the way Toji switched from sad puppy to ladies man in a matter of seconds.

"You want to make it up to me?" You question, crossing your arms.

Toji nods.

"You have officially been graduated to my personal butler for the day," you give his a sweet smile, dubbing him with a banana on each shoulder before turning and making your way to the register.

so now Toji is here, bags from various clothing and shoe stores adorning his arms as he follows you around Tokyo like a lost puppy.

Boxer!Toji Fushiguro was the best butler you could ask for.

He carried your bags, gave his opinion on the different blouses and jeans you picked out, and he paid for everything.

"What do you think about these jeans? Do they make my butt look big?" You say as you exit the dressing room, turning in the mirror to examine the fit.

Toji huffs, not looking up, "they're fine."

"You're not even looking," you pout.

He huffs louder, forcing his eyes away from his phone to focus on you. Well—your ass.

He takes a goooood second, admiring the way the jeans hug your ass perfectly.

"They look good, ma" he finally says.

You raise your eyebrow at the nickname before turning to go back in the dressing room.

"Oh!" You say, poking your head from behind the curtain.

"They're thirty six thousand yen, is that okay?" You ask in a honeyed tone.

"Thirty six thou- wait hold on-" Toji says stunned before you cut him off.

"Kay, great!"

He huffs, slouching in his chair, wondering why he even agreed to this.

Even though he's spent almost all his money on a person he just met, he enjoyed the time you guys have been spending together over the course of 3 hours.

You talked, had a cute little date at a secluded cafe after you practically dragged him inside when you saw they were selling cat shaped cakes.

He told you more about his boxing career and you told him about how life has been after moving to Japan. You both talked about everything and nothing, and Toji wished that moment could never end.

Until it did.

Because you saw a pair of shoes you wanted and he lost another 200 dollars.

Boxer!Toji Fushiguro let out a sigh of relief when you got a call from your neighbor, informing you that your pet chickens, marlo and bean, escaped into her backyard again, meaning your little shopping spree had to be cut short.

"I think I'm broke now," Toji grumbles.

"You'll manage," you say, giving him an affectionate pat on the arm.

"Well, I should get going now. You can just put those in the trunk," you gesture towards your car before walking past Toji and getting inside.

He just stands there, mouth gaped in disbelief, yet again.

But for some reason he found himself complying. Which he hated himself for.

When he finished he made his way towards the driver side, crouching to meet your gaze.

"So, apology accepted?" He asked hopefully.

"Hmmm..." you ponder, tapping a finger on your chin while playfully smirking at him.

"I guess," you conclude.

"Can I at least get your number then? I mean I deserve a reward after chasing you around all day," Toji dramatically huffs.

You laugh at his antics, pulling your phone out and handing it to him.

"As long as you promise to respond," you say.

"I'll always respond, doll," Toji says once he finished putting his number in, handing you your phone back.

"Y'know you're real sweet once you get your way."

You roll your eyes and laugh before turning on your car

"I'll see you?" Toji asks.

"Mhm," you nod

"Good," he says in a low tone, bringing your chin between his pointer finger and his thumb and pressing a barely there kiss on your forehead.

Boxer!Toji Fushiguro had never met anyone like you.

You were so nice yet you never hesitated to speak your mind.

You didnt care what people thought, stating that "we're all going to die anyway. Why waste life on worrying about what some rando on the street thinks?"

Boxer!Toji Fushiguro thinks that was the moment he folded.

Boxer!Toji Fushiguro texts you later that night, planning to win back his pride and peace of mind after losing it all in the span of 4 hours by a single person.

His slap on the face was already trending on twitter, Shiu had been busting his chops, calling and texting him non-stop—to which he ignored every one, and Toji decided that he needed to show you why every man across the nation feared him, and why every woman wanted to fuck him.

He is Toji Fushiguro.

Rich Boxer Dude 🥊💴 4:24 pm - you save your chickens? Read

Mamacita 😛 (you) 4:30 pm - yup they're safe in my back yard now 😭

Rich Boxer Dude 🥊💴 4:32 pm - cool cool 4:33 pm - so wyd now

If you couldnt already tell, Toji is struggling to execute his plan "to win back his pride and peace of mind".

Mamacita 😛 4:37 pm - also I didnt say it earlier but Ty for today 4:37 pm - you could have said no, i was js rlly pissed off 😭

Rich Boxer Dude 🥊💴 4:40 pm - nah dw abt it 4:41 pm - I wanted to 4:41 pm -even if I'm broke now

Mamacita 😛 4:45 pm - okayy 4:46 pm - how about I treat you to lunch as a thank you? 4:46 - I'll wine and dine you nd treat you reeeealll nice 😌

That was suppose to be his line.

Rich Boxer Dude 🥊💴 4:50 pm - isnt that suppose to be my line?

eventually, after tedious planning and excessive flirting on your end, you guys planned a date at the park after Toji's upcoming boxing match on Sunday.

You both agreed that you would bring lunch and he would bring dessert, where he suggested he just bring himself if he's bringing dessert.

Mamacita 😛 5:23 pm - what? Why would you do that? then we wouldn't have any dessert 5:24 pm - Just bring cake from that cafe we went to today 5:26 pm - I love cake

The joke completely flew over your head.

It's safe to say Toji left that conversation with an even more damaged pride (of whatever was left of it) and failed flirting attempts.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

A/n: pookie is in such high demand 😭 and two fics back to back WHO IS HERRR

also 36,000 yen is equivalent to about 250 usd and 376 aud. Dont ask me why a person would drop 250 on some jeans I would

Series Masterlist

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@ll0rona @kailovsun @aksqui

[reixtsu]

Hi there, I don't know if you're taking requests, but here could be a headcannon/reaction idea from the Saja boys!

How would they react to the idol! reader being a member of a cute/dreamcore group like illit?

ᯓ★୭˚. ᵎᵎ Jinu

Jinu knew you were an idol before he ever met you, but seeing you perform live for the first time? He was so stunned.

Your pastel stage outfits, your dreamy expressions, your voice? He was completely and utterly smitten.

He saves fancams of you. Secretly. Like, entire folders that take up most of his phone storage.

Hums your group's songs when he thinks no one's listening. Gets all flustered if you catch him.

Worries about you overworking yourself, sends you reminders to eat and sleep.

> Jinu: (watching your aegyo-heavy fan cam) "She's too cute... there's no way she's real. Note to self... Don't let anyone take her precious soul."

ᯓ★୭˚. ᵎᵎ Abby

Abby is SO impressed, but his silly competitive side kicks HARD.

"Cute stage? Pfft. You should see me shirtless in the encore." (bro that is freaky, not cute)

Gets so smug when other idols or fans gush about you.

"Yeah, she's taken. That's for supporting her though."

Brags about you to stylists and choreographers.

Complaints about your "too short skirts" won't actually stop you. Bro just glares at the cameras too long if they zoom in on you, but he also likes watching you dance with a short skirt (he a freak!!!).

>Abby:  "I can't even get mad.  You're ridiculously pretty, ugh."

ᯓ★୭˚. ᵎᵎ Romance

At first he didn't care much about your group, but when he saw your live stage?

"WHO LET HER DO THAT CUTE TWIRL? WHO TOLD HER TO WINK AT THE END??"

Gets extremely jealous when male idols and fanboys even glance your way.

"How is it legal to look that cute and not belong to me?"

"If one more guy edits hearts around your 'muah' face, I'm going to combust." (Bro why you gotta phrase it that way?)

He once cried while watching your group's dreamy demo. It was just too pretty to him.

> Romance: "You were born to be adored. Good thing I've mastered that.

ᯓ★୭˚. ᵎᵎ Mystery

Like Romance, he was simply indifferent at first... until he's not.

You catch him watching your MV for the 10th, volume up to the max, paused on your soft smile.

Mystery isn't one for cute things, but he will memorize every lyric you sing, how you sing it, every breath you take-everything.

He'll shop up to your shows wearing a hoodie, mask, and sunglasses (he doesn't need that but-) like he's in a spy movie just to cheer for you quietly.

Collects your photocards. Yes, your boyfriend has a shrine of you, don't be scared.

Tries to learn your dances but pretends he doesn't care when you catch him practicing in the mirror.

> Mystery: (Watching a dreamy MV of you) She's not from this world.

ᯓ★୭˚. ᵎᵎ Baby

Eats that cute/dreamy vibe UPPPP. he's obsessed with how soft you look in stage outfits. Like a cute little angel.

Sends you screenshots of your fancams with "U LOOK SO CUTE WTF".

He has your lightstick, slogan banner, he even made a little fan chant (it's more of a rap).

Baby will 1000% sneak into one of your fansigns just to mess with you (and cuddle).

"Hey pretty, what's your ideal type?"

You: "Someone like... Baby from Saja Boys?"

Baby: screechs internally.

Randomly texts you: "ur my bias frfr".

Kisses your cheek backstage when no one's looking just to mess up your make up and then run away cackling.

> Baby: "You're so sparkly and cute. I wanna bottle you up and keep you in my pocket."

Hope you enjoy!!! ᥫ᭡

[kdh-tally]

Baby x Rumi!YoungerSisterReader [pt 2]

Prompt : It's officially day 1 of you being stuck with the Saja boys. Its not thaaaat bad.....

Author's Note : I love them. If anyone seems a bit out of character lemme know lol. Also Baby and Mystery would definitely share a huge room ykyk

Read Part 1 -> Hereeeeeeeeeee

It was day one of five of being left in the boys dorm. Y/n wanted to go home. 

The girl had gotten up early, she normally slept in but being in an unfamiliar place had set of her nerves. She walked to the kitchen, trying to be a good house guest, and began to clean. She planned on doing the dishes but they were already clean, must have been one of the boys. 

So she turned to the stove. “What do demons even eat?...” she mumbled, rummaging through their cabinets.

“You can make pancakes,” a voice spoke from behind her. 

She jumped, summoning her weapon, a bright set of throwing stars, and facing the person. It was a man with pink hair, not the one she’d met yesterday. Was this guy an intruder?

He held his hand up in surrender, though he was obviously very groggy, he must’ve just woken up. “Relax doll, I'm not gonna kill you.” 

“Who are you,” she mumbled, a sharp star still in hand.

“Romance,” he introduced, slipping onto one of the high chairs next to the kitchen counter. Seeing as he wasn’t going to hurt her, Y/n allowed her weapon to disperse. “Sorry I wasn’t able to welcome you yesterday. I was sleeping”

Y/n eyes widened slightly. This was their fifth band member. Mira’s other boyfriend. “Sorry about that,” she apologised but he waved her off with a tired smile. 

“You can make pancakes for them,” he motioned to one of the higher cupboards. “The stuff you need is in there.”

She thanked him with a small smile before getting to work. The two didn’t speak much, to be fair Romance looked like he was about to fall asleep at any moment, but it allowed Y/n to get through the cooking much faster.

By the time the rest of the boys had come down, she’d already made a huge stack of pancakes, and a cup of hot chocolate for herself. She was about to flee back to her guest room but Jinu noticed her. 

“You’re up already y/nie?” He asked, voice a bit heavy with sleep. She said nothing but nodded, gesturing to the plates filled with food on the table. “You made that for us?” 

“I didn’t wanna be a lousy house guest,” she mumbled lowly, not liking the amount of eyes on her. Especially the boy with the blue hair. 

“You don’t need to do anything around here, you’re our guest.” Abby spoke, biting into one of the pancakes before freezing on the spot. “Holy– how did you make these taste so good?” The man had stars in his eyes as he practically inhaled each pancake.

Y/n fought the urge to laugh before shrugging her shoulders. The other boys begin to eat after seeing Abby’s eager expression. Even Romance who had watched the entire cooking process was quick to devour his plate. 

Baby however, seemed to be savouring every single bite of the food. “She cooks better than you Romance,” he praised, voice deeper than usual as he’d just woken up. 

Y/n swore under her breath before making her way out of the room. No one should have a voice that deep.

–

Y/n was in her room messing with her phone. She’d been trying to load up a supposedly terrifying horror game on roblox but her usual computer didn't have enough storage to run it. Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t brought her gaming computer along with her when packing. 

So now she lay spread out on her bed,  when a loud knock ran through her room. She turned to face the door, taking in a deep breath before moving off her bed to open it. She peeked through the door and saw Mystery. 

He had a plate of food in hand, scrambled eggs, toast and a cup of orange juice. “Romace said you didn’t eat,” he mumbled, holding the food out to her.

She said nothing, taking the plates from him and placing them on her desk before returning to the door. “Thanks for bringing it,” she smiled politely. He nodded, about to leave when he noticed the game she was trying to run on her devices. Though he stood far from the device, he had a really good sight. 

“Wanna play on my set up?” he offered.

Y/n blinked in surprise before turning back to her phone, she didn’t wanna leave the room but she’d be bored all day. “If it’s alright…”

Mystery nodded and she followed him through the hallways, she needed to get herself more comfortable with the house's layout soon. He led her to a room at the end of the hall and opened the door to let her in.

The room was dark but quite clean. Glowy LED lights were stung across the roof and a huge pc setup was on one corner of the room. Beside it was a mini lounge area with a wide couch and television. Two beds were pressed on the other side of the room too. 

“Nice room,” she complimented.

Mystery said nothing but sent her a small smile in appreciation. He was quick to set up his computer, letting her log into her account and begin playing. She got comfortable in the chair, putting on the headphones she’d found laying on the desk.

Soon enough, the room was quiet except for the whirring fans of the PC and the eerie background music of the horror game Y/N had chosen. She sat stiffly in his gaming chair, eyes glued to the screen, fingers tight on the mouse.

She looked away from the screen, running a hand through her hair before mumbling“...I don’t think I can go in there alone.” Her voice was small but not helpless. More like deeply annoyed that she was scared.

Mystery, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed with a second controller in hand and half a bag of chips in his lap, raised a brow. “Seriously?”

“I swear something’s gonna jump out. I’m not prepared for this.”

“Then don’t open the door?”

“It says ‘find the key behind the door.’ I have to open it.” She looked at the boy. She’d known from Zoey that he was actually quite talkative when comfortable and was hoping this would be one of those times so she wouldn’t have a heart attack playing the game alone.

A beat of silence.

Mystery set the chips down and stood up, tying his hair up into a small ponytail.

“Move,” he muttered, dragging a chair over beside hers and booting up his own side of the setup. “You cover the left. I’ll cover the right. If we both die, I’m blaming you.”

Y/N grinned. “Fair.”

They didn’t talk much after that, not in full sentences, anyway.

“Go left!” He told her. “Not that left!”

“Why is it breathing like that???” Y/n whined as the monster in the game stood over them.

“MYSTERY RUN IT’S RIGHT THERE—” she cried loudly as she rapidly pressed the keyboard. “WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS GAME???”

“Yours!” he seethed as the creature got closer. 

The moment it really kicked off was when the creature suddenly burst through the wall with a screech. Mystery yelped, not expecting the sudden jumpscare, he visibly flinched and fell halfway off his chair.

It was quiet for just a second before Y/N burst out laughing. Like, full-on wheezing. The kind that shook her shoulders and stopped her from being able to speak.

Just then, the door creaked open behind them.

“Yo—” Baby’s voice started, then immediately cut off.

Y/N didn’t notice him enter.

She was still wheezing. “Your face– Oh my gosh Mystery, your face!”

“Shut up,” Mystery groaned, a pout on his face as he dragged himself back upright.

Baby stood frozen in the doorway. His eyes were transfixed.

She was laughing out loud. He hadn’t seen her so free before. (Well to be fair he’d only met her a few hours ago but still). She looked so content, soft, and beautiful… In his chair, her hoodie sleeves still covering her hands, eyes bright under the glow of the monitors.

He blinked slowly. Once. Twice. He couldn't look away.

Mystery looked over and had to force his smirk away. “Baby,” he called.

The blue-haired boy snapped out of it. “Umm yea hey.”

He stepped in, flopping onto his bed as he fought the urge to look at the pretty girl in his gaming chair, wearing his headphones.

Y/N finally looked over, blinking at him. “Oh. Hi.” Her voice got quiet, shy. She hadn’t even noticed he had entered and probably seemed like a crazy person laughing the way she was.

Baby gave a small nod. “Hey.”

He tried to sound cool. Nonchalant. Like his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. Like he hadn’t been replaying her laugh in his mind on loop for ten seconds straight.

She tilted her head slightly. “You stay here too?”

“It was my room first,” he replied with a half-smile. “Mystery just stays here because we don’t want him to sleep on the streets.”

Y/N chuckled quietly, surprised by the joke. “Cool setup. Mystery let me borrow it.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, moving closer to the set up and leaning on the back of her chair, arms crossed lazily over the top of it. “You break anything, you buy it.”

“She already broke my pride,” Mystery muttered, reaching for his chips again. “That thing wasn’t human.”

“What are you guys playing anyways?” he asked, leaning closer to the screen, and closer to Y/n. The girl had gone silent, trying to regulate her breathing as he leaned over her.

“Dead Silence? I thought you didn’t like horror games Mystery,” Baby said with a smirk.

Mystery just rolled his eyes.

Y/N looked between them, still a little unsure, but smiling anyway. “Do you… wanna play too?” She turned to look up at him.

Baby blinked, eyes stuck on her hopeful ones. She was inviting him to play? His heart stopped, he hadn’t even realized he had gotten so close.

He played it cool, shrugged as he took a step back. “If you’re ready to lose.”

“Someone’s confident,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Delusional,” Mystery corrected under his breath.

But Baby was already focused, grabbing a spare controller. He didn’t sit too close, but close enough. His leg barely brushed hers when he dropped onto the second chair and for once, he was very aware of how much the girl set him off.

Still, he smirked anyway.

“Alright, Princess,” he said. “Let’s see if you’re even more of a scaredy cat than Mystery.”

Mystery, who had given up on playing, threw a chip at him.

Y/N smiled. Maybe this 5 day stay-cation wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Tag List (If I Forgot Anyone Let Me Know!) :

@frootloopscos @bunnytea10 @tenaciouskittenpuff @calmmell @arieslucy @tikitsune @crystalashyah @kpopmultistans @dragongirlie56 @matsugumisou @tsukimoon-chan @nubyeol @mirigold-mayflowers @thecoolestastrophile @tree-nuts-stuff @gail31220 @matsugumisou @foxykatniss123 @sloanswifefrfr @rubyninja1

[g00d--m0urning]

Final Destination: Your House (CH. 5)

(CW: panic attack, reader/player character throws up)

Everybody is back to normal now! Yay! Right? That's what you wanted, isn't it? RIGHT?

I've also decided to do more in depth one-shots of the characters apologizing after I'm done with the main story, so if anyone has requests for certain characters, ask away! I already plan on doing Abel, Celia, Daisuke, Dorian, Curt&Rod (request), Eddie&Volt, Skylar, and Tony, so no need to ask for them!

I also don't know how many more chapters I want to do, but I think we're nearing the end here, maybe three more chapters? I don't have anything planned, so we'll see.

You and Telly spend the day watching TV together; anything from Big Bang Theory to KPop Demon Hunters. Sadly, the dateviators don’t last forever, and neither does your ability to stay conscious. You left Telly with a hug and kiss, thanking him for the fun day.

The bedroom is silent when you enter, not even the Hanks make a peep, “Hey, sweetheart, come on over,” Betty coos, breaking the silence.

Your head whips up, throat going dry at the sight of her. You haven’t talked to her since movie night, and your nightmare lingers in the back of your mind. You shuffle over to the bed, sitting down next to her.

“There you are, honey,”  she pulls you into a side hug, running her hand up and down your arms, “You feeling ok?”

“Mhm,” you hum affirmatively, staring directly at the wall in front of you, “Tired, y’know? Long day.”

“Oh, of course, let’s get you tucked in,” she gently pushes you down, tucking you beneath the covers, “I’ll be here when you wake up, goodnight,” she kisses your forehead and you remove the glasses, laying frigid beneath the blankets. 

You can’t manage to fall asleep, no matter how hard you try. Every time you close your eyes, you feel like there’s ants crawling up your spine. There’s so many people in your room, people who can see you--and judge you--without you ever knowing. 

The sun is rising the next time you open your eyes, birds whistling right at your window the way they do every morning. You stare at the dateviators long and hard before deciding to forgo them, for now at least. You can’t bear to face any of them, especially not this early in the morning.

------------

The dateables are forced to watch you go through your morning routine without them: no morning chat with Kopi over coffee, no humming along with Miranda as you make toast, no belting out lyrics horribly with Johnny as you shower, not even a ‘House Homie’ acknowledged when you get dressed.

They can’t hold it against you, but it hurts. All of them finally got used to having you be able to live life with them and now that’s gone. 

------------

The glasses seem to haunt you every step you take, rose-colored lenses glaring back at you. You’re kneeled in front of the side table, debating the consequences of putting them on. Your hand juts back and forth, like playing a round of hot hands by yourself. 

Ultimately, you decide that it’s best to get it over with, forcing the glasses onto your face like you’re expecting them to shoot off in the opposite direction. The house feels…Normal, almost, but there’s this weird sort of tension that makes your skin crawl. 

“Morning, love,” Dorian smiles when you leave the bedroom, opening himself politely, like always.

“...Morning,” you parrot, side-shuffling through the doorway.  

Everybody greets you in their typical fashion when you pass them, acquiring hugs and kisses from each of them. None of them mention anything; not about the cuts, or why they've been acting strange, it’s just right back to normal.

You peek around the corner, stepping into the kitchen so carefully one might assume it’s a landmine field, “Good morning, my dearest,” comes from your side, making you scream a little. You hadn’t heard anyone approach.

Your blood runs cold when you see Daisuke standing there, a prim smile on his perfect lips, not even a crease of anger on his face, “Daisuke, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to break it, it just slipped out of my hands and I couldn’t stop it and I’m sorry.”

“Dearest,” he grabs your hands, stopping them from their flailing gesticulating, his facade flickering ever-so-slightly at the state your hands are in, “I’m not mad.”

You pause in your teary rambling, “What?” you pull your hands back, staring at him like he’s grown three heads. Last time you broke a plate, he banned you from dinnerware for two weeks, and he yelled. Which he apologized and made up for, but still.

“I’m not mad,” he repeats, not making a move to grab your retracted hands, “It was an accident.”

“Right, it was,” you agree, biting down on the inside of your cheek, “But--”

“No buts,” he says, waggling a finger at you, “now, I do need to go do inventory, but shall I see you later?” 

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, leaving you with a quick kiss and departing as silently as he arrived. You stand in the middle of the kitchen, taken off-kilter by the interaction. You’re snapped out of it when you hear a snicker, turning to see your duo of shady lovers.

“Not into the dirty talk, huh?” Curt teases, coming over to lean against your back, draping his arms over your shoulders. 

“What’s his version of dirty talk anyway? Telling you how naughty you are for not washing a dirty dish?” Rod piles on, smoothing out wrinkles from your shirt, “... Nothing? C’mon that was funny!”

“Sorry, still waking up,” you apologize, running a hand down your face. Curt’s weight over your back is usually comforting, but now it’s overwhelming.

“It’s all good, we’ll lay off the shade this fine morning,” they promise, leaning in to nuzzle against your cheeks. 

The contact raises goosebumps and not in a good way, “Thanks, I’m gonna.. Go,” you announce, squirming out of their grip, hurrying out of the kitchen.

You stumble through the house, feeling your throat close up. There’s so many people in this house, infesting every room, judging your every move. You barrel into the bathroom, tossing the glasses aside before hurling this morning’s breakfast. You make a mental note to make it up to Jean Loo later. 

The world spins, tears blur your vision, and your breath is coming in short waves. You can’t tell what’s going on: one day they love you, the next they hate you, and now they’re back to normal. You can’t handle the switch. Them hating you is fine, but the flip-flopping is tearing you apart. 

------------

Skylar is pacing, chewing on the ends of her hair, “What’s wrong with them? Why’re they freaking out?” she asks your back, wishing you hadn’t taken the glasses off. 

“I don’t know, they just came in here!” Johnny yells back, sweeping a hand through his hair.

“Maybe they do have a concussion, I could’ve missed something,” Farya suggests, looking through her notes of your diagnosis, “Plus, concussion symptoms can take up to forty-eight hours to present themselves.”  

“I don’t think that’s it, Farya,” Dorian interjects, looking over the woman’s shoulder at you, currently hunched on the floor, “They’re havin’ another panic attack.”

“But why?” Amir asks, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I don’t know!” the door snaps, glaring daggers at the mirror, “Who was the last one to talk to them?”

“That’d be us,” Curt and Rod make their presence known, faces devoid of their average smirks, “one second they were fine--said they were tired, but that’s it--the next they were running off.”

“What’d you say to them?” Dorian asks gruffly, looking at the pair like he’s ready to rip their seams.

“Nothing, we swear it,” they back up slightly, not wanting to be in Dorian’s reach, “they just freaked.”

------------

You pull away from the toilet bowl, leaning against the cabinet, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths. Your hand reaches out, blindly searching for the dateviators, tucking them into your pocket for safe keeping. 

You freshen up once you're calm enough, taking a second to look at yourself in the mirror. You look like shit: stitches in your forehead, a scrape on your chin, looking a total mess, feeling like it too.

The dateviators stay off the rest of the day, which you spend almost entirely on the couch. Part of you is tempted to put them back on, to converse with Telly or sit in silence with Koa, but you can’t bring yourself to do so. 

------------

Skylar is in Celia’s office, a couple others waiting by the door, “I don’t know what to do! First we avoid them, so we don’t hurt them: that’s no good. We go back to normal and now they’re avoiding us! Nothing is working!”

“Skylar, freaking out isn’t going to help,” Celia reminds, guiding Skylar to sit down, “We’ll think of something.”

“Has anyone tried, I don’t know, talking to them?” someone asks out of blue, compelling head’s to turn, finding Telly standing there, a lazy look on his face, “What?” they ask, shrugging at the onslaught of looks he’s receiving.

“Listen, they talked with me yesterday and you guys really hurt them, so maybe try apologizing instead of this bullshit,” they suggest, pushing off the wall, into a fully standing position, “But, seriously, what gives? You’ve all been acting wack since movie night.”

All of them pause to think about that, they hadn’t thought about apologizing, they didn’t think they did anything wrong. Everything they did was for your own good.

“Well, yeah. That documentary showed us how dangerous we are to the human,” Abel speaks up, fiddling with the brim of his hat, “you saw what I did to them.”

They all nod in agreement, looking between each other. This never would’ve happened if you didn’t pick that stupid documentary.

“What documentary?” Telly questions, thinking back to everything they’ve watched in the past days. Unless you’re cheating on him, nobody’s watched a documentary.

“The one we watched on movie night?” Skylar asks, confused by his confusion, “Finally Destined.. Or Final Destination, I think.”

Telly’s brows shoot to his forehead, looking at them like they’re stupid, because they are, “‘Final Destination’? You mean the horror-thriller movie that depicts the over-dramatic deaths of people because they’re being hunted by a supernatural entity?”

Realization washes over everybody, thinking back to the movie, “The movie isn’t a documentary? I thought most horror movies were based on true stories,” Celia asks, brows furrowing slightly.

“Some are, but definitely not this one,” Telly informs, grimacing at their foolishness. Of all the movies, Final Destination is the one that freaked them out? “This is great. You’ve all been ignoring the human over a movie. Who needs soap operas when you live in a house like this?”

“Telly,” Celia says his name warningly, shaking her head at them. 

“Sorry, it’s just… Wow!” he laughs, bowing his head to try and hide the fact, “Talk to them and remind me to never let you guys watch a horror movie again. I’m just glad we didn’t watch The Shining or poor Dorian would be trembling in his boots.”

“That’s enough from you, Telly. Thank you,” Celia waves him off and they shrug, walking back into the other room. 

A hush falls over the room; no one is confident to speak up. They hurt you over a movie, not even a movie based on a true story. How could this happen? Between all of them, someone should’ve been smart enough, but no one did. They were blind.

“They’ll understand, right?” Skylar whispers, but it might as well have been announced via megaphone in the quiet room.

Nobody has an answer for her.

[blushhbambi]

── ˙ ̟ ೕ !! ꣑୧ clark kent x reader fluff, clark being a sweetheart, treating you to a date and being a gentleman... . ༉‧₊˚. word count;⁹⁰⁰

“you look gorgeous.”

clark mumbles quietly staring up at you from down on your porch in a sleek suit. he's smiling all excited and proud whilst leant against the side of his little car. his eyes are wide with awe, taking you in, how you got all dolled up for him in that smooth silky dress that matched your eyes perfectly and the delicate jewellery that made you look absolutely darling.

you're giddy as ever, practically bouncing on your feet as you pad towards him as if presenting yourself.

“you think so?”, you tilt your head up at him prettily, beaming up at him with a shy smile.

“mhm— beautiful.”

clark nods with his usual confidence letting his gaze run over you, your hair, your outfit, your skin. it was all so perfect to him. he could feel himself getting lost in the thought of you.

“c'mon gimme a spin, pretty—”, he smiles, taking your hand softly, so delicately, as if you'd shatter with a harsh touch. clark spins you around, watching your dress flare out and how happy you looked, listening closely to your little giggles. you steady yourself against him, little hands on his big arms. it felt like a movie, some cheesy rom com that you would grimace and cringe at but with clark it just felt different. it felt right.

“what a gentleman…”, you joke fluttering your lashes up at him, feeling a little shy with all the tension.

“only the best for you.”, now he's taking in all the little details, the things most people wouldn't notice, how you matched your heels with your dress, the pinky gloss that adorned your plush lips and how you must've manicured your nails as well as the light flush across your cheeks, or that could've just been him. its like he has to restrain himself from brushing his knuckles across you face, grazes your skin with his, wanting to feel that warmth.

“oh yeah—”, he shakes his head letting out a deep chuckle as he brings himself back to reality.

“got you these.”

he produces a bouquet of lilies from the open window of his car, perfect and pink, in the prime of their bloom, holding them out to you with a hint of nervousness on his face that shatters as soon as you perk up with a smile widening across your pretty face, clasping at them with a little gasp.

“they're perfect clark.”, you nod softly, admiring them.

“yeah— yeah, i'm glad.”, he lets out another nervous laugh scratching at the back of his neck as he shifts on his feet.

“thought roses would be overrated…”, he mumbles out quietly watching you hover over the flowers and prodding gently at the petals.

you look like heaven, an angel. he wonders how he even scored this date.

“right, I got us those reservations you were talking about yesterday—”

“what?”, you gasp out, this wasn't just any restaurant you were talking about the other day, it was some five star, michelin type shit, you couldn't even imagine yourself there let alone how he got them.

“clark— wha— how?”, you blink up at him, mouth agape, watching him sheepishly shrug and flash a grin of those perfect teeth.

“I have my ways.”

it was official, clark kent was your dream man, this dorky journalist with a mess of dark curls and thick glasses had your brain running overtime.

“got us a pretty good table.”, he holds out his arm for you with a little smirk at the look of awe that adorned your face.

you let out a little giggle taking his arm as he walked you around the car to the passenger seat.

“yeah you better have.”

eventually you're both in the car, he's driving coolly and you can only stare at him, watching his every move like he was an alien or something. you thought to yourself that there was no way this man was from earth, you'd never been treated so nicely, so preciously. clark knows you're staring, he can feel it, your gaze lingering over his jawan down to his collar and over his big hands that gripped at the wheel.

“y'know you're something else clark.”

“is that something you like?”

you can only nod happily, giddy and awestruck as your heart thrum against your ribs. he glances at you from the road as he turns the corner to the restaurant parking, smiling right back at you.

“and you're happy with tonight— so far at least?”

“of course I am— don't go all journalist on me.”, you let out a precious laugh that has clarks stomach doing flips.

“right—”

he parks up and the little car suddenly feels very warm, like you're both realising what this is.

“I like this— like a lot, I like you a lot...”

you feel yourself flush, it felt so simple, almost childish, like some high school crush, a break from reality allowing you to lose yourself in the rosy haze that clark brought with his flowers and chocolates and fancy dinners, he was a classic romantic.

“I like you a lot too clark…”

© written by blushhbambi— do not steal or claim as ur own ᝰ.ᐟ

[ctblanctt]

TURBULENT FLIGHT.

✷ n. romanoff x fem!flight attendant!reader

Warnings: Explicit content, g!p!nat, dom!nat, sub!reader, p in v, creampie, no condoms used, Natasha squeezes your wrists, slight tightness in the neck, use of "little slut", explicit language, degradation, dirty talk, fingering (r receiving), almost established relationship, Natasha soft at the end, aftercare, soft ending. Men/minors dni.

The Avengers jet rocked violently in the storm, but you were too busy getting ripped apart in the co-pilot's seat to worry about turbulence.

Natasha had you bent over the controls, your flight attendant uniform hiked up to your waist, her hands gripping your wrists.

"You look so beautiful when you try to be professional," she growled in your ear, her cock pumping inside you, making your body shake like an earthquake.

The panel in front of you flashed red alerts.

"N-Natasha, the autopilot…"

"Quiet," she ordered, increasing her pace as a gloved hand closed around your throat. "You think I can't fly you and this aircraft at the same time?"

Your body writhed between the control panels and her heat, each thrust calculated to drive you insane. You tried to swallow your moans, but Natasha tugged on your hair, forcing your bow back.

"I want to hear how much you're enjoying this, damn you—"

The jet plunged into a rush of air, and you bounced onto her lap, taking every inch with a scream. Natasha laughed against your skin, mastering the turbulence and your body with the same deadly precision.

"That... feels so good to me," she murmured, her teeth scraping your shoulder as her hands marked your waist. "I'm going to make you useless for any more flights."

When you came, it was with a muffled scream against her shoulder, your body convulsing around her. Natasha didn't stop, just gripped your hips and sank all the way in, making you feel every vein in her cock as she unloaded with an animalistic growl.

The silence that followed was broken only by the wet sound as she finally pulled out, leaving you trembling and leaking in the pilot's seat.

"Looks like we have a leak problem," Natasha murmured, sliding her fingers between your trembling legs and bringing them to her mouth with a predatory smile. "Luckily, I'm a maintenance specialist."

Your body was still throbbing as she pulled you back onto her lap, her cock now soft but still impressive against your thigh. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as her fingers found your swollen clit.

"Natasha!"

"Quiet," she ordered, pinching your inner thigh. "Or I'll have to ground you in the cargo hold." Her eyes flashed as she felt you pulse against her fingers at that threat.

"Do you like it when I use you like this?" Natasha growled, increasing the angle to hit you deeper. "When I turn my good flight attendant into a quivering little slut?"

The jet tilted sharply as it began its descent. Natasha didn't stop, her fingers working you with surgical precision, each movement calculated to bring you to the edge again.

"Come on, sweetheart," she teased, feeling your body writhe. "Show me how a good girl begs for more."

When the landing gear hit the runway with a jolt, you exploded into her arm, your fingers leaving marks on the copilot's controls. Natasha held you tightly, kissing your sweaty neck.

With a gentle movement, she helped you to your feet, your legs still trembling like jelly. Natasha pulled a tissue from her coat pocket, kneeling in front of you, and gently cleaned you, leaving a small kiss on the inside of your thigh when she was finished.

"Ready for landing, sweetheart?" Natasha murmured, her tone now surprisingly sweet as she helped you compose yourself. Her fingers, which had been domineering moments before, now arranged your uniform with meticulous care, as if she were assembling a work of art.

"Tony will never let you fly the jet again," you said, looking at the scratched dashboard and seat.

"Ah, Tony..." Natasha smiled, running her hand over the marks on the seat with an almost affectionate caress. "He'll complain for about two minutes, until I remind him about that party in Monte Carlo where he wrecked a rented Porsche."

Her fingers, now surprisingly gentle, straightened the collar of your uniform. "Besides," she added, her voice low and intimate, "some things are worth a little mess."

As they descended the jet's steps, the storm had passed, leaving only the starry night sky. Natasha took off her own coat and draped it over your shoulders, shielding you from the chilly hangar wind.

"I'll take you home," she said, wrapping a firm arm around your waist. "You deserve to rest after such an intense flight."

Her blue-green eyes shone with a silent promise as she opened the car door for you. "But don't get too used to this gentle treatment," she warned, pinching your chin.

"Tomorrow we'll be back to normal," Natasha murmured, adjusting the seatbelt in your lap with surprisingly gentle hands. Her blue-green eyes shone in the dashboard light, revealing a rare tenderness few had the privilege of seeing.

The car engine hummed softly as she drove through the wet city streets. Her fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel in time with a song only she could hear. Every now and then, she'd steal glances at you, as if memorizing every detail of your still-flushed face.

"You know," she broke the silence, her voice softer than you'd ever heard, "there are calmer ways to get through a storm."

You laughed, feeling a strange warmth fill your chest. "But where would be the fun in that?"

Natasha smiled, a genuine, disarming expression that made your heart race. "Exactly."

Natasha parked the car with her usual precision, but left the engine running for an extra moment, her fingers still intertwined with yours. The rain had stopped, leaving only the glow of the city lights reflected in the fogged windows.

"You know I don't need you to walk me to the door," you murmured, a hint of a smile.

She gave you that expression you loved—half-irritated, half-affectionate. "And I don't need you to remind me that I know that." Her thumb traced gentle circles on your wrist. "But I like seeing you get in safely."

When they finally got out of the car, Natasha grabbed her purse from the backseat with a care that contrasted with the intensity of hours ago. The goodnight kiss was different from the others, slow, deep, full of the intimacy that only years of complicity could bring. When they broke apart, Natasha rested her forehead against yours.

"Tomorrow," she promised, her voice husky. "We'll do it right. With dinner first."

"Dinner?" you scoffed. "Who are you, and what have you done with Natasha Romanoff?"

She chuckled softly before pulling away. "The same woman who will fuck you so well afterward that you'll forget your own name. But first, food."

When you stepped into the elevator, she was still there, watching as she always did, your protector, your lover, your personal paradox of fire and gentleness.

And in the pocket of her coat you were wearing, you found the key to her room in the Avengers Tower along with a note:

"For when you get tired of waiting for me. - N."

[meadowfics]

empty locket

namgyu x f!reader with features of frenemie!minsu x f!reader

synopsis: you convince namgyu to let the pills go

warnings: drugs, pills, the games

requested

the edge of the jump rope track, you stand there, the rope swinging in a fast motion. the rhythm is going through your mind, since it is a cruel thing counting down your chances of survival.

you feel alone, except you have namgyu, player 124. your boyfriend of just one year.

he’s a mess, his hands are trembling as he kneels at the starting line, begging minsu for his necklace of pills.

you thought he was a drug-addled liability when he found you in these games. a year ago, you fell in love with him but didn't have a clue about his drug addiction until two months into the relationship.

he’s not crazy, he’s desperate. yet, you’ve stuck with him, trusting that gut instinct that says he’ll keep you safe, even if his methods terrify you.

the rope hums, faster now, and the other players.

no players have tried to run across the track and jump, yet.

namgyu’s voice cracks as he pleads with minsu, “I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry give it back! i need it!” your boyfriend's desperation is a raw.

minsu is upset, but you see the smirk in his eyes when he got an idea on something.

he’s not just taunting namgyu; he’s reveling in it, his eyes too bright, his movements too loose.

he’s high, you realize.

the thought twists your stomach.

how could he do this, knowing what those pills mean to namgyu?

you push the thought aside.

you can’t afford to care about minsu’s betrayal right now.

especially when minsu throws the necklace over onto the track, you run on the track to go grab it before namgyu can.

you take a deep breath, your legs trembling. the rope swings, and you time it, stepping forward. one, two, three...your feet clear the rope, landing lightly on the track.

the gap in the middle looms, a hole that drops into darkness.

you don’t look down.

you can’t. y

the other players watch, silent, their fear a mirror to your own.

you keep jumping, each leap a pulse of adrenaline, your muscles screaming but your rhythm steady. you reach the gap, and time slows.

you leap, your body arcing over the void, and land on the other side,

your heart hammering but your feet still moving.

you keep going, jumping until you reach the necklace.

you grab it, and jump one more time before reaching the safe zone at the end.

you’re panting, sweat stinging your eyes. you feel the necklace in your hands. it is what used to be thano's necklace, now namgyu’s, glinting under the harsh lights.

your fingers tremble as you open the locket.

it’s empty. no pills, just cold metal.

your chest tightens, but you don’t say anything.

you can’t, not yet.

namgyu’s voice cuts through the arena, frantic.

“babe, don't throw it! i’m coming!” he shouts, already jumping across the track, his movements jerky but determined.

you watch him, your heart in your throat, as he leaps over the gap, his face a mask of desperation.

he reaches you, snatching the necklace from your hands, his fingers fumbling as he opens it.

he freezes, his breath hitching.

“where are they?” he whispers, his voice breaking.

he looks at you, his eyes wide with panic, “where are the pills?”

you swallow, your voice barely above a whisper.

“they’re gone, namgyu. there’s nothing left.”

he staggers back, the necklace falling from his hands.

“no,” he says, shaking his head, “no, no, no, i need them!” his voice rises, a raw edge of rage, and he turns toward minsu, who’s still at the starting line, almost grinning like he’s untouchable.

“you took them!” namgyu screams, his hands clenching into fists.

“you took my pills!”

minsu laughs, a high, manic sound, his eyes glassy.

he’s high, you realize again, and it hits you harder this time.

minsu, who seemed so unassuming before, is reveling in namgyu’s pain, his betrayal deliberate and cruel.

you’re stunned, not just by his actions but by the glee in his expression, the way he’s thriving on this power.

namgyu takes a step toward the track, his body tense, ready to charge at minsu, but you grab his arm.

“namgyu, stop,” you say, “you can do this without them. you don’t need the pills.”

he turns to you, his eyes wild, his breathing ragged.

“you don’t understand,” he snaps, his voice shaking, “i can’t do shit without them. i can’t!”

“you can,” you insist, holding his gaze, “you just crossed the track while going through withdrawal. you’re stronger than you think.”

you don’t know if you believe it yourself, but you have to for both your sakes.

he stares at you, his chest heaving, and for a moment, you think he might listen.

then minsu steps onto the track, still laughing, his jumps sloppy but confident, and namgyu’s focus snaps back to him.

“get closer and i'm pushing your ass off!,” namgyu growls as minsu gets closer, his hands hovering like he’s ready to push.

“namgyu, don’t,” you plead, pulling at his arm again.

“let him cross. please.”

you don’t know why you’re protecting minsu, but you can’t watch namgyu become a killer while sober.

yes, he is already a killer.

however, you blamed it on his high.

if he killed while sober, that would prove that he could kill in his right mind.

minsu stumbles but makes it across just as the timer nears zero, collapsing onto the safe side.

namgyu lunges, his hands wrapping around minsu’s throat, squeezing as minsu gasps and flails.

you freeze, horror rooting you to the spot, until the guards raise their guns right at him.

namgyu releases minsu, who collapses, coughing and clutching his neck. the guards lower their weapons.

you look around, your chest tight.

the games end, not with a bang but with a vote.

you sit among the remaining players, your body aching, your mind numb.

the masked man at the front offers a choice to continue or leave once last time.

you vote to leave, your hand shaking as you raise it, and to your surprise, the majority agrees.

the nightmare is over, or so you hope.

back in seoul namgyu at your side.

he’s quiet, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes darting like he’s still expecting a trap.

you’re both given cards loaded with the prize money, a fortune that feels like blood money after everything you’ve seen.

you glance at namgyu, his face gaunt, his hands trembling.

you know what he’s thinking about. drugs or something like them, are calling his name.

you can’t let him do it.

not after everything you both have been through.

when he reaches for his card, you snatch it from his hand, holding it tight.

“no,” you say, “you’re not blowing billions of won on drugs.”

namgyu's eyes flash with anger, his body tensing.

“give it back,” he snaps, “it’s mine.”

“i’m keeping it,” you say while holding his gaze, “and I will hide it until you go to rehab. you can’t keep doing this to yourself, namgyu. you’re better than this.”

he laughs.

“better? you don’t know me. you don’t know what i need.”

he takes another step, his hands shaking like he’s about to snap.

“give me the card, y/n. now.”

you stand your ground, your heart racing but your resolve unshaken.

“if you don’t quit club pentagon and go to rehab, i’m done. i’ll leave you, namgyu. i mean it.”

the words hurt to say, but you know they’re true.

you care about him, more than you expected to, but you can’t watch him destroy himself.

he freezes.

he stares at you, his jaw tight, then turns and walks away without another word.

you watch him go, the card heavy in your hand.

you don’t see him again for six weeks.

six weeks pass, each day a quiet agony of waiting. you keep the card hidden, checking it obsessively in your new mid-ride apartment to make sure it’s safe.

you tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, that you’re saving him, but the silence is deafening.

you wonder if he’s gone back to club pentagon, if he’s found another way to get his fix.

you try not to think about it.

one evening, there’s a knock at your door.

you open it, and there he is.

namgyu, looking different.

the first thing you notice is how his eyes are clearer, his hands steady, and he doesn't look like he only had one hour of sleep last night.

he holds a stack of papers, and he doesn’t meet your gaze at first.

“i went,” he says, his voice low.

“rehab. six weeks. it’s not over, but I guess I am trying.” he hands you the papers, proof of his treatment, a schedule for mandatory counseling every week, and a prescription for medication to manage his withdrawals.

“i made you my emergency contact,” he adds, almost sheepishly. “i need you to… help me with the meds.”

you take the papers, your hands trembling slightly.

you look at him, really look at him, and see the effort etched into his features...the exhaustion, the fear, the fragile hope.

“i’m proud of you,” you say, “this is a big step, namgyu. bigger than surviving the games.”

he shakes his head, his jaw tight.

“i don’t deserve it. not after everything.”

you step closer, setting the papers aside on your kitchen counter and reaching for him. you pull him into a hug, your arms wrapping around him tightly.

he stiffens at first, then relaxes, his head resting against your shoulder.

“you deserve the best,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

“even if you don’t believe it yet. you survived the games, namgyu. you’re surviving from yourself, too. you’re not that person anymore, the one who’d do anything for a fix. you’re stronger than that.”

he doesn’t say anything, but you feel his hands grip your shirt, his breath shaky against your neck.

you hold him tighter, letting him know you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere.

“i’m proud of you,” you say again.

this time, you feel him nod, just slightly.

you pull back, just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his shoulders.

in a way, you never believed that he would do this.

maybe the games changed him.

in a way that saved his life.

masterlist

author's note: I got off track and continued writing more than what the request asked for, lol.

[sweetcalebb]

Teaching Caleb how to touch you !

wc: 2k

a/n: this was another request!! you know who you are <3 this might've dragged a bit. sorry. ALSO, i promise i'm working on all your requests! i have 45 and i'm working as fast as i can 🙏. but i hope this was okayy

content: inexperienced caleb, it's his first time time touching you, he's super nerviee, like really nervous, titty sucking, fingering, dry humping, soft sub calen

––

You’ve never seen him this shy—cheeks pink, fingers hesitantly tracing your body as he kisses you.

You smile against his lips when—finally, after a few long, breathless minutes of kissing—you feel one of his hands close around your waist. "Are you nervous?"

Caleb lets out a soft breath. "Of course I am."

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes half-lidded and soft as he scans your face like he's trying to memorize what you look like in this moment.

"I've wanted you for so long," he murmurs, hand trembling. "I don't.. I don't want to mess anything up."

You immediately soften. You bring your hand up to his face and rub soothing circles over his cheek. "You won't mess it up."

He swallows hard, his eyes darting down because looking at you too long right now makes him sweat. "But I don't know what I'm doing," he says, quiet and raspy. Almost as if he had to force the words out of him.

"I can help you."

Caleb looks at you again, uncertain.

"I just... I want it—this—to be perfect. I don't want to let you down.."

Your chest squeezes.

He's always been too sweet.

You slowly lean down pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Anything with you is perfect, Caleb. I promise."

Caleb lets out a shaky breath. "Okay..." His other hand carefully finds your waist. "Is this okay?"

"Mhm."

His throat bobs painfully, his eyes darting down to watch his hands skim up your sides. And you just sit there. You don't rush or push. You just sit in his lap, watching the reverent look in his eyes.

Caleb pauses at the hem of your shirt and looks up again, his lips parting with a silent question.

You nod. "It's okay, Caleb."

Then slowly, he's slipping his hands underneath your shirt and running his hands up your stomach, edging toward the swell of your breasts but not quite touching them yet.

He shudders, almost instinctively digging his fingers into your ribcage. He doesn't mean to. He just can't help it. Years and years of pining after you and now he was finally touching you like this. It's hard not to be greedy. To not touch you everywhere—kiss everywhere.

"Can I go..." he pauses, exhaling shakily, "higher?"

"Yes."

Caleb slips his palms over your breast and his lips part on a quiet breath.

You fit into his hands so perfectly. For a second, he think his hands were meant for this and this alone. Holding you.

"You're so soft," Caleb awes, squeezing gently. Then, he swipes his thumbs over your pebbling nipples. "Pipsqueak..."

"Do you want to take my shirt off?" You swallow hard, your legs squeezing around his torso. Are you being too self-indulgent? You don't know. All you know is that this—teaching him, being the first girl he's ever touched—feels too good.

Caleb's breath hitches. "Do you want me to?"

When you nod, he shudders.

"Then yeah. I really.. I really wanna take your shirt off."

At his answer, you reach down and start pulling the fabric up. Caleb's hands slip away from your chest to help, trembling slightly.

When your shirt falls away, he can only stare.

"Fuck, you're so pretty.." He brings his hands back to your breast, squeezing once more.

He licks his lips, his eyes darting up to yours like a secret plea. "Can I... kiss you here?" His voice cracks with nerves.

"Yes," you breathe, your heart racing.

Then he leans forward, his lips brushing over your breast, so soft you barely feel it. "Does that feel okay?"

"You can put more pressure."

Caleb purses his lips against your chest in another kiss and you nod. "Yeah, just like that."

He continues, peppering your skin with little kisses before getting bolder, letting his tongue dart out between his lips to taste you and you arch into him, your hand twitching with the urge to tangle in his hair.

He kisses you through the fabric of your bra, the touch making your back tense.

Caleb looks up.

"Too much?"

You quickly shake your head. "No, no. That felt really nice." You hesitate for just a second before murmuring, "You can take off my bra, too."

"You sure?"

You bite your lip softly. "Yeah."

He reaches behind you, fumbling with your clip a few times before your straps slip off your shoulders before it's tossed to the side.

Caleb stares again, pupils blown wide, like he can't believe you're letting him see you like this. He dips his head down again, pressing a slow kiss directly against your nipple. "How's that?"

You sigh, slipping hands through his hair. "That feels good..."

Caleb hums before flicking his tongue against the achy nub and can't help the way your hips jerk against his at the touch.

He groans. "You really like that."

You can barely nod before he's wrapping his lips around your breast and sucking. You let out another staggered breath and hold him tight.

"Caleb..!"

Caleb whines at the sound of his name, his hips giving an instinctive roll. "'M'sorrry. I just... can't help it when you sound like that." he breathes against your skin.

But you shake your head. "It's fine. You're doing... really good!"

He rolls his hips up again. He really can't help it. Not when you're in his mouth and talking to him like that.

He keeps sucks and licking, sneaking in little nibbles that make you gasp and arch your back. And then he's switching breasts, making sure he gives the other one the same attention.

It's only when Caleb's jaw feels sore that he comes off with a soft pop, your chest littered and kisses and his saliva.

"You're... You're even better than I imagined," he huffs, leaning up to kiss your lips while running his hands down your thighs, then back up, stopping at your breasts again.

"Am I doing okay?"

"Yes, more than okay," you assure, your voice shakier than you expected it to be.

Caleb’s breath hitches. His thumbs skim under the waistband of your shorts, hesitating.

"Can I touch you here too?” he rasps, voice wrecked with nerves and want.

Your chest tightens. “Yes, Caleb.”

He nearly whimpers. “Show me how. Please."

You guide his hand down, your own hand over his. When his fingers press where you’re already wet, he groans softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you feel so good…”

You bite your lip, trying to keep your hips still, but they grind into his hand anyway. "You.. hah.."

Caleb can't help it; he runs his fingers through your slick, his stomach clenching at warm it is. Was all this really for him?

"What do you need?" he breathes, putting a bit of pressure on your needy flesh. Not enough to push in, just enough to (accidentally) tease you. "Show me... how. Please.. I don't—I don't know—"

"Shh, it's okay. I'll show you," you whisper, guiding his hand over your sex. You lead two fingers to your clit and press firmly. "This is the spot right here."

Caleb shudders, his fingers nudging at you like he's trying to memorize what it feels like. "Yeah. Yeah, okay.."

Then, you start guiding him in slow circles. "A-and just rub... small circles, okay?"

Caleb nods, nervous, but eagerly taking over. He does exactly what you taught him, clumsy at first. But he gradually falls into a steady rhythm.

"Like this?"

"Yes..!" You grip his shoulder and tip your head back slightly. "Just like that, Caleb!"

Caleb moans in response, rubbing tighter, rougher circles.

Warmth blooms in your chest—makes everything feel fuzzy. If Caleb told you, right now, that this was his first time, you wouldn't believe him.

You whimper, the sound making him twitch in his jeans.

"Caleb! Please! Please, please..!"

He groans, bringing his free hand around your hip and tugging you closer as he continued working over.

Warmth pools between your legs, soaking through the fabric of your panties. Just when you start to feel that familiar pressure in your stomach, Caleb stops, his fingers sliding down to tease at your entrance.

"Hah..! Caleb?"

You look at him again, blinking through hazy eyes.

"I'm sorry," he instantly says, his chest heaving like your pleasure was his own. "I just wanted to see you like this a little more—I'm sorry—I can go back to—"

You shake your head. "No, that's really sweet." You take a moment to catch your breath before asking, "Do you want to feel inside?"

Caleb nods. "Yes. Yes, please."

"You can," you reply, your voice quiet.

Caleb glances down, watching his hand bulge from your panties as he carefully—very carefully—slides one finger past your tight ring of muscles.

"Hah! You—Oh God.. You're so warm, Pips," he gasps, slowly sinking his finger inch by inch, watching your reaction the whole time. When he's knuckle deep, he breathes out a shaky, "Are you okay?"

You nod, fighting the urge to start grinding down on his finger. "Mhmm.. It feels so good, Caleb."

He starts pumping slowly. Agonizingly slow. Like any faster might break you. But when he sees you squirming and holding back whines, he quickens his pace.

"You can add another."

Caleb doesn't hesitate. He slips another finger in with one, slick push. "Fuck."

That's all he can say. All he can muster.

And the sounds your body starts to make are filthy. Straight out of his fantasies. With a small, embarrassed sound you hide in the crook of his neck, your cheeks burning.

But Caleb whines, leaning his head against yours.

"Don't hide, Pips. Please... I wanna see you." His voice is trembling, like not getting to see what this does to you physically pains him.

So slowly, you lift your head back up and he looks completely wrecked. And you're right there with him—brows knit with pleasure, lips parted with your breathless moans.

He's panting now, your breath mingling with his as he gently rocks his hips up.

"Please. Go back—go back to my other spot. I—I need it. Need you."

Caleb groans. You need him.

"Okay."

He eases his fingers out of you, pressing them to the achy spot at the cleft of your sex again. "Fuck... Pips.. I don't.. I lost it."

"It's okay." You guide him to that spot again. "Right there. Right there please."

He starts rubbing firm circles again, using the same pace you taught him. "There?" He asks, voice wrecked.

"Yes! Yes!"

Caleb grunts, jostling you in his lap as his hips jerk underneath you. "Fuck, fuck—sorry."

You don't even notice it though. You're lost in the feeling of his fingers. "Are you close?" he pants.

A moan tears from your throat at the same time. "Y-yes. I'm close. I'm—" You dip your head against his, your eyes drifting down between your bodies.

You bite your lip. The way his hand disappears into your panties and his arm flexes as he continues to rub tiny circles shouldn't turn you on so much, but it does. It makes your head spin and your stomach clench.

"Caleb..!"

"Y-yeah?"

"I'm—Oh fuck. Caleb, I'm—Please!" you whine. "Please, please!"

He doesn't have time to speak before you're going rigid above him—hips jerking against his hand, choked moans spilling past your lips, and your grip on him becoming bruisingly tight. Then you're going limp.

Caleb gently draws his hand back, marveling at the mess on his fingers before holding you close. "Hey, are you okay?"

When you only hum against his shoulder he shakes you softly. "Pips, look at me."

You pull your head back to show him the blissed-out look on your face and he lets out a sigh of relief.

He swallows hard, his chest falling and rising too quickly. "You're so pretty."

You smile, your chest giving a little tug. "Stop it.."

"I can't help it," he murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to your cheeks and lips.

You smile, leaning into his little pecks.

His lips find your forehead as he breathes out, "Did I really make you feel that good?"

"You made me feel amazing."

Caleb sighs, pulling you in by your waist and burying his face in your shoulder. "Thank you for helping me."

"Of course."

You're silent for a beat, then gently, he rolls his hips up, a staggered breath slipping past his lips. "I'm—hahh—sorry.." Even then, he doesn't stop.

Instead, he slides his hands down your hips and guides you against him. "Can I please? You were amazing... But.. but you feel so..nng.. nice."

"Yes, baby," you coo, forcing yourself to see straight again as you follow his rhythm. "You did so good."

Caleb whimpers into your shoulder. "Say that again."

"You did soo good, Caleb."

Another whimper, his hips rolling faster now, more desperate. His breath stutters, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you—how badly he wants it.

"Please… Pips…” His voice is wrecked, trembling. “I—I don’t think I can—"

You press closer, giving his ear a tender nip. "It's okay. You were so sweet for me. Just enjoy yourself."

His next breath stutters out of him, hot against your skin.

Everything after that blurs. All he knows is that you feel too good to be true. That he wants to stay in this moment with you. Forever.

––

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tags: @exe-toby @seungkwansflower @floatinginaer @halfawakeblobbu @heartyluv @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @walrusbreath @sylvieisoffline @awquaz @purpleamethyst25 @pinksaiyans @beaconsxd @haleaf @politefawn @colonelpantysniffer @villainessobsessed @lioria @inlovewithsylus @tired7o7 @justwinginglife @itsmysmut @bitewiththis @littleboomerang @aenishas @inzayneforaj @opalesquegirl @sudenuryg @lamogliedizayne @rurushow @viviiswrr-d @rina-lidou @puppytruther @animegamerfox @00haru00 @thelittlebutton @lilacsandhysteria @syncaleb @meulilac @horanghaeegr @honeymoonfleur @stargirlygirl @peachlycheetea @calebsbabyapple @goochfiddler99 @lewdcifer778 @minivia @bidisasterforevermore @c-l-stinnett @thesevro @mindnumbed @alysaria

[theatreofthelivingmind]

At kinkos (local print shop) they had laminated anatomical illustrations of each of the human body's different systems. A page for skeletal, muscular, circulatory, lymphatic, respiratory, nervous systems, reproductive systems.

Honestly picked it up because wow so cool and it's already laminated I guess for holding up in the long run. I have been using it to practice illustration through tracing, already have so many cool body parts like skulls brains kinda calling for a collage...

I have been getting more and more frustrated with doctors not listening. I'd said it before, I'm in a constant triggered state, can't heal or exist in this state.

so I've been toying with the idea of going in with a mask on, having the chart, and when they ask where iT hurts,just drawing big circles around the chart. Everywhere?

I've been in a substantial amount of pain, for a long time, most of my life. I never really had trouble expressing myself or the pain, where it comes from.

But as they say, (who you might ask?) Your health is no laughing matter. Probably not time for performance art or stand up.

Yeah, no one gets my humor anyway. Doctors especially, will not suffer fools gladly. Already getting pushback, keep your emails focused! But doctor, if it hurts all over...??? Which pain, mental, physical, financial...I'm sorry doctor, your pain chart does not have enough levels for my house of pain.

So maybe if doctors ask, where it hurts most? I'll pull out my wallet, from my purse, and show them how empty it is. Maybe they'll get it one day, but I have my doubts. I can't even get them to state signs of ableism? As they dismiss the disabled person's symptoms, in front of them 🙄

Yeah not looking forward to the upcoming doctors, psych appointments. Maybe I can call member services again but then get put into 5150 for showing signs of being in pain.

Apologies, off topic entirely. If they give me a chart of man made horrors maybe I should just return with selfies, my selfie stick and Bluetooth remote shutters. Take some selfies then text them to the doctors while in office. Or use a mirror in the doctors office and draw a circle around my face. I guess we are out of time for our appointment doctors? Here I wanted to talk about my disabilities, body and gender dysphoria, and I'm lecturing the doctors on body horrors, performance art, stand up comedy. Waay over their overeducated heads.

What do you mean, we don't have time for the planned karaoke drag show? Gosh doctors here I was just getting started. Hey doctors, if you are feeling overwhelmed by your patients presented symptoms...well hey, doctors, what are you going to do?

....and...time! Ok here are you meds, check back for progress in a few months? Rolls eyes again

at the doctor being shown a chart with different types of man-made horrors on them while the doctor asks whether each of them is beyond or within my comprehension

[vxnillabxn]

hiii👋 i'd like to request the lads men's reaction to being picked up! sometimes i feel like some writers underestimate/ don't acknowledge how physically strong mc is. although the guys weight isn't specified i feel like she could easily pick up a well-fit man 😌

your writing is amazing and i'm always amazed by your posting frequency (and quality)! hope you're doing fine and stay hydrated!! 💞

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x fem!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff, just a teeny tiny bit suggestive! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚mc is not dainty nor frail AT ALL, she can kick ass while having HEART ISSUES!!! mc, we love you over here ♡ thanks for requesting! this was so much fun to write~ and i tried to keep it light and a bit funny, too! (fem!reader in mind, but no fem!pronouns used!)

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

you were lazily sprawled on the sofa, with one of your legs dangling and swaying with boredom.

caleb was hugging said leg loosely, scrolling through his phone as he too wanted to entertain himself.

or both of you, preferably.

“no way,” he suddenly mumbles, looking up at you from his phone. “pips, look.”

he shows you an advertisement for a weightlifting contest back in linkon city.

“30k diamonds for the winner? geez… i might as well try!”

you say confidently, suddenly sitting up to look over his shoulder.

he turns to you and smiles.

he knows you are strong, as you two arm wrestle to choose who gets to keep the last braised chicken wing —though he always lets you have it no matter the outcome.

“well, you'll have to lift a lot of weight, though. don't you wanna' practice a bit more, pipsqueak?”

you shake your head with a big grin on your face.

“i have my own way of training!”

and you didn't lie.

later that day, as he was cooking for both of you, you decided to take him by surprise.

he already knew you were behind him, obviously. he's used to your sneaky attacks, and he can also catch your scent whenever you're nearby.

he expected you to scream, to poke his sides, to tickle him.

but what he didn't expect was for you to wrap your arms around his back…

for a moment, he smiled lovingly.

…for a very, very brief moment.

soon enough, his feet left the ground. the spoon he was holding fell from his hand, and you easily took him away from the kitchen, just to walk a few steps to the left.

you put him down and sigh loudly.

“ha! not bad at all, huh?”

he's silent.

he has been relocated, now standing in front of the sink.

well, yeah, he knew you were capable of doing whatever you put your mind and body into, and you seemed very eager about the competition.

but he just… didn't think he'd be your training equipment.

“hm! the salad needs more dressing, though. but the gravy is awesome! keep it up!”

you softly pat his arm and leave him alone in the kitchen after tasting what he was working on before you “attacked” him.

why didn't he come up with this training method instead?

he could lift you up or do planks with you prettily sitting on his back.

but right now? he actually does want you to keep using him —not only to train, though—. after all, he's better than the small dumbbells you have stored away somewhere in your house back in linkon.

and he… low-key loved to have your body pressed to his, even if it was for a few seconds.

“pips, wait! let me help you set up your training routine!”

and there he goes, running after you.

he'll make sure you practice a lot; taking him from one side to the other, and having those pretty and strong arms of yours tightly secured around him.

and he also will train in case you back out for whatever reason.

he wants you to have your well-deserved 30k diamonds, even if he plans on giving them to you for your efforts anyway.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

you two decided it was a good idea to go on a date by the docks.

on a holiday.

with famous people holding meet-and-greets.

it was packed with people, to say the least.

but he had your fingers tightly intertwined with his, and he kept you close as he rambled about the different antiques that caught his eye.

you were sharing snacks, drinking iced tea, enjoying the fresh sea breeze…

everything was going relatively well.

until someone recognized rafayel from the interviews and magazines he had appeared in during the month.

and scandal ensued.

“oh my gosh, look over there!” you could hear a whiny voice, followed by squeals and gasps.

obviously, as there were other famous figures around, people assumed he was here to meet some of his fans, too.

in no time, you had a crowd of people running towards him —or rather, towards both of you, as you clung to his hand for dear life.

“cutie, you're breaking my bones.”

“raf, let's go.”

“no, but i can't be that rude!”

it was a hushed discussion between the two of you until the people got closer.

too close for comfort.

he patted down his pockets, and suddenly…

“wait, i forgot to bring a pen—!”

he couldn't even finish his sentence as he was thrown over a shoulder like a potato sack.

well, your shoulder, to be precise.

he gasped and held onto you as you managed to run and dodge the crowded streets.

you didn't stop until you reached a narrow street with little to no people around.

and you finally took a deep breath before setting him down.

“i told you we needed to leave.”

you say once you catch your breath.

he was stunned.

in fact, he was looking at you with surprise, amusement, and fear.

first of all, wow.

second of all, wow —wink, wink—.

third of all, you're his precious bodyguard, true.

but he didn't expect you to be that efficient, let alone carry him around and run as if he were nothing but a purse to you.

“if you wanted me all to yourself, you should've just asked, cutie.”

he whispered, pulling you close.

you had a deadpan expression on your face.

“we're going back home, raf.”

“wait, but i have coupons for fried shrimp cakes!”

and he pouted his lips just a little bit; enough for you to sigh.

“...fine. but we'll make it quick, okay?”

you finally held his hand again, and the two of you started to walk back to the docks.

after a brief silence, he spoke with a cocky grin.

“were you jealous?~”

and that was it.

that was the last straw.

you turned on your heels and dragged him back, not before stating firmly:

“we're going home!”

he protested, of course. but he could see from the corner of his eye a hint of something similar to jealousy in your eyes.

and he just smiled, letting you order him and guide him around.

he might ask you to carry him around —like the prince he is— more often, now that he knows you're pretty much capable of doing so.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

you two were on a mission.

…

okay, only you were on a mission, and he decided to join you, as he wanted to spend the night together.

things went downhill; he started throwing hands, and you were also fighting. let's just say you two were winning.

until the “bad guys” called for backup.

and being outnumbered —which usually wasn't an issue— became dangerous.

sylus was composed, honestly.

he was panting, he was sweaty…

but he wasn't worried or tired.

you, on the other hand, wanted to retreat. things were looking ugly, you felt a weird pressure in your chest, and you knew you were exceeding your limits.

he knew it too.

“sylus, let's go!”

he looked back at you, ready to approach.

but he was surrounded.

and when he was about to simply attack back, with no issue at all, you grew impatient.

you ran toward sylus, pushed and yanked away some of the men around him, and lifted him off the ground.

quite easily, you might add.

his expression was clearly a mix of surprise and amazement, yet you didn't have enough time —nor was it the appropriate time or place to laugh about it.

you carried him toward his parked motorcycle outside, and you sat him down on the front with a thud, before sitting behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist.

“go, go, go!”

you urged him, and he didn't think twice.

the engine roared on the empty, dark street, and you two disappeared in seconds.

back at his place, you two were oddly quiet.

no teasing, no bickering…

he took you straight to the bedroom and made sure you were okay.

he checked for injuries, no matter how small or shallow.

he also checked for scratches and then leaned down to hear your heartbeat, checking if it was okay again.

you did the same with him, naturally.

though, of course, he had no visible injuries anymore.

“so, sweetie,” he began, pulling you on top of him as he sat down on the bed. “was that really necessary?”

you tilted your head, a bit puzzled.

“you mean… was retreating necessary? i think it was, sy.”

he looks at you, and then his lips curl up.

“that is not what i'm talking about. think again, kitten.”

you frown, but you realize in seconds.

right.

you carried this man's 6'2 body, and pretty much handled him like a life-sized ken.

“ah… well, drastic measures were needed, i guess.”

he hums, both acknowledging and reflecting on your words.

“i see. i guess i will have to rely on you more than i expected to.”

you look up at him, before nuzzling against his chest.

“yeah, no. don't expect me to carry you around whenever you get yourself in trouble.”

his chest grumbles slightly as he laughs, and he kisses your forehead.

“when i get in trouble? why, sweetie… i thought we were a team.”

you simply blow a raspberry in response, but you know it's true.

even when he willingly got his nose all up in your business, you couldn't deny how fun it was when he helped you out.

and, come to think of it… now that you know how easily you can manhandle him, maybe you'll be able to sneak up or surprise him.

seeing his shocked face and wide eyes, even if it was just for a few seconds, was the highlight of your “failed” mission.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

poor xavier wasn't able to sleep his daily… uh, 10 to 11 hours? was it more? you don't remember.

being undercover was usually fun, especially if you two got assigned together.

however, you two had to disguise yourselves as college students, with uniforms and all.

and, naturally, in order to remain unsuspicious, you had to follow an average student's routine and stay on campus.

and that meant waking up early, going to lectures, acting like everyone else, acquiring the same stress levels…

how fun!

you had no issue at all. in fact, you were reminiscing about those good times back in college.

xavier, however, was really good during lectures, but he was constantly yawning. the lack of sleep was defeating, and he wanted nothing more than for the fluctuations to disappear.

on the bright side, you two got to spend more time with each other, walk around campus, and imitate all those lovey-dovey couples you saw.

one day, you two had an atrocious project to work on. thankfully, you got to work in pairs, so you had fun doing it all day long.

unfortunately, he ended up passing out in your dorm, and the rules were quite strict about having people over after 10 p.m.

you didn't want to bring unnecessary attention to yourselves and potentially ruin everything, so you tried to be the perfect student.

so, as a perfect student would do, you tried to wake him up.

once. twice.

you tried poking his cheeks, shaking him, pulling some strands of his hair… but he was literally gone.

was he even breathing?

you sighed and stepped back, trying your best to come up with a solution.

and the only thing you could think of was taking him out yourself.

after stretching your arms and taking a deep breath, you lifted him bridal style, trying to move as quietly as possible across the hallway.

it took you some minutes, but you finally arrived at his door. you needed his key, but you had to put him down.

…

ah, he shifted.

his eyes fluttered open.

he looked up at you, then down at the floor, and finally at his closed door.

he took out his keys, stretched his arm out to open the door, and closed his eyes again to keep sleeping.

you were speechless.

he didn't even question how you were able to carry him so easily; he was delighted, actually. being in your arms, lulled by your scent and your ragged breathing…

this little demon.

you got inside his dorm room, and debated whether to throw him on his bed, or carefully place him down.

you chose the latter.

you knew he needed to sleep, and… he looked adorable with his head tilting back and his legs dangling from your arms.

before you could return to your dorm, he took your hand.

“thank you.”

he softly said, before going back to sleep and snoring softly once again.

“anytime, xav.”

you smooched his forehead and finally left to your own room, when you felt a light tapping on your shoulder.

a professor.

“excuse me, what part of 'no visits after 10 p.m.' did you not understand? come with me, immediately.”

ah, dang.

well, here goes your mission.

you can't complain, though. it was fun while it lasted.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

“can we please exchange caaaards?”

you begged, holding a ridiculous “1” orange card, as well as a “2” green one.

zayne sighed, shaking his head.

“we've exchanged cards thrice already.”

you huffed, putting your cards down.

“come on! my luck sucks today! pretty pleaseeeee?”

he looks up at you, then down at his cards.

“...no.”

how dare he?

“i'll buy you tons of stuff before we leave, i promise!”

he still doesn't budge. rather, he gestures at you —gently— to keep playing, as it is your turn.

“fine. i'll win the next two rounds! just you wait!”

and so you two keep playing, and… it isn't looking good at all for you.

whenever you spot a colored cup and you want to place the same colored card, he does it first.

and it is always a “6”.

a doubled “6”.

“oh, this game is rigged!”

there is a soft smile on his face before he shakes his head.

“it is just a game. i can always let you win.”

“no! i'll win with my own blood, sweat, and tears!”

and so the last round begins.

and you finally, finally pick up good cards!

a “5”, a “6”...

yes, you're optimistic about your chances.

however, you don't notice when your blue “6” card falls out of your hands, and when it is your turn to play, you can't find it anywhere.

“hey love, did you take my card?”

he looks at you, then back at his deck.

“i did not.”

he shifts just a bit, and you frown, a bit suspicious.

“you sure?”

he nods once again, reassuring you. his gaze seems sincere, but his body language?

he hid your card under his seat.

you're certain.

—the poor card is under you, actually.—

“stand up,” you say, and he gives you a questioning look. “...please.”

he shakes his head.

“i do not have your card, love.”

“well, if you don't have it, there's no problem if you stand up, right?”

he leans back and arches one eyebrow.

oh, he wants war?

he'll have war.

you stand up and look at him, before putting both your hands under his armpits and lifting him up, like you would with a toddler.

he freezes, and you freeze too when you see that your card isn't under him.

you eventually put him back down, fixing his coat and glasses for him.

“uhm… sorry, zaynie, i thought…”

you soon notice your missing card on the floor, and you feel even more guilty.

he is silent, processing the information; the way you lifted him as if he were as light as a feather, the way you put him down just as easily…

well, naturally, he knew you trained constantly.

but he trained too, so he was solid and very tall.

and he never pictured something like this happening.

ever.

“so, uh… you won… three times in a row! yay!”

you smile awkwardly.

he just stands up, grabs your hand quietly, and guides you outside the playroom.

“wait, hey! no, i'm sorry! are you mad? i was only playing, love!”

“i hope your offer is still up.”

ah, buying tons of stuff for him before leaving?

but that was only valid if he exchanged cards with you!

“hey! that's not—”

he looks at you with a stern look on his face…

but with a cute, blushy, and pink nose.

did he actually like what happened?

or is this a punishment for being a brat?

he'll probably just ask for coffee or sweets anyway, so why not apologize the way he wants you to?

especially since he is still holding your hand, a bit tighter than usual… and with a warm, slightly sweaty palm.

you just hope he doesn't give you a lecture later —and that he doesn't teach you a lesson later at night, either. cof, cof.

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Backstage Heartbeat

pairing; bodyguard!jake seresin x pop star!reader

summary; A popstar in the spotlight. A bodyguard in the shadows. On a tour across cities and secrets, you find a quiet kind of love — steady, fierce, and always just behind you.

word count; 15.2k

warnings; secret relationships!!!!, smut, someone grabs reader like once, protective jake!, forbbiden love??? kinda??? loads of fluff actually, happy ending!!!, no physical description of the reader except she is short

a/n; hello, it's me again.... feel like i'm spamming y'all with so many fics i'm sorryyyy. picture glen for the running man, that man looked like a fucking FRIDGE i wanted to climb him. have i mention i absolutely suck at summaries??? this is so long but so good i promiseeee

masterlist

The office was buzzing with the kind of anxious energy that only came before a world tour. Schedules were stacked, calls were on hold, and half-eaten lunch containers cluttered the long PR table. Maverick stood at the head of the room, arms crossed, his ever-present aviators hooked at the collar of his black shirt. He had that look on his face—the one that meant he was about to drop something on them.

“Alright, listen up,” he said, cutting through the noise like a scalpel. “We’ve got a new addition to the team.”

Natasha, perched at the edge of the conference table with her phone in hand, arched a brow. “Another intern? I swear to God if he calls her sweetheart even once—”

“No,” Maverick cut in dryly. “Not an intern. Not a PR guy. He’s security. Second bodyguard.”

Bradley, who was halfway through unwrapping a protein bar, glanced up from the corner. “We already have security,” he said with a pointed glance at himself.

“And you’re doing a damn good job. But it’s a world tour. Bigger venues. Bigger crowds. Higher risks.” Maverick stepped to the side and motioned to the doorway. “Which is why I’m bringing in someone I trust.”

Jake Seresin walked into the room like he already owned it. Tall, broad-shouldered, sun-tanned with that kind of Southern confidence that felt somewhere between charming and infuriating. His eyes scanned the room quickly, assessing. Calculating. He offered a small smirk, hands in his pockets.

“Jake Seresin,” Maverick said. “Ex-military, worked private detail for high-profile clients in LA. He's here to keep your girl alive while she dances through pyrotechnics.”

Javy let out a low whistle. “Looks like Ken doll and G.I. Joe had a baby.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Fantastic. Another man with biceps and an ego.”

Jake didn’t rise to it. Just tilted his head toward her with an easy drawl. “Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

“Oh, you’re gonna hate him,” Mickey muttered under his breath, grinning.

Bob, ever polite, stepped forward and offered a handshake. “I’m Robert, but you can call me Bob. Assistant-slash-wrangler of chaos. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Jake’s grip was firm but not overcompensating. His eyes flicked to Bradley last. The other man stood, silently sizing him up like two predators in the same jungle.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” Rooster finally said. “Her bodyguard. Been with her five years.”

Jake nodded once. “Not looking to step on your toes.”

“Good,” The brunette said, then sat back down.

The silence stretched for a beat too long before Maverick clapped his hands once. “Alright. You’ll all get plenty of time to get acquainted. But first, I’m taking Jake to meet her.”

Javy groaned. “Please warn her. She hates surprises.”

“She’s getting a bodyguard, not a puppy,” Maverick shot back, but with the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jake’s expression barely changed, but the pulse of anticipation was there behind his eyes.

Jake followed Maverick down a long corridor, the buzz of conversation fading behind them as the distant thump of bass grew louder. The hallway widened into a high-ceilinged rehearsal space — sleek, industrial, with mirrored walls and scuffed floors. Lights were rigged from above, casting a soft glow across the room where half a dozen dancers moved in time with the music.

And in the center of it all, you moved like you belonged there. Effortless and electric, mid-twirl with a laugh on your lips and sweat glinting at your temples. You weren’t lip-syncing — no, you were singing, even during choreography, your voice strong, practiced. Alive. Jake recognized you from photos, sure — no one could walk past a magazine stand or scroll through a feed without seeing your face — but this was different. This was real.

“She always this casual about a six-week countdown to opening night?” Jake asked, hands in his pockets as he watched you from the threshold.

Maverick gave him a side glance. “You’d be surprised. She thrives under pressure.”

“Popstar prodigy with three platinum albums before twenty-six. Yeah, I’ve read the resume.”

“She’s more than a resume,” Maverick said, his tone edging toward warning. “You’ll see.”

Jake didn’t respond. He already had.

The music cut abruptly, and you bent over, catching your breath, then straightened and turned — eyes landing on Maverick first, then shifting to the tall stranger beside him.

“New choreo already?” you teased, tugging out your in-ear monitor and walking toward them with a bright smile.

“Nope,” Maverick said. “Just bringing you a surprise.”

“Oh no,” you laughed. “You know how I feel about those.”

Jake stepped forward. “Jake Seresin,” he said simply. His voice was even, polite, with the faintest trace of Texas in it. “New security detail.”

You looked him up and down with an amused tilt of your head — not checking him out, not exactly, but taking his measure. “Security? What happened to Bradley?”

Maverick cleared his throat. “Still here. Bradley’s not going anywhere. But this tour’s gonna be big. Multiple countries, multiple cities, late nights, long travel days. I want another set of eyes. Jake’s got experience. He’s ex-military, ran detail for big names in LA. Knows what he’s doing.”

You offered Jake your hand. “Well, welcome to the circus.”

His grip was firm but not too tight, and his smile was faint, careful. “Looking forward to it.”

“You're always this serious?” you asked lightly.

“Only when someone’s paying me to be.”

Maverick huffed a quiet laugh beside you, and you glanced at him with a grin.

“I’ll make sure he loosens up,” you said, turning back toward your dancers. “Jake, right? We’ll chat more after rehearsal.”

Jake nodded, stepping back. “I’ll be around.”

As you walked away, Maverick looked at Jake, his expression unreadable.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said lowly. “She’s not just a paycheck.”

Jake’s jaw ticked once. “Understood.”

But even as Maverick turned away, Jake couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you across the room — that magnetic pull of someone who didn’t even know she had it.

He was here to protect you.

That was all.

Right?

As Maverick’s footsteps faded down the hall, the room settled into quiet except for the distant echoes of music from rehearsal. Jake’s gaze was steady, taking in the setup — the scattered sheet music, the mic stand, the faint scent of sweat and determination lingering in the air.

He didn’t offer a smile. Instead, his eyes met yours directly, his expression unreadable but firm.

“So,” he said, voice calm and measured, “this is where you do your work.”

You met his tone with a steady one of your own. “Yeah. It’s where everything gets put to the test.”

Jake nodded once. “I’ve been briefed. My job’s to keep you safe and make sure nothing interferes with the show.”

You folded your arms, weighing him up. “And what else?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m here to be professional. No distractions.”

You gave a small nod. “Good. Because I don’t have time for distractions either.”

The silence stretched between you, a quiet acknowledgment of the kind of focus you both demanded — yours on the stage, his on the job.

Finally, Jake’s voice broke the tension, low and controlled. “If you need anything, you let me know. Otherwise, I’ll stay out of your way.”

You glanced at him, the seriousness in his eyes giving you a flicker of reassurance you hadn’t expected.

“Deal,” you said.

No smiles. No wasted words. Just a mutual understanding that, for now, this was business.

The city lights blurred past as Maverick gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set in that same steady, no-nonsense line you’d seen all day. Bradley lounged next to you, half-focused on the road ahead, half on the conversation bubbling in the car. Natasha was perched in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you two like a hawk.

“Okay, seriously,” Natasha started, voice sharp but amused. “What do you think of the new guy? Jake, right?”

You smirked, stealing a glance at the quiet man in the passenger seat. “Hot,” you said without hesitation, causing Bradley to raise an eyebrow and Natasha to chuckle.

“Hot, huh? Keep it in your pants, superstar,” Natasha teased, nudging Bradley. “Don’t make Maverick have to pull this car over.”

Bradley laughed, shaking his head. “Man’s a hardass, but I like that.”

Maverick grunted, eyes still locked on the road. “Jake’s solid. Doesn’t mess around.”

“Yeah,” you added, feeling a little thrill just thinking about him. “Serious as hell, but I respect that.”

Natasha smirked. “Just don’t fall too hard. We don’t need another workplace soap opera.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into your seat with a grin. “No promises.”

The banter rolled on as the city stretched around you, all talk and laughter — but your mind kept drifting back to Jake, the serious new bodyguard with the unreadable eyes and a presence that was impossible to ignore.

The weeks leading up to the tour’s opening night felt like a slow-building storm. Every day was a whirlwind of rehearsals, meetings, and last-minute tweaks, the tension thick enough to slice through the air. Everyone—your team, your friends, your bodyguards—were running on caffeine and sheer willpower, pushing themselves harder with each passing hour. Yet despite the chaos, you knew that tonight, you needed a break. Just one evening away from the stage lights, the cameras, the endless grind.

So when you announced you were heading out to dinner, it wasn’t entirely a surprise when Maverick, Bradley, and Jake insisted on coming along. Three bodyguards to a casual dinner felt a little excessive, and you weren’t shy about pointing that out as you climbed into the car.

“You do realize this is just dinner, right?” you said with a teasing smirk. “Three bodyguards for one girl—I think I’m more protected than the President.”

Bradley grinned from the passenger seat, a playful warning in his voice. “Keep it in your pants, please.”

Jake said nothing, but the sharp glance he shot you from the back seat suggested he’d heard every word. His expression was stoic, the kind that told you he wasn’t about to take any nonsense, but the slight crinkle near his eyes hinted at a dry amusement underneath.

The city streets passed by in a blur as Maverick drove steadily toward the restaurant. The familiar hum of city noise wrapped around you, but a quiet excitement buzzed in your chest. Maybe it was the freedom of a night out, or the subtle thrill of having Jake there—his presence something steady and new.

But the moment you stepped inside, the illusion of a low-key night shattered.

The restaurant, small but chic, was already humming with energy. And then, unmistakably, it became clear you weren’t just any other diners. Whispers filled the air, heads turned, and phones quietly raised. Like moths drawn to a flame, a handful of fans began to gather discreetly but eagerly near your table.

Jake’s gaze snapped to the room, sharp and alert. You could see the shift in him—the way his posture straightened, how his eyes swept over the crowd with a protective intensity that was new, almost fierce. Maverick and Bradley exchanged quick looks, immediately tightening the security perimeter as they subtly moved to shield you.

Despite the growing buzz, you stayed calm, leaning back in your chair with a soft smile. The dim candlelight flickered over your face, highlighting the ease that came from knowing your team had your back.

“Welcome to my world,” you murmured quietly, meeting Jake’s steady eyes across the table.

There was something in his gaze—a mix of respect, admiration, and maybe a little disbelief. He was seeing firsthand what it meant to be in your orbit: adored, scrutinized, and never truly alone.

The chatter from the fans mingled with the clink of glasses and soft jazz playing through the speakers, but for a moment, you found peace in the small bubble of quiet connection across the table.

Dinner had settled into a comfortable rhythm, despite the fluttering attention from across the room. Maverick had taken a seat nearest to the door, his eyes occasionally flicking toward the restaurant’s entrance like a human security camera. Bradley, still relaxed from the drive over, sat opposite you with a half-finished beer and a smirk that rarely left his face.

And Jake—Jake was quiet, seated beside you, watchful and unreadable, but you felt the awareness radiating off him like heat. He didn’t make small talk, didn’t ask too many questions. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

You leaned back, swirling the stem of your wine glass between your fingers, the soft clink of cutlery and murmuring voices surrounding you like a low tide. “So,” you said, glancing between the three of them. “First show is in London. Wembley Stadium. No pressure, right?”

Bradley raised his glass. “No pressure at all. Just you, a hundred thousand screaming fans, and a stage the size of a small country.”

You smiled wryly. “Exactly. A walk in the park.”

“Speaking of parks…” you began, casting a not-so-subtle look at Jake, “I was thinking… once we land in London, I kind of want to explore. Take a little walk, maybe sneak into a pub. Do normal people things. With coffee. And pastries. Maybe a crêpe?”

The shift in energy was immediate.

Maverick’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Bradley groaned audibly. And Jake—Jake straightened in his chair.

“No,” Maverick said simply.

“No,” Bradley echoed. “Hard no.”

Jake, with his arms crossed, added dryly, “Not happening.”

You blinked at them in mock offense. “Excuse me? Did I just get triple vetoed?”

“You want to sneak out in one of the most crowded cities on Earth, days before opening night, when the press is already foaming at the mouth and your face is on every billboard?” Bradley asked, leaning forward like you’d just confessed to robbing a bank.

“I wouldn’t sneak,” you insisted, stabbing a piece of arugula with unnecessary force. “I’d just… stroll. Casually. Like a mysterious local.”

Maverick gave you a flat look. “You haven’t been casual since you were twelve.”

Jake smirked, and for a brief second, you thought you caught the edge of a dimple. “Look, if you want pastries, we’ll have them brought in. Hell, we’ll fly in a French chef for the crêpe.”

“That’s not the same,” you groaned, pushing your plate away and dramatically slumping back in your chair. “I just want to feel normal.”

Jake glanced over at you, quieter now, his voice softer. “This is your normal. Whether you like it or not.”

The words shouldn’t have settled in your chest the way they did—but they did. He wasn’t being cruel. Just honest. And in some strange way, it made you like him a little more.

Maverick, trying to soften the mood, leaned in. “You’ll have time to see London—just not alone, and not before the biggest show of your life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what I’m hearing is... hostage until Wembley.”

“Exactly,” Bradley said, grinning. “But a very well-fed hostage.”

Jake didn’t say much after that, but when the check came and Maverick reached for it, Jake was faster. He paid with a quiet efficiency, ignoring your protests.

“I’m more than capable of paying for my own dinner,” you said as you exited into the night air, your voice a mix of irritation and flattery.

“I know,” Jake said, not looking at you. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”

And for the rest of the night, as fans loitered outside and the flashing of cell phone cameras filled the sidewalk, all you could think about was that simple reply—and the way his hand brushed yours, just barely, when he opened the car door for you.

The hum of the jet was low and steady beneath the banter, like a heartbeat under laughter.

You were stretched out across a plush, cream leather bench seat with your legs dangling over Bob’s lap, his laptop balancing precariously on one knee as he tried to finish up the master itinerary for your first tour stop. Natasha sat across from you both, one brow arched, her phone in hand as she scrolled through what looked like a thousand unread emails.

“Tell me again why you packed five carry-ons,” she asked, not even looking up.

You tilted your head dramatically against the headrest. “I’m an artist, Natasha. I feel my outfits. You can’t put expression in a checked bag.”

“You packed six different pairs of sunglasses,” Bob muttered.

You held up a finger. “Seven. One’s in my purse. And each one serves a specific mood. Don’t question my system.”

At the back of the plane, Mickey and Javy were deep in a very intense game of Uno, throwing down cards like it was a matter of national security. Maverick was near them, leaning back with his arms crossed and a proud little smirk on his face as he watched his team be exactly who they were—rowdy, sharp, loyal.

And then there was Jake.

He was seated toward the middle of the jet, directly across from Penny, your manager, his back straight, arms folded. Watching. Always watching.

He hadn’t said much since takeoff, only nodding politely when Penny had handed him the tour packet and muttering a “thanks” when Bradley passed him a bottle of water. But you could see him now out of the corner of your eye—taking in the dynamic, the teasing, the chaos, the warmth—and it was clear something was shifting. Not externally, not in anything he’d say out loud. But in the way his eyes softened when you threw your head back and laughed at something Bob said. In the way he clocked every person’s placement like he was memorizing how your found family worked.

Penny caught his gaze and gave him a half-smile. “They’re not like any team you’ve worked with before, are they?”

Jake shrugged, but there was the faintest twitch of his mouth. “That obvious?”

She leaned in a bit, her tone light but steady. “It’s more of a circus, really. But the good kind.”

“She’s the ringleader,” Bradley said, walking down the aisle with two protein bars in hand, passing one to you. “And the lion. And the flying trapeze.”

“I’m multi-faceted,” you said with a smile, unwrapping the bar. “Tell him, Mickey.”

From the back, Mickey called out, “She once fired me and proposed to me in the same hour.”

“Twice!” Javy added.

Penny shook her head, trying not to laugh. “And somehow, this machine still works.”

Jake just nodded once. “You all really care about her.”

There was a pause. Subtle. Brief. But heavy.

Penny looked at him, eyes serious now. “She’s earned it. Through fire.”

The moment passed quickly, swallowed by a new burst of laughter when Bob finally gave up and dropped his laptop in defeat after you elbowed him in the ribs.

You caught Jake’s eye across the cabin—just for a second. You didn’t smile, didn’t wink, didn’t tease.

But he held your gaze.

And you knew that, for all the distance he tried to keep, he wasn’t made of stone. Not entirely.

The wheels touched down in London just after sunrise. Gray clouds hung low over the tarmac, the kind that promised rain even if it never quite delivered. The jet taxied smoothly to a private terminal already swarming with black SUVs and an ominous energy you could feel in your chest.

From your seat, you could see Maverick and Bradley standing near the open aircraft door, both of them still as stone, scanning the horizon.

You yawned and stretched, tousling your hair with both hands as Bob handed you a coffee he’d begged off the flight attendant twenty minutes ago. “How bad is it?” you asked around the lid, voice still a little sleep-worn.

Bradley answered without looking back. “Paps clocked the tail number before we landed. They’re out there. Maybe fifty, give or take.”

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course they are.”

“Standard plan,” Maverick said. “You come out last. Jake’s with you, I’ll lead. Bradley’s covering your right side.”

Jake had been silent through most of the landing. He stood now by the exit stairs, his posture straight, already sliding on his dark coat as Maverick turned to him.

“Here,” Maverick said, tossing him a massive black umbrella that looked more like a weapon than a weather shield. “Keep her dry. And keep her close. They’ll scream, but don’t flinch.”

Jake caught it with ease, unfurled it once to check the mechanism, then nodded. “Got it.”

You met him by the door a minute later, coat already on, dark sunglasses pulled over your eyes even though the clouds were thick enough to smother the sun. “You ready to be my shadow?” you asked, voice light, almost teasing, though your nerves were beginning to stir. The chaos outside was familiar—but it never got easier.

Jake didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, raised the umbrella over both of you, and held it steady. “Stay close,” he said quietly. His voice was deep and calm, a perfect contrast to the building storm outside.

The doors opened. Maverick went first, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. His presence alone was enough to make a path.

Then Bradley stepped down, shoulders squared, ignoring the shouting as flashes began popping like fireworks. He didn’t have an umbrella, didn’t need one—his job was to spot, to block, to warn.

Your turn.

Jake moved with you. Not behind. Not in front. Beside. One hand on the umbrella, the other gently guiding you at the elbow.

It was like being in a bubble, your little pocket of quiet under the umbrella while the world outside screamed your name. You could hear the frenzy: the yelling of your name from strangers, camera shutters, people asking who Jake was, speculation already starting to swirl before the tour had even begun.

Jake didn’t flinch. Not once.

He kept his body angled slightly in front of yours, tall and unmovable, shielding you like he’d been doing this for years. You barely noticed the short walk from the stairs to the SUV until you were ducking inside, safe behind tinted glass.

He followed behind you, folding the umbrella with one smooth motion and tossing it to Bradley, who jumped into the front passenger seat.

You took a breath.

Jake glanced over at you once you were settled, face unreadable, but his voice was lower now, a little softer than before. “You okay?”

You nodded, cheeks slightly flushed. Not from fear. But from the strange, electric awareness of how close he’d been. How calm. How careful.

“I’ve done this a hundred times,” you murmured. “Still feels like the first.”

The hotel was a modern fortress of glass and stone in the middle of London’s beating heart, flanked by polished security and velvet ropes that barely held back the sea of bodies outside. The rain hadn’t chased them off. If anything, it only made the flashbulbs more dramatic—umbrellas glowing white as camera flashes cut through the morning gloom like lightning.

Inside the SUV, you leaned back in your seat, arms folded across your chest as Maverick’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “Lobby’s clear. They’re letting us up through the side entrance.”

You glanced at Jake beside you. He hadn’t said a word since you’d left the plane. Rain dotted his black coat, the collar turned up just slightly, jaw sharp and unreadable as he watched the entrance through the glass.

“You always this fun before noon?” you asked, just to poke at him.

He didn’t look at you, but you caught the flicker of something near his mouth. Almost a smile. “Before noon, after noon. It’s all the same when your job is making sure you don’t get body-checked by someone with a camera and a Twitter account.”

You snorted, biting back a laugh. “Okay, fair.”

The car rolled to a stop, and Bradley was the first out. Maverick stood just inside the hotel doors, nodding as Jake stepped out next and opened your door, umbrella ready again like an extension of himself. He offered you his hand, which you didn’t take—but he still subtly adjusted his stance to keep you dry as he walked you into the lobby.

Inside, the marble floors gleamed. Penny was already at the front desk with Nat and Bob, handling the check-in while Mickey and Javy dealt with luggage and logistics. You gave them a wave as Jake guided you to stand near the elevators, Bradley just behind you.

But even inside, you weren’t safe from prying eyes.

A group of guests lingered by the lounge, pretending not to stare but clearly filming from behind handbags and designer sunglasses. A few held their phones low, angled just enough to catch your profile. You lowered your head instinctively.

Jake noticed immediately.

He moved without a word, taking one long step in front of you and casually shifting his shoulders so he blocked their view entirely. His arms crossed, coat still damp from the drizzle. He didn’t say anything to the gawkers—just stood there. A wall of muscle and unimpressed Texan judgment.

“I think they just peed a little,” you whispered, glancing up at him from behind the curtain of his coat.

Jake looked down, one brow arched. “They’re amateurs. You? You’re the real danger. Harder to spot when you’re bite-sized.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He smirked—barely, but enough to break through the stone. “I mean, you’re what—five-one? You could hide behind a ficus and take someone out with a mic stand. I’m just saying, don’t underestimate the compact ones.”

You gave a mock gasp. “That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.”

Before you could come up with a clever retort, the elevator dinged and Maverick stepped over. “Penthouse is ready. Let’s move.”

Jake gestured for you to go inside first, scanning the other guests one last time. He didn’t relax until the doors closed.

As the elevator hummed upward, you leaned against the mirrored wall and stole a quick glance at him again. He stood tall at the front of the car, eyes straight ahead, still in full protective mode. But that hint of amusement still lingered on his face.

The penthouse suite was more like a high-rise apartment than a hotel room. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a moody London skyline, the gray clouds casting everything in silver-blue light. The walls were decorated in warm neutrals, the furniture sleek and impossibly expensive. A spread of fresh fruit, tea, and bottled water waited on the long table near the window, untouched.

But no one was relaxing.

You were curled up in a corner armchair, hoodie pulled over your head, sipping a green juice like it had personally wronged you. Maverick was at the head of the dining table with a printed itinerary and two open laptops. Bradley sat to his left, fidgeting with his earpiece. Jake stood across from them, arms folded behind his back like he was still on base.

The rest of the team filtered through briefly—Natasha with updated press obligations, Javy with new social posts from the PR team, Bob handing off your final schedule to Penny—but it all passed in a blur for Jake. He wasn’t used to this kind of operation. It wasn’t just security; it was orchestration.

“This isn’t a concert,” Maverick said, pointing to the schedule like it was a mission briefing. “It’s a campaign. Fifty-one shows across Europe. Two days off between here and our next stop. A hundred and two crew members. You’re to know every hallway, exit, and panic point at each venue. I want you to memorize the building layouts by tomorrow morning.”

Jake nodded once. “Understood.”

Maverick continued. “When she’s onstage, your job is to be where she is. You move when she moves. Doesn’t matter if she’s getting a mic change, heading to a quick-change tent, or sprinting through a corridor barefoot in the middle of a bridge—”

“Hey,” you interrupted from the corner. “That happened once.”

Maverick gave you a look. “Once is enough. The point is, you don’t lose her. Ever.”

Jake’s jaw ticked slightly, nodding again. “And Bradshaw?”

“I’ll be on the other side,” Bradley answered, spinning a pen between his fingers. “We flank her. No gaps. If anything feels off, we pull her.” He paused. "You also need to memorize the faces of the people on page ten. All identified stalkers."

Jake tensed for a moment, scanning the pages spread out before him. “What’s the chain of command if we need to evacuate?”

“Me,” Maverick said. “Then Penny. If she’s not reachable, you follow your instincts. But only if you're absolutely sure she’s in danger.”

You watched him from your chair, chin in your palm. It was fascinating, really, watching him try to make sense of it all. This was a man who had probably escorted diplomats through war zones and thought nothing of it. And now he was being told to monitor the path between the main stage and a glittery catwalk with smoke machines and backup dancers.

“Any questions?” Maverick asked.

Jake looked down at the schedule again. “What’s a ‘B-stage quick-change fairy forest’? And why does it have a fog machine?”

Bradley burst out laughing.

You grinned from across the room. “Oh, you’re gonna love Wembley.”

Jake looked up at you, unamused. “Do I need a tactical flashlight and a butterfly net?”

“I mean…” you pretended to consider it. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Maverick sighed. “Welcome to tour life.”

Wembley Stadium looked like it had swallowed the sky whole.

The empty seats stretched into the horizon in every direction, tiers upon tiers glowing in the pale morning light. A small army of crew members moved like clockwork across the floor — taping, lifting, wiring, adjusting — as the skeleton of your show took shape under their boots and gaffer tape.

You stepped onto the stage, hands in your jacket pockets, looking out into the expanse.

“Remind me again whose insane idea it was to play Wembley first?” you muttered.

“Yours,” said Maverick, behind you. “We just nodded along.”

Jake was two steps behind him, dressed in black jeans and a zipped jacket, earpiece already in, scanning every inch of the venue like there was a sniper hidden in row 302.

Bradley walked ahead, radio clipped to his hip, sunglasses already on. “We’ve got two hours before doors, then full lockdown. But don’t worry, Wembley’s security is tight. Your only job is to sing. And maybe try not to leap into the pyrotechnics, yeah?”

“No promises,” you grinned.

From backstage, Mickey popped out like a groundhog, tape measure around his neck and a venti iced coffee in his hand. “Okay, drama queen,” he called out. “Soundcheck now, quick-change fitting after. You’re two hours behind on hydration and fifteen minutes late on glam. If you die on this stage, I swear to God, I’m not refunding anyone’s ticket.”

You rolled your eyes. “Morning to you too, Mick.”

“I am your morning,” he called back, holding the coffee out to you. “Now take this before your blood sugar crashes and you faint in front of a live audience and ruin our careers.”

Jake watched the exchange with curiosity, arms folded across his chest. The tone was chaotic but somehow… efficient. Everyone moved fast, but there was rhythm to the chaos. Controlled madness. A family, functioning on sarcasm and caffeine.

“You always talk to her like that?” he asked Mickey.

Mickey shrugged. “She’d worry if I didn’t.”

Rehearsals began in full force — lights flashing, stagehands running around the catwalks, dancers stretching and joking behind the curtains. You stepped into your mic position while your sound engineer gave the go. The house audio system roared to life, your voice echoing off empty seats as you ran through the first verse of the opener.

Jake and Bradley stood at the far end of the stage, eyes never leaving you.

“She always move around this much?” Jake asked, watching as you spun around a mic stand with unnecessary flair.

Bradley grinned. “This is her standing still.”

“I see,” Jake said, flatly. “So the glitter cannon is necessary?”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve been pelted with biodegradable glitter at eighty miles an hour,” Bradley replied.

From the stage, you blew them both a kiss mid-verse.

Jake blinked.

“She does that a lot?” he asked.

“Only when she’s trying to mess with us,” Bradley replied, arms crossed. “Which is… always.”

By mid-afternoon, the energy backstage had kicked up to eleven. Glam was in full swing. Natasha hovered over the media team, issuing orders about lighting and press. Bob was calmly managing your green room playlist while Javy mediated a fake argument between two crew members about whether or not you should bring back the acoustic bridge in the third song.

“Who’s the opening act again?” Jake asked, as he walked with Maverick near the loading dock.

“That new indie girl. The one with the blue hair and the angry songs about her exes,” Maverick said. “Then the boy band at seven.”

Jake made a face. “And the main act?”

Maverick raised a brow. “You kidding?”

Jake didn’t answer. His eyes were on you — head thrown back in laughter, sneakers kicked off, sitting cross-legged on a crate as Mickey tugged at the hem of your rehearsal outfit, threatening to duct-tape it in place if you didn’t stop fidgeting.

You were the storm and the eye of it, Jake realized. Loud, wild, sweet. Somehow commanding a whole kingdom of chaos and still making it look easy.

And in just a few hours, this entire place would be filled to the brim — 90,000 people screaming your name.

“Yeah,” Jake muttered to himself. “I get it now.”

The roar of ninety thousand voices was more than just sound — it was weight. It pressed against Jake’s chest, vibrated through his ribs, and made the ground hum beneath his boots.

The show was halfway through, and from the floor of Wembley Stadium, it was like standing in the eye of a storm.

He stood just off-stage right, behind the barricade line, eyes scanning every row, every stairwell, every waving sign and wide-eyed fan. The earpiece crackled now and then with updates from Maverick and Bradley. So far, nothing suspicious. Just security calls, crowd flow checks, one idiot trying to sneak in with a fake pass — handled in minutes.

But Jake didn’t ease up. Not even when the lights dipped and the energy of the crowd shifted — not down, but inward. Focused.

“Acoustic set,” Bradley said into the comms from the other side of the stage. “Keep your eyes peeled. Lights are low.”

Jake didn’t need the reminder.

A single spotlight flared, and there you were — seated at a white piano at the tip of the diamond stage that jutted into the crowd. The screens lit up in soft pastels, the roar faded just slightly, and the crowd began to hush, like instinctively holding its breath.

And then you sang.

The first notes were low, honey-dipped, threaded with something fragile and soft.

Jake had seen you at rehearsals. He’d heard the notes. But here — under lights and surrounded by screaming fans who sang every word like it was gospel — it was different.

You weren’t just performing. You were holding their hearts in your hands.

Jake’s jaw tightened. He scanned the audience again, because that was the job, but his eyes kept drifting back. It was impossible not to.

Your voice floated over the stadium, piercing and pure — but it wasn’t just the vocals. It was the way you curled into the piano like it was your confessional. The way you closed your eyes when the chorus hit. The way your fingers trembled ever so slightly on the keys, but your voice never cracked once.

Girls were crying in the crowd. Entire rows of people were swaying in time with your words. And Jake — battle-hardened, stoic Jake Seresin, who had spent years in high-risk jobs with his emotions bolted down tight — felt something shift in his chest like a pin had been pulled loose.

“She’s somethin’ else, huh?” Bradley’s voice came through the comms, but even that sounded distant.

Jake didn’t answer.

Because she was. And not just in the way that made the headlines or sold out stadiums in three seconds. She was something else in the way she gave herself away piece by piece with every lyric — fearless and unfiltered and painfully real.

His fingers curled tighter around the rail. He knew this wasn’t his world. He wasn’t built for stages and sequins and fans who sobbed behind barricades. But right now, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

The song ended.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, and you stood, giving a small bow, eyes glimmering with gratitude — and sweat and tears and everything you were too exhausted to name yet.

Your eyes swept the stadium… and for the briefest second, landed on him.

Jake didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then the moment passed, and you turned to wave to the fans as the next set piece was rolled in.

Jake exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

And for the first time since he took the job, he stopped thinking of it as a job.

The show had gone off without a hitch.

Two hours of flawless vocals, seamless set changes, perfectly timed visuals and an audience that screamed so loud the walls of Wembley shook. Maverick clapped him on the shoulder backstage and told him, “That’s how it’s done,” like Jake had had anything to do with the flawless performance.

Still, he was proud. Proud of the team. Proud of the perimeter work. Proud of the way Bradley handled the crowd surge at the barricades before the second act. Proud of how you never missed a beat, not even when your mic went out for a full six seconds and you sang a cappella without missing a note. The crowd had loved that.

Now the adrenaline was fading, and the whole team was scattered. Somewhere down the hallway there was champagne popping and someone blasting the final track of the show, but the green room was quiet. Dimmed. Empty — save for Jake.

“Hang back for a sec,” Maverick had told him. “She wants to rinse off before heading out. Just stay outside the door until she’s done.”

Jake had nodded. Easy enough.

So now he stood in the middle of the soft-lit green room, next to the door that led to the private bathroom, arms crossed over his chest, earpiece finally removed. The couch still had a slight imprint from where you’d curled up ten minutes ago, giggling and exhausted, kicking off your boots and thanking everyone.

Jake’s eyes were on the floor, but his mind was on you. Again.

He could still see you at the piano. Could hear the warble in your voice as you introduced a song about heartbreak. Could feel that moment when your gaze found his in the middle of a sold-out stadium.

Jake exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

This is just a job.

He’d said it to himself a hundred times since landing in London. He said it again now.

But it didn’t feel like a job when his heart skipped a beat every time your laugh echoed off a hallway wall. Or when you scrunched your nose at a bad joke from Bradley. Or when you met his eyes like you knew what he was thinking.

He was not supposed to be thinking about you in the shower.

And yet—

“Jake?”

Your voice came from the other side of the bathroom door, sweet and a little hoarse from singing for two hours straight.

He startled slightly. “Yeah?”

A beat of silence.

“I, um…” A soft laugh. “This is really embarrassing, but I forgot my clothes. They’re by the couch, I think.”

Jake’s eyes snapped to the rumpled bundle of clothes on the armrest. His throat tightened.

“I would come out and get them myself, but, well… I’d rather not flash my bodyguard.”

Jake swallowed.

“Unless you’re into that sort of thing,” you teased lightly.

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head once, hard. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Please, Seresin?” you added, all innocent. “Won’t you be a gentleman and save me from a very awkward exit?”

He stared at the door.

This was a test. You had to know it. Maybe you didn’t mean to be cruel about it — he didn’t think you were the kind of girl who played games — but God, you were making it hard not to think about how your skin would still be damp, your hair slicked back, your lips pink from the heat.

Jake reached for the clothes.

He didn’t rush. He walked to the door with the calm of a man heading into battle, his knuckles brushing the wood as he knocked once.

“I’m setting them on the floor,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Not stepping in.”

There was a beat of silence, then your soft voice again. “Scared you’ll see something you like?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Scared I’ll like it too much.”

Another silence. A charged one.

Your voice was gentler this time. “You always this noble, Seresin?”

“Trying real hard, sweetheart.”

He opened the door just a sliver, just enough to slide your clothes through without letting himself look. He didn’t even let his eyes drift.

As the door closed again, he heard your quiet voice, half-laughing and half-astonished.

“Thank you, cowboy.”

Jake leaned back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.

Just a job. Just a job.

But his hands were shaking.

And for the first time in his career, he didn’t know if he wanted the assignment… or the girl.

The SUV rumbled softly beneath them, headlights cutting through the slick streets of London. Rain clung to the windows like a film of silver, and the interior of the car was steeped in a kind of late-night hush. The kind that followed adrenaline, exhaustion, and the distant echo of ninety-thousand people screaming your name.

You leaned your temple against the cool glass, still glowing from the high of the show but aching in every muscle. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off, but the craving for something normal was starting to pulse stronger. Something that didn’t involve spotlights and camera flashes and perfectly timed exits.

You sighed. “Can I go out tomorrow?”

Maverick, behind the wheel, didn’t even blink. “No.”

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “You didn’t even hear where.”

“I don’t need to. It’s a day off for a reason. No press, no fans, no danger. You stay in, you rest.”

“But I don’t want to rest,” you argued softly. “I want to walk around, see the city. Just for a few hours.”

Maverick glanced at you in the rearview mirror. Jake sat beside you in silence, gaze fixed forward, jaw tight. Bradley, riding shotgun, shifted in his seat.

“Mav…” Bradley started.

“No,” Maverick repeated, firmer now. “You’ve got another show in three days and I still have venue checks to finalize before we fly to Portugal. Half the security clearance in Paris hasn’t been signed. I can’t—”

“I’ll go with her,” Bradley said.

The car went quiet.

You blinked. Jake stirred beside you.

Maverick exhaled. “You know that’s not enough. We need—”

“I’ll go too,” Jake said.

His voice was calm, low, professional. But there was something in it—finality, maybe—that made Maverick glance at him in the mirror.

“I don’t mind taking the lead,” Jake added. “I’ll plan the route. We keep it short, quiet, avoid major crowds.”

You glanced up at him. His profile was sharp in the darkness, a shadow outlined by the city lights flashing past. He didn’t look at you, but you saw the faint twitch of his jaw.

Maverick hesitated. The silence was long enough to make you think he’d still say no.

Then: “Fine.”

You smiled. “Really?”

“Two hours, max,” he grunted. “Don’t push your luck.”

The next day, London was gold.

Sunlight poured over cobbled streets and rooftops, warm and rare. You wore a hoodie pulled over your head, a pair of oversized sunglasses, and sneakers you hadn’t worn since last summer. Jake and Bradley flanked you as you made your way through Notting Hill, your pace light, your energy—finally—unfiltered.

Jake had kept his distance at first. His hands in the pockets of his jacket, sunglasses on, face unreadable. He didn’t look at you often, but when he did, it was sharp, focused. Scanning. Calculating. Protecting.

Bradley was easier. Joked about the café menus being too long, bought you a croissant he swore was better than anything in Paris. You laughed with him, smiled like yourself, and for a little while it felt like you were just a girl on vacation with friends.

But then Jake’s entire body shifted.

You saw it happen. You were on a quiet block, browsing the windows of a bookstore, when Jake’s hand lightly touched your elbow.

“Don’t look,” he muttered. “White van across the street. Long lens out the back.”

You froze for a half-second.

Bradley turned, subtly scanning. “They’ve been behind us since the coffee shop.”

Jake’s voice was low, controlled. “It’s one guy, maybe two. Could be paparazzi, could be a scout. We don’t engage, we just move.”

“I thought we were trying to be subtle,” you said, trying not to frown.

“We are. But they’re still professionals. Just a different kind.”

You all began walking again, a little faster now. Jake pulled slightly ahead of you, shoulders tense. He was murmuring something into his comms — not that you could hear much. But you could feel him shift into something else. Something colder, more alert.

That’s when it happened. You turned the corner near Hyde Park, only for a man with a camera to step right up in front of you.

You didn’t see him coming. But Jake did.

Jake was between you and the camera in a second. His forearm came up like a wall, his body taking the brunt of the lunge before it even happened.

“No photos,” he said firmly, voice like steel.

The man laughed nervously. “C’mon, mate, just one shot—”

Jake stepped forward, towering. “Back off. Now.”

The man raised his hands, taking a few steps back. “Jesus, alright, alright—”

Bradley tugged your arm. “Let’s move.”

You walked quickly, Jake falling back in beside you, his body still tense and coiled. You looked up at him as you kept pace.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

But then his voice dropped a little. Quieter now, more personal. “I get it now,” he murmured.

You looked at him again, confused.

“This life. All of it. The noise. The eyes.”

You didn’t say anything. Just walked beside him, your shoulder brushing his every now and then.

And maybe it was the adrenaline, or the way he’d moved without hesitation to protect you, but you felt safer with him in that moment than you had in a very long time.

Jake’s eyes never left the street ahead. But for the first time that day, his hand briefly hovered at the small of your back — not touching, not quite. Just there.

A silent promise.

[...]

Three weeks into tour. Paris.

Jake Seresin had never seen anything like this life.

Not just the fame — though that was blinding enough — but the way it moved through every part of your world. The pressure, the rehearsals, the hours on the road and in the air. The way a single tweet could ignite a wildfire. The way every moment was watched, documented, critiqued.

And you? You carried it like silk draped over steel.

Each city had revealed a new side of you. Dublin, when you fought through the flu and still sang for two hours. Rome, when a fan threw a handmade bracelet on stage and you stopped everything to thank them. Madrid, when your voice cracked during a ballad and you just smiled, wiped your cheek, and kept going.

Jake had seen a lot of hard things in his life — deployments, crashes, people breaking under pressure.

But he’d never seen anyone like you.

And now… Paris.

The Stade de France. Over 80,000 people. A storm warning on the radar and not a single empty seat.

He and Bradley had flanked you from the SUV to the green room, cutting through the backstage swarm like clockwork. He’d noticed you bouncing on your heels, half nerves, half adrenaline. Not fear — no, you’d never shown fear — but energy. That spark you had just before every show, the one that made people think you might levitate.

“You alright?” Bradley had asked once you were in costume, mic pack clipped to your waistband.

“Perfect,” you grinned, slipping your in-ears in. “Paris doesn’t know what’s coming.”

And you were right.

You'd blown through the first set like fire on oil — dancing, laughing, hitting every note like your lungs were made of gold. Jake and Bradley shadowed you from the ground, weaving through security posts, staying close to the barricades, always watching. Always ready.

Even from a dozen feet below, Jake could feel the pull.

The screams of the crowd. The way they roared when you so much as looked in their direction. The rain had started twenty minutes in, light at first, then harder. You hadn’t even blinked — just laughed and threw your head back mid-song like you welcomed it.

Bradley leaned in toward him under the hood of his jacket. “We’re guarding a goddamn superhero.”

Jake didn’t answer. His jaw was tight.

Because it wasn’t just that you were magnetic.

It was that he couldn’t look away. Hadn’t been able to, not for weeks.

And he was trying. God, he was trying.

Because this was a job. You were his client. And he knew what kind of pressure you were under — he saw the cracks when you thought no one was watching. The late-night tension in your shoulders. The way you smiled through exhaustion. The way your fingers trembled when you thought no one was looking.

He’d spent the last few weeks protecting you from the outside world.

What terrified him most now was the way he wanted to protect you from everything else.

The stadium dimmed. The crowd quieted into a low rumble of anticipation.

Then the acoustic piano was rolled out under the white-hot spotlights.

His stomach dropped.

You sat, adjusted your mic, and spoke softly. “This next one’s not on the setlist. But it felt right tonight.”

The first notes of Iris hit the air.

Jake’s breath caught.

Even Bradley blinked. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

The rain came harder.

But you didn’t stop.

And I’d give up forever to touch you…

Your voice wrapped around the lyrics like velvet. The crowd was silent — silent, in a stadium of 80,000 — except for the scattered sounds of people crying.

Jake’s eyes never left you.

You were soaked. Rain clung to your lashes. Your hands moved over the keys with grace, purpose, control. But your face… there was something in your face.

Like the rest of the world had vanished.

Like you weren't singing to the crowd anymore.

You were singing to someone.

And I don’t want the world to see me, ‘cause I don’t think that they’d understand…

Jake’s heart pounded behind the Kevlar vest. He couldn’t look away.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Bradley nudged him. “See something you like?”

Jake didn’t respond.

He knew it. Knew he was circling a line he had no business crossing. But hearing you like this — raw and real in the pouring rain — it cracked something in him he hadn’t even realized was locked.

He’d been in the business of control all his life.

But right now, watching her give herself to the music in front of a storm and 80,000 strangers… Jake Seresin had never felt so undone.

The stadium was still ringing, even after the lights had gone down. Your skin felt electric, still wet from the rain, adrenaline humming under the surface. Everything had gone right — the sound, the energy, the crowd screaming every lyric like their lives depended on it.

You should’ve been flying high. But as you stepped into the green room, closing the door behind you, your eyes immediately landed on Jake.

He stood near the far wall, arms folded across his chest, drenched from head to toe. Water dripped from the edge of his shirt onto the tile, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were on you.

“You good?” he asked, voice low and steady, the way it always was.

“I’m fine,” you said, toeing off your boots. “That was… a lot.”

Jake nodded once. “You killed it.”

You looked at him then — really looked. The rain had flattened his hair slightly, darkened his shirt so it clung to his chest and shoulders. He looked less like a bodyguard and more like a man standing at the edge of a decision he hadn’t made yet.

“Didn’t know you were a fan of power ballads,” you said, walking slowly toward the counter where your towel was.

His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

“I’m not,” he said. “But you are.”

You blinked. That small answer knocked the wind out of you more than the downpour ever could.

He wasn’t smiling, not really — but something in his face softened, just enough to make you move closer. The green room felt too small. Or maybe it was just how large he seemed standing there, so composed. So close.

You stepped toward him without even thinking. And for the first time, he didn’t step back.

“I don't think I've said it before,” you murmured, searching his face. “But I always feel safe when you're near me.”

Jake’s eyes flickered. He glanced at the door like he was looking for a way out. But he didn’t take it.

You reached for his hand — barely — and he met you halfway.

It was like touching a live wire.

His breath hitched, and yours stopped completely. His fingers curled around yours, slow, careful, like he was afraid to break the moment.

He stepped in, just enough that you had to tilt your chin up to look at him. The air shifted. The space between your mouths closed to a whisper. You saw the change in his eyes — the hesitation, the conflict, the part of him that wanted this just as badly as you did.

But then—

He pulled away.

Fast.

Like the moment had scorched him.

You blinked, startled. “What the hell was that?”

Jake stepped back, hand falling from yours. His whole body had tensed up again.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

“Why?” you asked, a sharp edge creeping into your voice. “Because you work for me?”

“Because this isn’t just about you,” he shot back, voice suddenly sharper. “This is about everything — your image, your safety, your team, Maverick—”

“Maverick?” You scoffed. “That’s what you’re worried about? What, he’s gonna scold you for kissing me?”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to be professional.”

“No,” you said, heart pounding now for all the wrong reasons, “you’re trying to pretend you don’t feel something, and it’s driving me insane.”

Jake shook his head, running a hand over his face. “You have no idea how complicated this is.”

“Then tell me,” you challenged. “Tell me why you look at me like that, like I’m something you want more than anything, and then walk away.”

“I’m doing my job,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s all this is.”

And that — that burned.

You stared at him, your chest tight and aching. “Right. Of course it is.”

You grabbed your towel and headed for the shower without another word, your footsteps sharp against the tile. Behind you, Jake didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He was too busy trying not to follow.

The ride back to the hotel was unusually quiet.

You sat in the backseat of the SUV, tucked into the corner with your arms crossed tight over your chest. Jake sat beside you, a careful distance away, his hands flat on his thighs and his jaw clenched like he was biting back a war. Maverick was driving. Bradley rode shotgun, casting the occasional glance at the rearview mirror like he could cut the tension with a knife.

No one said a word. The silence was louder than any conversation.

Your eyes stayed trained on the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass, blurring the glowing Paris lights as they zipped by. The entire city looked romantic and alive — and you felt numb.

Jake hadn't looked at you once since the green room. But you felt his presence like a weight. His regret, his restraint, his stubborn refusal to acknowledge what had almost happened.

And worse — how much you still wanted it.

When you reached the hotel, Maverick walked ahead, speaking with the concierge. Bradley lingered near the elevator, watching your back like the loyal bodyguard he was.

Jake didn’t follow you up.

Not right away.

You were in your suite alone, stripped down to an old t-shirt, hair damp from a shower you barely remembered taking, when you heard the knock. Not sharp or impatient. Just one steady knock. Like someone asking permission to fall apart.

You knew it was him.

You opened the door without a word. Jake stood in the hallway, still in black from head to toe, his hair a little messy now, his eyes locked on yours like they hadn’t looked anywhere else all night.

“I shouldn't have let you leave like that,” he said, voice low, measured. “I should’ve said something.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But instead you let me go.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I had to. Because if I didn’t, I was going to kiss you.”

“Like that’s a bad thing,” you snapped, the words cutting loose before you could catch them. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me? The way you watch me like I’m gonna disappear if you blink too long?”

“You’re my client,” he growled.

“I’m also a person. One who’s trying to be honest about what she wants.”

“And what is it you want?” he shot back, taking one step into the suite. You didn’t stop him.

You stared up at him, voice soft but unwavering. “You.”

That did it.

Jake reached for you like he’d been holding back for weeks — no finesse, no hesitation. His hands found your waist, pulling you hard into him, and then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate. Pent-up and feral. His kiss was all heat and frustration and reckless need. You gasped against his lips as he backed you into the wall, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Like the last few weeks had been unbearable. Like your body had been waiting for this exact moment to finally breathe.

He kissed you like he was making up for every second he hadn’t.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, his forehead rested against yours. “This is gonna complicate everything.”

You nodded, panting. “I know.”

Jake looked at you for a long beat, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’m so screwed.”

You gave him the smallest smile, your lips swollen, your heart pounding. “Please, don’t go.”

And this time, when he kissed you again — slower, deeper — he didn’t stop.

The morning after Paris didn’t scream change, but it hummed with it quietly beneath the surface.

The crew was already bustling through breakfast in the hotel’s lounge, half-asleep but running on adrenaline and caffeine. Mickey argued with Javy over color palettes for the next show, Natasha was organizing media rounds on her tablet, and Bob was typing furiously on his laptop with a blueberry muffin precariously balanced between his teeth.

And then there was Jake.

He walked in like he always did — early, quiet, composed. But he looked at you a little too long when he thought no one was watching. Not the usual flick of a glance to scan the room. No, this was softer. More curious than assessing. His eyes lingered.

He stood closer than usual too, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as he quietly offered you the mug of tea he’d seen you reach for yesterday. “Figured you’d want this,” he murmured, voice still low, still gravelly, but not as clipped as usual.

“Thanks,” you said, surprised but smiling as your fingers brushed his. He didn't pull away like before.

Later, when the schedule started rolling and you were being shuffled to a late-morning soundcheck, Jake moved with you instinctively. No words, no overt gestures — just a hand ghosting behind your back when the hallway got crowded, his gaze constantly scanning ahead and behind like always… but his body was looser, like he wasn’t just on duty. Like he cared. Like last night had cracked something open in him that couldn’t be closed again.

He laughed once — quietly, but genuinely — when Mickey told a story about you trying to smuggle a cat into a photo shoot last year. You turned toward the sound in surprise. Jake Seresin didn’t laugh. But there it was — a glimpse of something warmer, almost private, before it was gone again.

No one else noticed.

But you did. And he knew you did.

And when your eyes met across the corridor, as you were pulled toward wardrobe by Mickey and he toward a perimeter check, the air pulsed between you with something that hadn’t been there before. Not quite spoken. Not yet.

It was almost midnight by the time the team returned to the hotel.

The second Paris show had been everything — soaked in rain and light and noise, an echo of eighty thousand voices still reverberating in your bones. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not completely. You’d managed a hot shower, thrown on a soft oversized tee and bike shorts, and were about to crawl into bed when a soft knock came at your door.

You padded over, wary but curious, and peeked through the peephole. Then opened it slowly.

Jake stood there, freshly showered and changed into a plain black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was slightly damp and curling at the ends, and in his hands — of course — was a paper bag from the bakery downstairs.

“I figured you’d be starving,” he said simply, holding it out. “Didn’t see you eat much after the show.”

You blinked. “Is that—”

“An assortment,” he nodded, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “I don’t know what you like, so I got one of everything.”

Your laugh was soft, surprised, delighted. “Wow. That’s dangerously charming of you, Seresin.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

The suite was quiet — warm lamplight, blankets thrown haphazardly on the couch, your laptop still open on the coffee table. You both sank onto the couch without much thought, sitting close, knees brushing. You took the bag, pulled out a croissant, then offered him a pain au chocolat. He took it without hesitation.

“What?” he asked, when he caught you staring.

“You’re just… not what I expected,” you murmured, tearing off a flaky piece of pastry. “You’re always so serious. Thought for sure you’d think this”—you gestured at your little post-show bubble—“was beneath you.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “Not even a little.”

You chewed for a moment, then set your croissant down. “You want to know a secret?”

His brow arched, intrigued. “Always.”

“In the beginning? Before any of this? I used to sing at bars,” you said, leaning back against the couch cushions. “I was fourteen the first time. They’d sneak me in the back entrance, have me sit in the green room until my set. I’d sing for whoever was there — usually drunk men shouting requests I didn’t know.”

Jake’s expression shifted, quiet and listening.

“I didn’t care,” you continued, smiling faintly at the memory. “It was singing. It was a stage. I would’ve done anything just to be heard.”

Jake stared at you for a long moment, and then his voice came low and certain. “And now you’ve got stadiums singing back to you.”

You laughed under your breath. “It’s crazy, right?”

“No,” he said, eyes soft, voice even softer. “It’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

The air settled between you, thick with warmth. You turned toward him slowly, your bare knee brushing his jeans again, neither of you pulling away.

And this time, when he leaned in — it wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t impulsive.

It was certain.

Your lips met gently, slowly, and then with more weight, more feeling. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. It wasn’t rushed or frenzied, but deep. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you for a very long time.

You pulled back with a small smile, foreheads touching. “So you do like pastries.”

Jake chuckled, low and warm. “I like you.”

Your breath caught the second time Jake kissed you.

The croissant was forgotten, the city outside the windows silent. All you could feel was his mouth against yours—confident this time, pressing with a purpose that sent heat sliding down your spine. He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as if memorizing the shape of you.

And then you moved—climbing onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs. Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the firm lines beneath his t-shirt, and you swore you could feel his heartbeat pounding as hard as yours.

Jake didn’t hesitate. One hand trailed down your back, splayed wide, urging you closer, anchoring you against him like he couldn’t stand a single inch of space between your bodies. His lips brushed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—warm and firm and certain. When he looked up at you, pupils dark, jaw tight, he said, low and rough:

“Tell me what you want.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt. “You.”

He grinned—slow, wolfish. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

The way he handled you was reverent and demanding all at once—like he was staking a claim, like he already knew how to pull the breath from your lungs without even trying. He leaned you back into the cushions, mouth returning to yours as his hands roamed—touching, learning, teasing. Every graze of his fingertips was deliberate, and every low sound you made only seemed to drive him further.

When he slid down your body, his kiss deepened just below your belly button, a wicked glint in his eye. “Let me show you how good it can feel,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a rough promise. “Let me take care of you.”

And when his mouth found its mark, you forgot your own name.

Your legs were still trembling when he kissed his way back up your body, his lips warm and reverent against the slick sheen of your skin. Every inch of you pulsed with the aftershocks of pleasure, but Jake moved slowly, like he didn’t want to break the spell of what had just passed between you. His palms slid up the curve of your waist, his thumbs grazing the underside of your ribs before he settled beside you, one arm draping over your middle as he caught your gaze.

You were both breathless. Not just from what he’d done to you—but from what it meant. From how it felt.

Jake didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you, his green eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, like you were something rare he wasn’t quite sure he deserved to touch. His fingertips brushed your cheek, then moved to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, lips parted, a little dazed. “Yeah. I’m…” You swallowed. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

He smiled—quietly, not cocky—and leaned forward to kiss the hollow of your throat. “That’s the bare minimum of what you deserve.”

Your hand curled into the collar of his shirt, pulling him back to you. “Then don’t stop.”

Jake didn’t need more than that.

His mouth was on yours again, deeper this time, fueled by something warmer than lust. His tongue traced the seam of your lips with slow purpose, one hand anchoring at your hip as you slid a leg over his lap and settled against the hard line of him beneath his jeans. You felt his breath hitch against your mouth when your hips rolled down, just once, teasing—testing.

He groaned into your kiss. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“You started it,” you murmured, grinning.

“And I’ll finish it,” he replied, voice darker now, more sure. He stood suddenly, gripping you by the waist as if you weighed nothing, and you yelped in surprise as he carried you to the bed.

The moment you hit the mattress, his hands were everywhere again—up your thighs, under your shirt, across your ribs, skimming your breasts like he was trying to memorize your body by touch alone. You arched into him, needy and unguarded, and Jake let out a ragged breath as he peeled off the last of your clothes.

He kissed you again, slow and aching, and then trailed kisses down your chest, worshiping every inch of skin with a reverence that made your stomach flutter. When he reached your thighs again, he paused, looking up at you from between them. “Tell me what you need,” he rasped. “I’ll give you everything.”

“You,” you whispered. “Just you.”

That was all he needed.

When he finally pushed into you, it was slow, patient, his hands holding your hips steady as he filled you completely. He didn’t move at first—just held there, foreheads pressed together, breathing you in. You gasped, adjusting to the stretch, and Jake shushed you gently, lips brushing your temple.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Fucking perfect.”

Then he started to move.

It wasn’t rushed—it wasn’t rough—but there was intensity behind every thrust, a purpose in the way his hips rolled into yours, the way his hand gripped yours against the pillow, fingers interlocked. You couldn’t stop touching him—his shoulders, his jaw, the plane of his back. His name left your lips in broken sighs, each one met with a kiss or a quiet word of praise.

“You feel so good.”

“Look at me.”

“I’ve got you.”

You didn’t know how long it lasted, only that you didn’t want it to end. And when the second wave finally rolled over you—sharp and blinding—you came with a cry muffled against his throat, his name on your tongue like a promise. He followed soon after, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself deep, groaning against your neck.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, your body tucked under his arm, your head on his chest. His heart was still pounding, one hand smoothing lazily up and down your back. The silence stretched, but it was easy, comforting, like the quiet after a storm.

“You okay?” he asked again, murmured into your hair.

You smiled against his skin. “More than okay.”

He kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You fell asleep to the sound of rain tapping against the windows and Jake’s steady breathing beside you. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t dream about running or hiding.

You dreamed of staying.

Of someone choosing to stay.

[...]

The Europe leg of the tour rolled on like a freight train—city after city, stage after stage. The energy was electric, your performances flawless. Every night, you lit up the stadiums with the kind of magic people would talk about for years. And behind it all, Jake was there. Always there.

He’d become a shadow by your side. A silent protector. A quiet anchor.

Except now… not so quiet.

You and Jake had become masters at sneaking around. A glance across a crowded dressing room, a touch lingering a little too long as he helped you into a car, a brief rendezvous in hotel stairwells between press calls and setlist rehearsals. It was risky, exciting, intimate in ways you never expected. And you weren’t sure how long it could last.

Bradley, for one, had started to notice.

He wasn’t confrontational about it, not at first. But Jake saw the way Rooster’s eyes narrowed every time you laughed too easily at one of Jake’s dry comments. How his gaze lingered just a second longer when Jake reached for your hand to help you out of a van. Bradley wasn’t dumb. He had that protective streak in him—a big brother energy he tried (and often failed) to hide.

It all came to a head in Berlin.

The crew had gathered in the production office behind the venue, winding down after soundcheck. You were off reviewing wardrobe changes with Mickey, Nat and Javy were huddled over the next day’s PR schedule, and Maverick had gone off to triple-check the security team for that night.

Bradley stepped up beside Jake, arms crossed over his chest. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

“You and I need to talk.”

Jake didn’t blink. He followed Bradley out of the room without a word. They ended up on a side stairwell—quiet, concrete, unbothered. The kind of place Jake was starting to associate with you.

Bradley leaned against the rail, eyeing Jake carefully. “You two think you’re subtle, huh?”

Jake exhaled, his jaw tight but not defensive. “Guess not subtle enough.”

“No,” Bradley muttered, pushing his hands through his hair. “Not subtle at all.”

Jake leaned against the wall across from him, arms folded now, mirroring Rooster’s posture. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“But it did,” Bradley said. “And it’s still happening.”

Jake didn’t argue.

There was a long beat. A train of noise filtered through the steel door from backstage—cheers, laughter, footsteps—but the stairwell stayed still, heavy with things unsaid.

“I tried to keep it professional,” Jake finally said, voice lower now. “You think I don’t get how bad this could go? She’s our boss. My job is literally to keep her safe, not… fall for her.”

Bradley didn’t flinch, but his eyes flickered at that last part.

Jake sighed. “But I did. Somewhere along the way I stopped seeing her as just the client, and started seeing her as… everything else. And I don’t know how to turn it off.”

Bradley looked at him for a long moment. “You love her?”

Jake didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

It hung there between them, simple and solid.

Bradley ran a hand over his mouth, like he was trying to figure out what the hell to do with that. Then he laughed—dry, almost pained. “Natasha’s gonna kill you.”

Jake huffed a quiet, tired laugh of his own. “Yeah. I figured.”

Bradley shook his head but there was a glimmer of something softer now—acceptance, maybe. Understanding. “She’s been through a lot, man. Just don’t screw this up.”

“I won’t,” Jake said, eyes steady. “I swear.”

Bradley nodded. “Then keep it quiet a little longer. Let her do her job. Do yours. But eventually, we all know it’s gonna come out.”

Jake nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

They stood there for a few more seconds in silence before Bradley pushed off the railing.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” he added, opening the stairwell door. “But when Nat finds out? I’m hiding behind Penny.”

Jake grinned. “Deal.”

The Berlin crowd was wild — in the best way. Eighty thousand strong, hands raised, voices louder than the speakers. You could feel the thunder of their energy under your boots, vibrating through the stage and straight into your spine. It should’ve been exhilarating. And it was… until it wasn’t.

You were halfway through your fifth song, hitting the final chorus, when something shifted.

From the ground, Jake felt it first.

He always watched the audience like a hawk, his eyes tracking movement more than faces. Every show had energy — people jumping, waving, dancing. But this was different. A quick flash of chaos in the corner of his vision. A figure breaking the barricade. Then, all at once, everything kicked into motion.

A young guy — early twenties, dressed like every other fan — suddenly bolted through a gap in the front row security, scrambling up toward the stage.

Bradley saw him a second later. “Shit—”

He was already moving, but Jake was faster.

You didn’t even notice at first — the music was too loud, the spotlight too bright. But Jake’s voice crackled over the comms:

“Stage left breach—on it.”

Before the fan could make it past the front edge, two of the venue’s local security guards finally snapped out of it and tackled him hard against the scaffolding. He hit the ground, screaming something you couldn’t make out through your in-ears, and within seconds he was dragged backstage, kicking and yelling.

The band kept playing — they were trained for that. You didn’t stop. You didn’t show fear. You just glanced offstage for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, and caught Jake standing just beyond the lighting rig, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

The moment the show ended, the lights dipped and they were backstage, you turned toward your team. “What the hell just happened?”

But Jake wasn’t looking at you — he was already storming toward the two local security guards, voice like a growl.

“You were supposed to have eyes on that corner—what the hell were you doing?”

The taller of the two blinked like he hadn’t expected to be yelled at. “We handled it—”

Jake got in his face. “No, we handled it. He was ten seconds from getting on stage. If something had happened—”

Bradley appeared behind him, clamping a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Hey, man—breathe.”

Maverick stepped in too, more calmly. “Jake. He’s gone. She’s fine.”

But Jake didn’t budge at first. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, fury written all over him. You could see it from where you stood — not just the frustration, but something deeper. Fear. His eyes flicked to you, just for a second. Softened. Then he exhaled hard and stepped back, muttering under his breath.

Maverick raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. He gave Jake a look — one that said we’ll talk later — and turned to escort you back to the green room while the team regrouped.

You didn’t say anything until you were inside, door shut behind you, heart still racing.

Jake finally followed, a minute later, visibly trying to calm himself down. He wouldn’t look at you at first.

“You okay?” you asked, voice gentler than before.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just—shouldn’t’ve happened.”

You stepped closer. “But it’s over now. You were incredible.”

He finally met your eyes. And there it was again — that quiet, fierce protectiveness. Like if it had gone any differently, he would’ve burned the whole arena down.

“They don’t get to touch you,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Not on my watch.”

You didn’t reach for him — not here, not now — but your gaze lingered, and for a moment, nothing else existed in the world but you and him and the silence between your breaths.

The post-show wind-down in the hotel suite had become something of a ritual. Maverick sat at the table with his laptop open, skimming through footage from the night’s security feed. Mickey and Coyote were mid-way through a bag of chips, still hyped from the energy of the stadium. Bob typed notes for the report Maverick always expected. Natasha sat cross-legged in an armchair, sipping from a bottle of water, observant and quiet. Bradley leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them all a little too carefully.

“She’s down for the night,” he finally said. “Jake’s at her door. I offered to take over, but he waved me off.”

Natasha quirked a brow. “Of course he did.”

Mickey popped a chip in his mouth. “Anyone else feel like Jake was… extra tonight?”

“Dude looked like he was about to rip that venue guy’s throat out,” Javy added.

“He reacted fast,” Bob said. “Almost like he knew something was gonna happen before it did.”

“He’s always been intense,” Bradley offered, tone breezy.

“Not this intense,” Natasha shot back. “It’s like he’s got tunnel vision—but only when she’s around.”

Bradley shifted slightly, arms still crossed. “He’s just doing his job. Maybe a little too hard, but—better safe than sorry.”

“Sure,” Javy said slowly, “but when the show ended, and she was off stage? She went to him. Not Penny, not Maverick, not you, Brad. Him.”

Bradley gave a lazy shrug. “They’re both under a lot of pressure. Maybe they’ve just… clicked.”

Bob looked up. “You think something’s going on?”

Bradley’s heart thudded, but he forced a calm laugh. “C’mon. That’s a stretch.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha said, narrowing her eyes. “She lets him get closer than she lets anyone else. And the way he looks at her—Jake doesn’t look at anyone like that.”

Maverick finally looked up from the footage, brow raised. “Looks at her how?”

“Like she hung the damn moon,” Natasha replied without missing a beat.

Javy made a face. “Yeah, and she looks right back at him like she’d rather be in his arms than on stage.”

“Maybe we’re all just tired,” Bradley said, pushing off the wall to walk toward the table. “It’s been a long few weeks. Big stadiums. Long nights. Emotions run high. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Mickey gave him a look. “You trying to convince us, or yourself?”

Bradley smirked. “Just saying. We’re paid to protect her, not to start a tabloid exposé.”

“Still,” Natasha murmured, eyes narrowing in thought. “If something is happening…”

“It’s none of our business,” Bradley said quickly, voice firm.

Everyone turned to him.

Natasha’s brow lifted slightly, curious now. “That defensive, huh?”

Bradley opened his mouth, then caught himself. “Just don’t want to stir up drama that isn’t there.”

Maverick watched him a moment longer, then turned back to his laptop, muttering, “We’ll see.”

Bradley sat down beside Mickey, keeping his expression neutral. But inside, he was already planning how the hell he was going to warn Jake — because it was only a matter of time before the others really figured it out.

And when they did?

There’d be no putting that genie back in the bottle.

The hotel room was quiet when Jake stepped inside.

Dim lamplight spilled across the plush carpet, soft and golden, and you stood by the window, your back to him, still in one of your oversized post-show hoodies. You didn’t turn around at first. Just let your head tilt slightly as you felt him approach — like your body knew he was close before your mind could register it.

Jake shut the door behind him with a soft click. “Hey.”

You turned, slow and tired but smiling, that specific kind of glow only adrenaline and stage lights left behind. “Hey yourself.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, stopping just in front of you, hands slipping into his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. “You good?”

You reached for him then, fingers curling around the collar of his shirt. “I don’t want to talk.”

He leaned in, slow and sure, his voice low as he murmured against your lips, “Then don’t.”

The kiss was soft at first, a whisper of mouths, his hands settling on your waist. You breathed him in — clean soap, a trace of rain, and something deeply him. When he deepened the kiss, his grip grew firmer, pulling you flush against his chest, the tension finally giving way to hunger.

You gasped into his mouth when his hands slid beneath your hoodie, skimming over bare skin.

“No stage,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “No crowd. Just me and you.”

You nodded, wordless, and let him lead you toward the bed.

He kissed down your neck, taking his time, every press of his lips reverent. Clothes disappeared piece by piece — your hoodie first, his shirt next, and then nothing but bare skin and quickening heartbeats. You tugged him down with you onto the mattress, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting his weight settle over you.

Jake was gentle, even when his desire burned hot. He kissed every inch of your skin like he was memorizing it, learning you. His hands were strong, sure, but never rushed. When he dipped lower and his mouth found its place between your thighs, it wasn’t about showing off. It was about you falling apart under him — your hands tangled in his hair, your breath catching on his name, your body trembling from his touch.

And when he finally moved over you, when he pressed into you slow and deep, you felt everything. The tension, the weeks of wanting, the quiet understanding that this wasn’t just lust. It was something bigger. It meant something.

He moved with you, not against you. Eyes locked. Words whispered into skin. Your fingers dragged down his back, his lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he rasped.

“I’m yours,” you breathed.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rushed. Jake made love to you like he had all the time in the world. And when you came undone beneath him, he held you through it, whispering your name like a promise.

After, he didn’t move. Just held you close, his hand cradling the back of your head, your cheek pressed to his chest where his heart still pounded like a war drum.

You felt safe.

You felt seen.

And for the first time in your chaotic, spotlight-lit life… you let yourself believe this wasn’t just a fantasy.

He was real. And he was yours.

[...]

It happened on a Wednesday.

You’d made it a full month of stolen moments, whispered goodnights behind hotel doors, fingertips brushing under the glare of stadium lights — always just out of view, always careful. But someone was bound to see.

And Maverick wasn’t just anyone.

You were mid-soundcheck at the venue in Barcelona when he asked — no, ordered — both you and Jake to meet him in the green room after.

The room was empty, too quiet when you walked in. Jake stood stiff beside you, arms crossed, jaw tight. You could feel the panic starting to rise, like a fog behind your ribs. Maverick stood by the little kitchenette, sipping from a thermos like he wasn’t about to completely change the course of your day.

He set the thermos down.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

You rushed out before you could stop yourself. “Please don’t fire him.”

Maverick blinked, stunned. “I—what?”

You stepped forward, heart racing. “Or bench him or—whatever it is you’re thinking. Just don’t, okay? I know it’s not ideal, but we didn’t plan this. I swear we were careful and we tried to fight it but—” Your voice cracked. “Jake makes me happy. Really happy. I’ve never felt this—safe. Or seen. Or… me. So if you’re going to break us apart, please, don’t.”

Jake’s hand barely brushed your lower back, a silent anchor. You were trembling.

But Maverick didn’t yell. Didn’t scowl.

He just sighed. Long. Quiet. Ran a hand down his face like a father trying not to lose it in front of his kids.

“I’m not here to break you up,” he said finally.

You stared. “You’re not?”

“No.” His gaze flicked to Jake. “Though I am seriously considering gluing a GPS to your forehead, Seresin.”

Jake coughed once — a soft sound that might’ve been a laugh if the moment wasn’t so thick.

Maverick stepped closer, arms crossed now but not in anger — in careful authority. “You think I didn’t notice how you look at her? Or how she looks at you?” He glanced at you then, eyes gentler. “I’ve known you a long time. Long enough to know when something’s real.”

Your throat was tight.

He looked back at Jake. “I just want her protected. Not just from crowds or fans or threats — from the kind of love that burns too fast and leaves scars.”

Jake nodded, quiet but steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Maverick said. “That’s why I called this meeting.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Because,” he continued, “if you’re going to be in this — really in this — then you need to stop hiding. Not from me. Not from the people who love you.” His voice softened. “I’ve always had your back, kid. I’m not about to stop now.”

Your eyes burned.

Jake reached for your hand.

And Maverick? He just smiled a little.

“You deserve happy,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t screw it up.”

[...]

One year later — Los Angeles, final night of the tour.

The lights at SoFi Stadium were blinding. Seventy thousand people. A sea of phone lights like stars. Screams so loud the stage felt like it pulsed beneath your feet.

You were in your element.

The final notes of your last song rang out into the warm California night, the crowd holding every moment with you like they didn’t want it to end. And truthfully? Neither did you.

The tour had changed everything. Your world. Your heart.

You stood there, hands pressed to your chest, your voice trembling as you whispered a final thank you into the mic. You couldn’t see the front barricade from the lights, but you knew they were out there — Maverick, Bradley, your entire team. Your family.

And Jake.

He was somewhere along the stage edge, hidden in the shadows just as he had been every night. But your eyes always found him.

You slipped off stage to roaring cheers and were immediately pulled into hugs — Mickey, Nat, Javy, Penny. Everyone sticky with sweat, misty-eyed, and glowing.

But you only truly exhaled when you saw him. Jake.

Leaning against the wall in his black-on-black suit, tie loose, security badge clipped to his belt — but all you could see was his smile. That real one. The one just for you.

“Nice show,” he said, voice low.

You stepped into his space without hesitation. “Only cried three times,” you joked, cheeks still flushed from adrenaline.

Jake cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching a smear of glitter. “You did it, superstar.”

“So did you,” you whispered, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. “Thank you for being there. For all of it.”

He kissed you then. Slow. Steady. Deep enough to silence the noise.

You weren’t hiding anymore. Maverick had known. The rest of the team had figured it out. But no one cared — not when they saw how happy you were. Not when they saw how steady Jake made you. Not when they saw the way you looked at each other, like everything before this had only been a rehearsal.

Jake pulled back just enough to murmur, “So what’s next for us?”

You smiled.

“Whatever we want.”

[formulafanfics13]

All Fucking Night - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: After teasing Lando all evening, she’s punished with denial, edged to tears, then wrecked on his cock until she can’t think. The night ends with soft, sacred aftercare — bath, forehead kisses, slow love-making, and confessions of devotion.

Warnings: Explicit smut, edging, orgasm denial, forced orgasm, restraint, dirty talk, dom!Lando, mirror play, toy use, overstimulation, degradation + praise, intense aftercare, creampie, multiple orgasms, emotional vulnerability.

It starts with the dress. Not that she meant for it to be a weapon. Not entirely. But Lando hasn't looked away from her thighs since the car ride. Champagne arrives at the table.

They're seated in a booth, low light, ocean-view, the kind of restaurant where the music is velvet and the waitstaff pretend not to notice when someone slides a hand up your leg.

And she? She's already doing it.

"Careful," Lando murmurs, eyes on his wine glass.

Her fingers drag higher, slow under the white linen. "What?"

He glances up. "You know what."

Her nails skim his inner thigh. He doesn't move. Just takes another sip, places the glass down, and says, very quietly: "Try that again and I'll cancel dessert."

She freezes. Then smiles. And doesn't stop.

The entire meal is a game. She leans close. Laughs in his ear. Lets her heel fall off under the table, then runs her foot up his ankle like she doesn't know he's already hard.

"You're playing with fire," Lando says, voice low.

She shrugs. "You gonna punish me in public?"

His smile is sharp. "I don't need to."

Main course arrives. She switches tactics. Doesn't touch him again. Just eats slowly. Drinks slowly. Laughs. Says all the right things, and then, when the table next to them gets up to leave, she leans into his ear and whispers: "You can't stop thinking about what I'd sound like if I sucked your cock under this table, can you?"

Lando doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just finishes his drink, flags the server, and asks for the check.

The elevator is mirrored. Empty. Silent. Lando presses the button for their floor. Steps back. Shoves his hands in his pockets. She watches his reflection. He watches her real body. She sways a little in her heels, twirls one piece of hair. "You're quiet."

He hums. Tilts his head. Walks toward her slowly, until her back hits the mirrored wall and his body covers hers like heat and stormclouds. "You've been a brat all night."

She opens her mouth to say something. Anything. He shakes his head. "Don't."

She freezes. His hands stay in his pockets. But his voice? His voice turns quiet. Deadly. Patient. "You think I didn't notice you showing off in that dress?"

She swallows.

"You think I didn't clock the lack of panties when you climbed into the booth?" His eyes trace her face. Her lips. Her throat. "You think I didn't hear what you said in my ear? You think I didn't see you trying to make me lose my temper in front of a room full of strangers?"

She's silent now. Good. Because Lando leans in, mouth against her ear, and whispers: "You're not coming tonight."

Her breath catches. He smiles. "You want it too bad."

"Lando-"

"Shh." His nose drags down the line of her throat. "I'm going to edge you until you cry."

She gasps.

"I'm going to ruin you on your knees, with your hands tied behind your back."

She whimpers.

"And when you beg for it, when your voice is cracked from crying and you're trembling so hard you can't even think, then?" Then he pulls back. And smiles. "Then I'll fuck you so deep you'll forget why you teased me in the first place."

Ding. Their floor. He steps back. Straightens his collar. "Let's go, baby." And walks ahead.

Leaving her wrecked in the mirror. She stripped without being told. The moment they got inside the hotel room, she kicked off her heels, unzipped the dress, and let it pool at her feet, slow, like she thought it might earn her something. It didn't.

Lando was already seated in the armchair by the window, legs spread, watching her with quiet calculation as she stood in front of him, bare and flushed. "You know what to do," he said.

Her breath caught. He nodded to the nightstand, where a velvet bag had been waiting since before dinner.

She picked it up. Unzipped it. And pulled out the vibrator. Small. Sleek. Cruel.

Lando leaned back in the chair, one elbow resting on the armrest. "On the floor." She knelt. "Hands behind your back."

She obeyed. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a soft silk tie, and secured her wrists, slow, gentle, like a man tying a bow on a present he couldn't wait to unwrap.

Then he stood. Kissed her temple. And whispered: "Mirror."

She crawled, shaking already, and stopped in front of the massive mirror across from the bed. Lando followed. Tossed a pillow onto the floor in front of her knees. And placed the toy in her palm. "Put it in."

She gasped.

"Now."

She slid it in, slow, shaky, her head falling forward from the stretch. The toy nestled perfectly against her clit, pulsing even before he reached for the remote.

Lando sat back down. Legs spread. One hand on his thigh. The other holding the remote with the kind of lazy calm that made her tremble. "Look at yourself."

She did. Her knees were spread, pussy soaked, arms tied, toy buried inside her. Her chest rose and fell in panicked little jerks. Lando clicked the remote. She whimpered.

"Now ride it."

She started rocking, small, slow movements. The toy buzzed directly against her clit, teasing her entrance on every shift of her hips. It was overwhelming instantly.

Lando adjusted the setting. Higher. She moaned.

"Stay quiet," he said softly. "We've barely started."

She bit her lip. Rocked faster. Lando clicked it again. Her head snapped back.

"Lando-please-fuck-"

"No." He stood. Walked over. Crouched behind her.

Pressed one hand to her throat, the other to her lower back, forcing her to arch, forcing her to stay right on the edge. Her thighs were trembling now.

"I want you to come so bad," he whispered in her ear. "I want you to come all over this toy and cry in my hands."

"Please-"

"But you're not allowed."

She sobbed. He adjusted the power again, maxed it. She screamed. Her body jerked. Her hands flexed against the silk. "Don't come."

"I-I can't-"

"Then I'll pull it out and start again."

"No-please-"

"Do you want to come?"

"Yes-please-"

"Then beg." And she did. Sobbing. Trembling. On her knees in front of the mirror, pussy stretched around the toy, tears streaking her face as she begged for release like her life depended on it.

"Good girl," Lando whispered. "But not yet."

And turned the toy off. She collapsed forward with a choked gasp. And Lando? Stroked her hair. "You're doing so well," he whispered. "You'll come when I say."

She nodded against the carpet, ruined. He untied her wrists. Lifted her chin. And kissed her like a promise. "Now get on the bed."

"Lando-"

"You're not coming until I fuck you. Lie down."

His voice was low. Controlled. She did exactly as he said, still trembling from the toy, still wet, still aching. Lando stood at the edge of the bed. Shirt off. Sweatpants low on his hips. Eyes dark as he looked down at her ruined body, flushed, streaked with tears, thighs still twitching.

"You remember what I said in the elevator?"

She nodded. He smirked. "Say it."

"You said I wasn't allowed to come."

"And?"

She swallowed. "You'd fuck me so deep I'd forget why I teased you."

He leaned down, palms bracketing her shoulders, and kissed her softly. "Good girl."

Then he kissed her again. Harder. And fucked into her in one slow, brutal thrust. She screamed. Lando groaned. "So fucking tight," he hissed. "You waited for it, didn't you?"

She was already crying. Nodding. Moaning. And he didn't move. Just stayed deep inside her, forcing her to feel every inch.

"You're gonna take everything I give you," he whispered. "You're gonna cry on my cock. And when you beg?"

He pulled out. She sobbed. "Then I'll give you what you want."

The pace he set was cruel. Slow. Deep. Steady. Each thrust hit exactly right, dragging against her swollen walls, her clit throbbing from the toy, her whole body shuddering.

"Please—"

"No." His hand wrapped around her throat, not tight. Just there. Holding her still. Making her look at him. "Eyes on me."

She met his gaze. He smiled. And snapped his hips forward. She screamed. "Again." He thrust. "Again."

She broke. "I'm gonna come-"

"No."

"Please-"

He pulled out. She whimpered, a broken, desperate sound. Lando kissed her cheek. "You wanted to tease me, baby? Wanted to flirt and show off and drive me insane?"

She nodded, sobbing.

"Then take it."

He slid back in, faster now. Rougher. The sound of skin on skin filthy in the dark hotel room. "You belong to me."

"Yes-fuck-yes-I'm yours-"

"Say my name."

"Lando-Lando-Lando-"

"Come." And she did. Hard. Her body arched, her thighs shaking, her breath caught in her throat as her orgasm ripped through her, clenching tight around him. But Lando didn't stop. "Again."

"I-I can't-"

"You can."

He fucked her through it, faster now, chasing his own high, moaning her name. "Come again, baby. Let me feel it."

And she did. Again. Sobbing this time, twitching, broken, her hands clawing at his shoulders as she came harder than she ever had in her life. And then he came too. With a growl. Buried deep inside her. Spilling everything. Still kissing her throat. Still whispering.

"You're mine." "You're mine." "You're mine."

She couldn't move. Not really. Not after what he did to her.

She was still on her back, eyes glassy, lips parted, chest rising in stuttering breaths, as Lando pulled out slowly and kissed her stomach.

"You're okay," he whispered. "I've got you."

Her body twitched. Lando smiled, soft, proud, and kissed her hip. Then he stood. Ran a warm washcloth across her thighs, her cunt, her trembling skin. She winced. He kissed her knee. "I know," he said gently. "I'll be careful."

He cleaned her like he meant it. Like he loved her. Like she was the most precious, ruined thing he'd ever made with his hands.

Then? He carried her to the bath. Sat on the edge of the tub with her between his legs. Washed her hair. Ran his palms over her shoulders. Whispered things. "Did so good." "Still can't believe you're mine." "Did I push too far?"

She shook her head against his chest.

"You were perfect." He smiled into her wet hair. "You always are."

Back in bed, she curled against his chest, warm, soft, clean but still sticky between her thighs. Still full of him. Still glowing. And Lando? Was hard again. She felt it against her thigh.

 She shifted, blinking up at him. "You still want me?"

His voice cracked. "Always."

"Even after all that?"

He cupped her cheek. Kissed her forehead. "I want you more."

Then rolled her onto her back, slow, careful. Slipped between her legs. And entered her again. Slow. Deep. His cock dragged through the mess they made, his come still inside her, her pussy sore and swollen and so ready.

She gasped. "Lando-"

He kissed her. Held her hand. And started to move. Not fast. Not rough. Just present. There. With her. Inside her. His eyes didn't leave hers. His free hand ran up her ribs, across her chest, into her hair. "You're perfect," he whispered.

"You're everything."

"I love you."

She started crying again. Lando kissed the tears. Didn't stop moving. Just fucked her slow, cock deep, strokes long, hips cradling hers like worship. She came one more time. Quietly. And Lando came inside her with a kiss. Then pulled her into his arms and didn't let go. Not that night. Not ever.

[cosmic-whispers]

When I'm Above the Trees - Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Reader

Summary: Heather Collins sees a lot. She sees how Robby is with you. And how you are with him. And she watches you fall in love. A story of heartbreak, healing, and moving on. Inspired by happiness by Taylor Swift.

Warnings: Collins pov (she is NOT villianized in this, but it’s v angsty for her but with a hopeful ending), fem!reader/robby endgame (age gap mentioned, not specified), attending!reader, mention of attempted suicide patient, violence against healthcare workers, jealousy/self-worth issues/insecurity, medical inaccuracies, no use of y/n

Words: 4.2k

Notes: Hi, coming out of writing retirement with this little fic because I’m in love with this man. This is my first go at writing for the pitt, so please let me know what you think! The news from earlier this week about Tracy was very disappointing. Collins was amazing and deserves the world, and it makes me sad that we won't see her again.

In hindsight, she was blinded. It was obvious, right from the beginning. 

When you were first hired on as the new attending at PTMC a few months ago, Heather actually liked you. You were young, had been an attending for just a year before joining the Pitt, but you were eager, kind, and wickedly smart. You were attentive, patient, and listened to everyone’s concerns. You naturally navigated towards Robby. You were both the day shift attendings, you bounced ideas off each other. That wasn’t surprising to Heather. He was an extraordinary doctor, fascinating and full of experience and advice. 

You asked interesting questions, encouraged his ramblings. You challenged him in ways no one else dared to–questioning his judgements with patients. You never did it in a rude or condescending way, you were genuine in your curiosity and your input was valued by everyone. Including Robby. That was surprising to Heather at first–he never liked his medical opinions being questioned. But he let you do it. Maybe you were able to get away with it because you were an attending. Maybe because the patient satisfaction scores increased after you started working there and he valued your opinion. 

But Robby’s patience was short. He was quick to get frustrated, throw a sarcastic comment, and run away from anything that wasn’t medicine. Heather knew that all too well. She had been close to him once. She shared love with him once. But, as it always happened with Robby, his lack of communication, brutal sarcasm, and steel-enforced emotional walls drove her away. It drove most people away. 

But you were not like most people. 

You were patient, stubborn, and unwilling to take no for an answer if you knew there was something you could do to help someone. You listened. Without judgement, without expectation. And it was exactly what Robby needed. A friend. Robby opening up was rare, something that he had outright refused to do in the past and something she had begged him to do for years. It made something ache in her chest that it wasn’t with her, but she was grateful that he had someone. 

She didn’t realize when it became more than what she thought it was. 

She didn’t realize it when he insisted you be at his side for the attempted suicide victim that came into the hospital one Wednesday evening. She had noticed previously that suicide cases were particularly hard for you. You never said anything, and she never asked. But Robby seemed to know and he stayed by your side the entire time. She saw how proud he was of you after the patient was stabilized.

Not when a car accident victim came in and she saw you both working on the patient like a well-oiled machine. You both knew what the other was going to say before you had even opened your mouths. She saw the way Mohan and Mel looked between the two of you in awe–two people completely in their element and tuned to the same frequency.

Not when a patient came in whose lungs weren’t able to provide enough oxygen after catching COVID. She saw Robby’s chest shake in restrained spain when the patient ended up coding. Heather knew he was thinking about Adamson. He walked away without saying a word, disappearing around the corner. She thought about going after him, but noticed you following close behind. 

She assumed it was a friend comforting a friend. 

But she didn’t witness that summer evening on the roof where Robby hugged you so tight you thought he might bruise you. She didn’t witness the moment the shine returned to his brown eyes and he finally let go of whatever was holding him back from you. She didn’t witness how he kissed you with so much passion and tenderness and devotion. 

She didn’t witness the quiet moments late at night in his apartment in the following months–you and him, cuddled in bed naked, and Robby, so unlike himself, rambling on and on about every thought, fear, and insecurity in his head without any hesitation. 

She didn’t know. 

To Heather, you were just his friend. 

To Heather, he was still her chance. 

Her chance to have a family, to have a baby. To create the life she had always dreamed of. And in her dreams, Robby was still the man standing next to her. 

Until that day in August. 

The massive heatwave raging through Pittsburgh was bad enough, the large influx of patients with heat strokes and rashes and sunburns, on top of the usual flow in the ED made it a terrible day for every healthcare worker and patient alike. It seemed like everyone was wound tight like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment. 

A patient had come in, screaming and panicked, a stab wound to the shoulder and you took him into a treatment room. Heather could hear him cursing from the nurses station. 

“You fucking bitch, that fucking hurts!”

Heather glanced into the room, seeing the knife still embedded in the man’s shoulder. You were applying what she assumed was lidocaine on the stab site. From what she could tell, his vitals were good and you were stabilizing him for scans. 

“You’ll feel it start to numb you shortly, Mr. Gale,” you said, patient as always. “It should only burn for a moment.”

He grabbed your arm, his strong grip pinching your skin. “Get this fucking knife out of me!”

Heather stood immediately, moving toward the room. Mateo was already there, trying to step in between the two of you. 

“Let her go, man.”

“Mr. Gale, if I remove the knife, it can cause you to bleed out. We need to do scans to be able to best determine how to help you,” you explained.

“Mr. Gale,” Heather said, getting the man’s attention. “She’s right. We need to be able to assess the wound before pulling out the knife. Please, let her go.”

“NO! I’m in pain, I got fucking stabbed, and you’re not helping me!” The man was panicking and started pulling at your arm harder. Heather looked back at the nurses station and made eye contact with Dana, who was already looking their way in concern. ‘Security,’ she mouthed and Dana nodded. 

“Sir–” Mateo started to speak, before the man, in his panicked state, grabbed the hilt of the knife and pulled it out. The three of you watched in shock as blood began spurting from the wound, landing on your scrubs, and he swung at you, slicing the skin on your arm. You screamed in pain, causing him to let go. He ran toward Heather, who he pushed against the doorframe, and ran out of the room. 

She rubbed her arm where she hit it, and looked back as the man was tackled down by who she thought was security. Her eyes widened in shock, mouth agape. 

It wasn’t Ahmad. It was Robby. 

Robby, who was always restrained and stoic and showed his anger in sarcastic quips rather than physical violence, tackled a man with a knife in his hands. She felt rooted to the spot as she watched the patient struggle against Robby’s grip. The knife had slid out of the man’s hand and Robby was holding him down on the floor, pinning him down with his hands against his shoulders and a knee on his lower back. The man continued to try to fight him off, but Heather could tell he was weakening from the blood loss. 

She looked around, noticing shocked faces of the residents who were all staring at Robby. Perlah and Princess were whispering to each other in a corner, looking between Robby and the room you were in. 

Ahmad came sprinting from around the corner and Robby immediately got up, rushing towards her. Heather’s spine straightened and she was about to tell him that she was ok, until he moved past her and into the treatment room. She turned, her gaze following his back as he made his way straight to you. 

She felt something physically crack beneath her ribs and she swallowed the lump that swelled at her throat. She felt…unimportant. Disregarded. 

She looked at you, tears lining your eyes but still composed as always. Mateo was applying pressure to the wound on your arm. Heather backed away, far enough to be out of the way, but close enough that she could still watch. It was masochistic–the sight before her continued to make her chest feel tight and eyes feel warm, but she couldn’t look away. 

“How’s your pain level?” Robby asked you, peeling away the gauze Mateo had been using and assessing the wound. 

“Not high. It doesn’t seem that deep,” you answered, your voice unusually low and quiet. Your hands were shaking, in adrenaline or fear, and Heather did not miss your uninjured hand reaching for Robby’s and squeezing him. He stared at you for a moment too long and let go of a shuddering breath. 

“Just some stitches,” he said, voice low. “I thought…I heard you scream and I lost it. I wanted to kill him.”

Heather was shocked. At the intimacy of the moment, how close you were sitting, how tender he was being with you. 

“I know, but I’m ok,” you said as Robby started gathering everything he needed for your stitches. 

“Get her an IV, we’ll start some antibiotics,” he said to Mateo and the two of them moved fast through the process. You winced when he injected the lidocaine and Robby whispered something low to you that Heather couldn’t hear, but it made you laugh.

“Gale is HIV negative,” Mateo said, reading the patient’s chart. 

“Good. We’ll still start you on PEP right away, just in case,” Robby said and you nodded. 

They continued treating your injury and Heather stood there. Unmoving. Watching.

Watching the familiar way his arms tightened around your waist and cradled your head to his chest once he was done with the stitches and Mateo had left. He leaned his head on yours and she could see his hands shaking where they rested on your back. Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, holding him close to you and you whispered something in his ear–maybe a thank you or a reassurance. And he chuckled, leaning down and kissing your forehead quickly before letting go of you. 

She knew she was intruding, but her legs wouldn’t move. She had never seen Robby like that. He was always restrained, unwilling to be anything but controlled in front of anyone. But here he was. Grasping your hands as you separated and smiling at you before his eyes flickered back to your arm, making sure you were alright. He looked at you like you were the only thing that could make him smile, the only thing that mattered to him…like he loved you. She couldn’t remember if he ever looked at her like that. 

You took a deep breath and stepped away from him, turning and walking away from the room. 

“You know you’re going home, right?” he asked, walking behind you. 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just a scratch, Robby. I’m staying.”

You looked up and your eyes met Heather’s for a moment. 

“Hey, Collins. Are you ok? I saw him push you.” Your concern was genuine and it made Heather feel almost nauseous. 

“I’m fine. Not even a scratch. I’m glad you’re ok,” she said and managed to keep her tone even and calm. 

“Thank God! Thank you for coming to help,” you said, smiling kindly at her. She glanced behind you to Robby, who was still hovering behind you. He was staring at you, like there was no one else in the room. It made her heart burn and she forced a smile on her face as she looked back at you. 

“Of course,” she said and walked away, unable to look at you and him for another moment. 

She couldn’t stop thinking about her dream. In her fantasies, it was still eight years ago. She was waking up with Robby’s strong arms around her, caressing her pregnant belly. It haunted her mind, constantly. At home, where she had too much time to daydream. At work, where she had to bite her tongue every time he saw you with him. The ugly, raging thing inside her chest grew larger every day, and she knew it was a matter of time before it exploded out of her. 

It was barely 7 am, day shift was trickling in for their shift. She saw Robby and Abbot finishing their conversation, with the night shift attending clapping Robby on the shoulder and walking away. She gazed towards you as you walked in. You were heading into the lounge, your bag still strung over your shoulder and you smiled at Santos as she walked in behind you. 

She slowly approached Robby, who was gazing down at the tablet in his hand. 

“Hey.”

Robby quickly glanced at her over his glasses. “Morning.”

She hesitated for a moment, but managed to force the words out of her. “You have a moment to talk?”

He was looking at her now and she wanted to smile. His attention was on her. He almost looked concerned. 

“Everything ok?”

“Yes, it’s just something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” She motioned towards the ambulance bay and began walking out, Robby following close behind her. She made it outside and rounded the corner for some privacy. He stood before her, glasses still perched on his nose and his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. He felt so familiar to her, like no time had passed since the last time she felt like this for him. 

She took a deep breath and spoke before her nerve died. “Robby… I still have feelings for you.”

The silence that followed was deafening and seemed to drag on for hours. She looked at him expectantly, her smile diminishing as the seconds dragged on and he didn’t react. He looked off to the side and took a few deep breaths before looking back at her, seemingly deciding what to say. 

“Heather, why would you say that to me?” 

She was taken aback. 

“Because it’s how I feel.”

“I…it’s been years. Things have changed…What did you expect to happen?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed. His deep brown eyes looked almost sad as they bored into her. 

“Robby…things can be like they used to. Better.” Especially since she had heard from Dana that Robby was finally in therapy. She didn’t think too hard about what or who convinced him to do that. 

“Heather, it’s too late,” he said, voice low and careful. “If you had come to me a year ago with this I would have jumped at the chance, but I’m not in the same place in my life. A lot of my past…I’ve healed. I’ve learned to move on from the pain and,” he hesitated for a moment before continuing. “And I found someone to help me through that.”

Heather whispered your name. He nodded, eyebrows furrowed, face serious. She looked down, feeling tears burning in the corners of her eyes. 

“I didn’t realize it was like that. That you’d move on so quickly.” Her voice quivered as she spoke and she cursed herself for feeling so foolish. So angry and sad and embarrassed. 

“Quickly? Heather, I spent years regretting what happened between us. Years wishing I could have you back in my life, but thinking I wasn’t good enough for you. Or anyone.” His hands rubbed over his face and took a step away from her. He chuckled, humorless and sad. “You know I went to therapy? You always begged me to, and I feel like shit knowing that I never did because of my pride. But…”

But he did it for you. He didn’t have to say it. 

“I wanted you for years. A life with you. But not anymore.”

She couldn’t stop the sob that bubbled out of her. “Why can’t you want that now?”

“You know why. I'm sorry, Heather, I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his hand landing on her shoulder, trying to keep his distance but still comfort her at the same time. “I care about you. I always will. But she’s…she’s everything.”

She didn’t find it fair. You only knew him for a few months. She knew him for years. She had seen him at his lowest moments, yet you were the one to help him heal through it. You were the one he was willing to change for. She wanted to scream at him that he was being cruel, but she knew that he wasn’t.

“It feels like you’re choosing her over me. When we've been through so much together. When I’m the one who’s known you longer.”

“But you never understood me. Not the way I needed you to. And that’s partly my fault for not opening up to you,” he said. 

She didn’t understand him the way you understood him. It was unspoken, but they both knew it. 

“It's not fair.”

“No, it’s not. We missed our chance. But…Heather, you have to move on.”

She nodded, wiping the tears off her face and straightening her spine. “Alright.”

“Are you going to be ok?” He asked her and she forced another fake smile on her face. She didn’t know if he could still tell if it was real or not. 

“You know I will.”

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and walked away, piercing a hole straight through her heart. She watched him walk away, towards the nurses station where you stood. You were smiling, talking with Dana quietly before your shift officially began. Robby approached you, his hand landing on your lower back and you looked up at him, your grin growing and eyes shining. And him…

The way he was holding you…looking at you. The certainty and devotion in his gaze. A look in his eye that had never existed before you. He was in love. 

She could see it now. 

Her heart split in two, knowing the future she had pictured in her mind—Robby at her side—would never be a reality. Not with her. The baby she imagined would never have his warm, brown eyes or his charming nose. Or his smile. Maybe in another lifetime, maybe if you had never shown up in Pittsburgh. Maybe if she had loved him better back when they were together. 

She loved Robby and wanted him to be happy. That’s all she ever wanted for him. And he was happy with you. Despite her jealousy, she wondered what it was like for you. What he was like with you. Did he cuddle with you? He always used to grumble when Heather would ask him to cuddle saying that he got way too overheated. Did he complain about that to you? Or did he do it without complaint just to be able to hold you close to him? Did he cook his incredible latkes for you? Did you cook for him?

She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. She didn’t know him like that anymore. But she knew that he opened up to you in a way he didn’t open up to anyone. He let you comfort him after difficult cases, shared long conversations that she only knew existed through brief glances through the window in the break room door. She knew that he was more affectionate and open with you in public than he had been with her. That he was willing to put his medical license on the line and attack a patient because they hurt you. He was healing with you… for you. 

She had no right to feel jealous. The ache in her heart changed as she realized that her and Robby were nothing but a pretty dream. And that it was her turn to heal. 

With the vision of what could never be lingering in her mind, she knew Robby was right. It was time to move on. 

It was difficult. At first. 

You all worked together. It was like a nightmare she could never escape. 

You were everywhere. 

And Robby. He lingered around you and you around him. He did silly things to make you laugh and lent you his sweaters when it got too cold. He gave you secret smiles and held your hand when a case hit you too hard. 

He remained professional with her, continuing to help Heather with her education. He wasn’t avoiding her, he was answering her questions, and he continued to value her medical opinion. But it was awkward now, a weird tension in every interaction. All she could feel was the burning ache of rejection and jealousy. 

Anger. At him. At you. 

It wasn’t warranted. She knew that. But she couldn’t help but feel that way. Every touch, every look, every soft whisper you shared was like a spear to her heart. She tried to look further into every interaction, trying to convince herself that she still knew Michael. Not Dr. Robinavitch. It made her frustrated, trying to move on but feeling stuck in time and lost at the same time. 

Why? Why you? Why was she not enough for him when they were together? Why wasn’t she enough for him now?

Why couldn’t she be the one that made him smile more often, or the one making him laugh when she shared an inside joke? It was you. You made him…lighter. 

Neither of you were particularly trying to hide it. While nothing outright happened, lingering touches and glances and smiles were noticed by more than just Heather. There was a betting pool about whether you and Robby were already together and if not, when it would happen. She noticed the others trying to avoid the subject around her, but it was inevitable. She had ended up joining the pool just to get everyone to stop looking at her with pity.

It was a shockingly slow morning. Heather was at the computer, catching up on her charting and making up to date notes for her patients when Dana approached her. 

“Hey, Collins. Have you seen sad boy and sunshine?”

She didn’t have to ask Dana who she was talking about. 

“Who knows?” She shrugged and continued charting.

She felt Dana’s stare on the side of her face and she tried as hard as she could to keep her features calm.

“You ok, kid?” Dana asked and Heather, composed as always, just looked at her. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’m not stupid or blind. Things have been…tense lately. With you and Robby.” She waited for Heather to say something, but what could she say? Dana was right. 

“Look, I know that seeing them together might not be the best thing for you. And I don’t know what happened between you and Robby that made things this awkward. But whatever it is, you got to let it go. The past…it’s not always a good thing to get swept up in what-ifs.”

Heather smiled at Dana, trying her hardest to make it look real. “I’m fine, Dana. I’m happy for him. For them.”

“Is that why you always avoid taking on a case with her?”

Dana didn’t wait for an answer before walking away. It was true. She would avoid you as much as she realistically could. She suspected that you knew what she was doing, but your kind eyes and bright smile never gave away if it made you upset. 

Robby stood in the peds room, his face shoved into his hand and Heather could tell that he wanted to cry. The twelve year old girl had passed away after you and him had been working on her for almost an hour and she knew that Robby was taking it hard. Blaming himself. 

She saw you approach him slowly and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. It reminded Heather of what she used to do to comfort him after days like this. She remembered the way he would shrug her off and insist that he was fine and no, there was nothing he wanted to talk about. 

But with you…His hand came up to his shoulder to cover yours. She could see the way his grip tightened around your smaller fingers and you placed your other hand on his back, rubbing it gently. You were speaking, but she couldn’t hear anything that you were saying to him. You were tucked away, near the back of the room, away from prying eyes, but she saw. She saw the way his shoulders relaxed, how he was able to take a shaky, deep breath in and come back to himself. He nodded at you and gave you a real–albeit exhausted and sad–smile. 

It was easy, simple. It was like you knew exactly what he needed without him having to say anything. Like you were attuned to him. 

He was a different man than the one she used to know, she realized. A man you knew intimately. A man you loved just as fiercely as he loved you. 

She knew that now. Accepted it. 

She watched him engulf you in his arms and she smiled.

The rage in her heart lightened, drifting further and further away and it felt like she could finally breathe after months of drowning. She finally understood that since the moment you came into PTMC, she had no chance. And she was happy for Robby. Happy that he had someone who understood him, listened to him, and loved him the way you did. It hurt to accept that, but she knew that Robby was right. 

It was time to move on.

And she was finally ready.

[redcherrykook]

────꒷꒦ 𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔢 [ f & c & s]

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

part of ɳσƈƚιʋαɠαɳƚ

↳ ❝ [ vampire!Jungkook universe] ❞

✎ summary: smooth, soft, luxurious. that´s what it´s like to date Jungkook- and he makes sure to show you that.

note from cherry: sexy steamy bathtub love but also hes so cute!! SOFTDOM JUNGKOOK!! hes obsessed asf. duh. Bodyworship. Like actually he gets on his knees NOT PROOFREAD SORRY ‼️‼️

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

Friday night's have loads of connotations.

Some people find themselves reaching for a drink with peers, others go out to chase the neon light and dance away this weeks sorrows. Former you would have done eitheir, or, spend it indulging in your newest hyperfixation series. Binging episode after episode, spooning a tub of icecream.

Nothing wrong with that.

Since the addition of your boyfriend however, Friday's have become date nights. Jungkook insisted passionately, that a woman like you should be taken out at least once a week, or if you weren't feeling like going out, he'd cook for you, maybe bring you a nice bottle of wine and spend all hours past sundown worshipping your every curve, making you sing sonnets of his name in the highest notes you could reach.

"Are you ready my lov- holy fuck" he breathes the curse out like no one shall hear it, stiffling in his movements of cuffing the black button down he just threw on. Red eyes beam with lust and adoration immediately as you look for them.

"Good?"

"Good? You're so goddman gorgeous. Shit angel how.. how am i gonna keep my hands off you hm?" He chuckles darkly, already surrounding your hips with his large hands, pulling you flush against his hard chest.

"We have a reservation baby" you remind him, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

"We do..", he repeats, "We do. But once we're back home i'm not holding back- mhmm fuck baby look at you" his voice almost sounds like a whine, teeth nibbling on his plump bottom lip as he spins you around, making you face the full length mirror on your dressers front. His hands slide up and down your sides, wrapping around your waist briefly before squeezing the flesh of your rear. His chin swiftly drops to rest on your shoulder, getting a whiff of the sweet perfume you sprayed yourself with.

"So pretty" he mumbles, meeting your eyes through the mirror. His lips are on your neck before you get the chance to blink back at him. Featherlight and yet passionate with every contact, he continues to kiss you.

Time runs along and although it is painful to deprive yourself of him, you're turning back, your arms extend and wrap around his neck, finding his lips soon as he leans down to you.

"Cm'on handsome, we gotta go"

He nods, sighing a little.

Hands in clasped, you pass through the door, shooting the bunch of 50 red roses on your nightstand a small goodbye as the lights turn off.

The world outside is dark too, yellow streetlamps cast a nice golden glow on jungkooks poreclain skin. He opens his car door foe you- as per usual, before circling to get seated himself.

A turn of the key later and a few off key sung songs, the car comes to a stop at a sushi spot you knew all too well.

Dinner comes and goes, laughs get share and crinkle your face lovingly, a posessive hand rests on your thigh in a subtle squeeze.

His treat, he says as he reaches to pay.

Somehow, it always ended up being his treat.

"Wanna take a bath at home ? I bought you that bubble lotion you love"

He suggested, reversing out of his parking spot, which led to this very situation.

A steady, slender hand glides down the length of your shivering arm, noting the moles he´s counted time and time again. Its fingertips burn your skin with the sheer cold- a flicker of desire flashes through your veins, crashing upon your chest. The cold adds on, hardens your nipples to bump the surface of your thin shirt.

Both of his icy, large hands come to slide down your waist, tracing the curve patiently until they sneak beneath the hem of your shirt, gently caressing little circles onto the skin that lay under his fingers.

Jungkook breathes out a shaky curse, his cock twitches painfully in the constricted space of his belted jeans. A brief contact with your eyes. A bat of your lashes. A feel of your skin. A taste of your lips. All he needed to fill his immortal heart with a clench of irrevocable possession- so raw, so shaken with years of life he lived that mean the speck of nothingness now that he has had you. Has felt the thrill of love combat him, has known what living is like. He found it in chasing your lips, tracing your every little move to learn you- have you, claim your skin with his unforgiving teeth and his greedy lust.

His continued, slow movements feel like a ritual of devotion. Stripping you of your shirt, drawing out your every curve, his palms rest on the underside of your breasts, find their path down to leave you standing in your black, sheer panties. His chest heaves up and down, the rise and fall matching his rapidly pounding heart. All the while no word is spoken- no word is good enough to explain what you can see in the deep red of his iris. In the abyss of black that is his widened pupil as it takes in the sight before him. His object of attraction, of utter adoration- obsession, Covered in red and pink flowering blemishes, paintings of dedication that his mouth have left on your tender skin.

"Oh angel.. my little dove. So.. beautiful" The mutter escapes his lips fleetingly as they find yours in the midst of it all, brushing over with such tenderness that you almost moan for more. His fingers hook beneath the edges of your black underwear, skimming the fabric teasingly. Jungkook catches the way you whimper beneath your shaky breaths, how your nails linger slightly digging in the hardness of his bicep.

"Gonna take care of you angel, help you forget about any worry in that pretty head. Make you feel so good all you feel, remember is me baby, just me." His loving whisper floods the patch of skin right above your belly button, his knees collide with the bathroom floor tiles- meeting your eyes with his once more.

"You look cute like this" you tell him shyly- knuckles caress his beautifully pale cheeks with the touch only a woman in love can execute. His spine straightens, lifting himself to worthy of the position he is in. Upright, kneeling before you with a gaze so devoted across his dangerously charming features. His plump, pierced lip shines a bloody red, glistening with hunger.

Your fingers extend to his jaw, sliding the tip of your oval nail alongside his sharp contours. Years have scultped him into what kneels before you know. Your thumb rests below his chin, tipping it up the slightest bit to examine the tension between you.

Between your wordless exchange, his fingers have found their hook below the remaining fabric once more. Pulling it down with practiced ease, slowly, never averting his eyes. Once you step out of them, his palms cup your knees, colliding with your sweet skin all the way up your thighs, roaming on their inner side, their back, rounding up the flesh of your ass to squeeze what's his- before coming to rest back up your hips.

"Youre beautiful. Every inch of you is absolutely breathtaking. Seeing you covered in my marks- my little angel, still so pure. So ruined and yet so beautiful pure"

Your whimpered reply comes to you naturally. His omnipresent dominance swallow you in a hole thats safe enough to rest in. Abiding by his every word. Though he is on his knees, youre stood bared entirely before him. Naked and claimed by his bruising, posessive kisses and bites, while his fully clothed figure admires and skims along every patch of your skin. The power imbalance is a heavenly nest you lay in without any resistance - any question needed to be asked. The trust remains Unspoken. Visible. Felt. Internalized.

His lips find their way to your skin again, magnetically pulled in by the red string he spun so very pristinely. Decorating your hip while his fingers rub small circles into your thighs. With one final kiss to your pelvis, he returns to his feet, stripping himself of his clothes in fluid motions.

He reaches out to grab you by the waist and press your body into his, tightening his muscular, tattooed arms around your form to melt into his own. Reciprocating, you let yourself sink deeper.

"I love you so much angel. You have no idea. Looking at you is a blessing. But being able to hold you like this, knowing youre mine. Just mine. God i want to devour you. I want to suffocate on your lips and listen to your moans until your voice gives out. Until that little throat is sore from repeating my name"

"I love you too kook. So much. Even though I'm not so great at explaining it"

He chuckles, letting his face light up- it illuminates your entire world in the split of its occurrence.

"Step in, water's gonna get cold"

With that, he helps you step inside the spacious bathtub, makes you sit with your back to his toned chest, inbetween his spread legs. You can feel his hard pressing into your behind, he groans a little- that delcious sound from the back of his throat.

"So pretty.. so soft" he mumbles his praises continously, running his hands up and down your thighs below the scented foam. They come to a halt on the tops of your thighs, sliding inward to spread them carefully. His finger dance in teasing patterns, while his mouth molds to your neck, kissing sloppy and slow open mouth kisses along the exposed area. All the way down your shoulder- all the way back up to your ear. The wetness mirrors that of the water surrounding you, of the one pouring out from between your thighs.

"Be a good little angel for me will you..? Let me touch you like i want? Make you feel so.. so good?" The rough murmur, spoken into your ear, elicits a tiny whined "yes" from you.

"Good girl.. now say please, angel"

You nod, the damp strands of your hair sticking to the small curve of your breasts.

"Please touch me"

He hums, "Yeah..? You want me to touch you my little dove?"

You nod again, but thats not good enough for jungkook. He pinches your hard nipple between his fingers, tugging the sensitive skin, rolling it ever so gently,

"Words my little dove" he whispers,

"Yes- yes please touch me."

He groans in approval, pressing his palm flat against your right breast, groping the small swell with his wet hand, murmuring about how good you feel beneath his skin. His other hand deceneds between your thighs, running two fingers between your damp folds, he gets a feel of your slick beneath the load of water, inserts them into you while his teeth slightly dig into the lobe of your ear,

"Take them for me angel, take them just a little, i know what you really want"

They curl deliciously, hitting your sweet spot as plunges them in and out deep and deliberately slow. Moans and whines constrict in your throat and come out as breathless whimpers.

It builds up quickly the more he stops pulling out and just digs deeper into you, moving his fingers ever so slightly against that spot you love so much, but he stops entirely, pulling them out to rub tight circles on your throbbing clit.

Memorized in the very touches that drove you insane. He may be practiced and experienced but he finds himself oh so helpless to you nonetheless. Nothing before you mattered and no one will come after you. No skin he has seen or felt has made any impression on him, nothing has ever been right, nothing but you.

"That's it.. good girl, doing so well. Little angel is ready for what she wants hm? What do you think?" He rasps into your ear, sliding his tongue along the shell of your ear.

"I want you kook- yes please baby mhmm-"

The sentence gets cut off into a loud, squeamish moan, suddenly hit with the sensation of the cold bathroom wall pressed against your chest. In the brink of a second, his strength compelles him to scoop you up and flush himself against you, without a pocket of air your back collides with his chest. His hand explodes your stomach, lips press down your shoulder and the arch of your spine, backing away slowly.

Hot, ragged breaths flow out alongside his deep sounding moans, while the cold of the wall presses to your chest. With one hand pressing down on your lower back and the other guiding himself, jungkook nestles his thick, needy cock inside your weeping cunt.

Binding himself to you as he had time and time again, he rests deep into you, seizing to move for the first bit- he maps out the paths he had found long before, watching your pretty features twist in pleasure when he *finally* slides back, pushing all the way in while pushing you back into him by the softness of your tummy

"Prettiest angel.. feel so fucking good.. so good around my cock, god youre taking it so well"

You were- with your palms against the wet tile, withstanding the gravitas of his force, the melody of wet skin slapping fills up your bubble of lust as his pace picked up in ways only a vampire would conduct.

"So good, so so good for me angel" his hand flings to your throat, squeezing it with just enough pressure to make your thighs quiver,

Strangled, breathless, you plead with him, tell him you're going to cum- but you already are, and you know he can feel it, feel the clench of you sucking him in, his heart blooms and bursts as his hand tightens around your throat and he cries out with you

"Good little angel, just a little longer baby, just a little more for me" he begs, begs to take more from you, to overstimulate your hightend senses further. Mustering a weak nod and loud whines of pleasure, he grunts, ruts himself into your swollen cunt like the animal movies make his kind out to ne.

With you, he was.

Greedy, seductive, posessive, obsessed.

"Gonna ruin this pussy baby, gonna fill you with my cum- fuck angel, keep crying for me baby, keep whining angel"

"Just like that baby just- hm- like that"

The vision you're met with as you look back over your shoulder is hypnotizing- damp haired, furrowed eyebrows and his sharp teeth drawn out to all their might, glistening wet as he concentrates on his orgasm.

It crashes into you in a large wave, twitching halt - spilling his cum into you as he pants and pants, as his nails threathen to draw blood from your skin- and his teeth do. From your shoulder, as they claw into you, crimson iron drips into his tongue to grant him a taste of heaven. Exploding in extacsy, with his eyes rolling far back, his high rides on and with every little flavor of your precious liquid jungkook feels as though he is riplling in pleasure from every depth his old soul holds.

Sweet, he said. It tastes sweet. Sweet and poisonous with its sting of metal and the knowledge of it being your blood, your very own- it brought him the greatest satisfaction ever known to this realm.

"Jungkook- mhm- stop- please- can't-" you stumble from your strained throat. Jungkook drops his forehead into the crook of your neck, soothingly rubbing his hands on your hips, his flaccid length slides out slowly, leaving you dripping.

Knees buckle below you, your shoulder stings with pleasurble pain and you physically cannot take another thrust without breaking into tears. As much as his senses hightend, yours did too. Sensitive, human. Weak and fragile in comparison to his wrathful being, his pure passion unleashing on your smaller frame so helplessly safe in his hands.

"I got you, I got you angel its okay" he whispers, praising you in between gentle movements to sit you back down in the tub, sideways on his thigh. He cups your face once youre sat, planting fluttering kisses on every corner of your features.

"Pretty little dove, youre okay..youre such a good girl" he says, nudging the tip of his nose to yours in a doting habit.

"Want me to wash your hair baby?" nodding in response to his question, he slides his fingers through your wet strands, untangling them carefully.

Warm water crescents down your head, wraps you in a nice coat of comfort for the next few minutes of your boyfriends fingers massaging your scalp, cleaning off your skin, kissing everything he can reach.

Quickly dried and dressed in his hoodie, he has you sit on his lap while blow drying your hair.

"Prettiest" one kiss,

"Little" another kiss,

"Angel" a longer kiss, pressed on your lips instead of your cheeks like the previous ones.

[cakypa120]

May I request more Billy X Jason

Like captain marvel giving all the justice league members a thing that when they’re in danger, it will teleport them to the rock of eternity.

Jason gets injured and Batman use the thing, 

Cue 18 year old Billy freaking out seeing Jason, who looks like a fully grown man, even though he’s only like 19 at best (I think) and

Jason: “ where am I?”

Billy

Jason: “damn, Roy was right demons are hot”

Batman was panicking. Jason was hurt. Seriously. And they wouldn't get help for a long time. Bruce's hands were shaking as he covered the wounds on his side. He couldn't lose Jason, his son, again. In moments like these, he understood why people prayed to something, hoping for something. Bruce was willing to give the Gods or anyone else anything if it would save his son.

A memory suddenly popped into his mind:

All the heroes were holding a strange crystal in their hands. Marvel smiled brightly at them.

Hal: What is this?

Marvel: Emergency help. If you are badly injured or trapped. You just need to break this crystal. It will teleport you to the Rock of Eternity. All your wounds will freeze in time and you will fall into a temporary sleep. I will find you, heal you and send you back to Earth. This is insurance. But if you get there unharmed, then I ask you not to wander too much. And listen to those who live there.

Batman: How reliable is this?

Marvel: One hundred percent! It can teleport you from any point in space or dimension.

Superman: That's interesting.

Diana: Thank you, brother, for such a valuable gift.

Marvel: You are like family to me! Of course I will worry about your safety.

Bruce takes out the small crystal. This was his last chance. He places the crystal in Jason's hand and squeezes until he hears a crunch. Jason's body is covered in golden light and his son crumbles into golden dust. Bruce looks at the place where his son lay and takes a deep breath. Now all that's left is to wait.

Billy jumps in surprise when he feels something teleport onto the Rock. Someone used his crystal? That was bad!! He runs to the teleportation site in a panic and freezes when he sees a bloody figure. Isn't that Red Hood? Shit, he's seriously hurt. Billy rolls up his sleeves. This was going to be a long job.

Jason wakes up with a groan. His whole body ached. The last thing he remembered was being shot and B holding his wound. Was he dead? Was he in hell?

?: You're awake! You better not move yet, your body needs to rest from all the magic I used on you.

Jason looks up and sees a young man with black hair and bright blue eyes. All thoughts disappear from his head when he sees this young man. Why was he wearing something that looked like ancient Greek clothes? (Billy had blood on his clothes. The Rock didn't have any other clothes. So he wore what he had.)

Jason: I died?

?: No, although you tried very hard. So, how did you get the crystal?

Jason: I don't know what crystal you're talking about. Maybe B did it. Damn, you're hot.

?: Sorry what?

Jason: I'm a little hot!! Is that normal?

The boy frowns and approaches him. Jason smells the rain. It calms him down a little. A warm palm touches his forehead and Jason is ready to melt just from that touch.

?: You're a little hotter than usual. But that's okay. A good night's sleep will help you recover faster.

Jason: Why do I feel so sleepy?

?: Your body wants to rest. You have to let it.

Jason: You're probably a demon. A very hot demon. Roy's right... I...don't want...to fall asleep...

Hands gently lay him down on the bed and Jason falls asleep.

He wakes up in Bruce's mansion. He remembers that boy and his face instantly turns red. He told him such nonsense!! Will that beautiful boy want to talk to him again?!?! Jason takes a pillow and screams into it while kicking the blanket.

Dick: Jaybird! You're awake!!

Jason doesn't answer. He wants to die from all the shame that's washed over him in waves.

Dick: Jay?

Jason: Who brought me here?

Dick: Captain Marvel! He said your wounds were healed and all you needed was sleep.

Jason freezes. Captain Marvel. That boy looked so much like Captain Marvel. Could that really be his son. Jason gets out of bed, ignoring Dick's protests. He goes down to the Batcave and finds Bruce talking to Captain Marvel. The hero in red was explaining something to Bruce.

Jason: Captain!!

Marvel: Oh, you're awake! How are you feeling? Your wounds were pretty bad.

Jason: I want to date your son! Give me your blessing!!

Marvel and Bruce freeze. Marvel turns pale and teleports away. Bruce stares at Jason in shock. Dick falls to the floor. Tim, who was sitting off to the side, chokes on his coffee.

[miekrowave]

confirmation bias comes to mind. and i'm not saying that to imply that you are intentionally seeking bad behavior in men or to dismiss the hurt you may have been through (i don't know you), but i think there's a portion of this entire chain of events and conclusions on all sides that run a little bit subconsciously. the more people talk about "how men are (evil)", the more you're inclined to perhaps look for those signs or at the very least log them in your memory. i'm willing to bet money on you being hurt by people who aren't men, too, but you're able to forgive and understand and move on and let it go, and i think it's important to recognize that.

i think there's a subconscious level in the way people behave when being shitty too. not always, perhaps it's a negligible percentage, idk, but as much as i think we need to be aware of how unevenly we remember and react to awful behavior based on someone's sex or gender, i think it's also important to acknowledge the societal influences that helps people make these shitty decisions. that's not to take away any of their responsibility to make better choices, but i think understanding the nuances and components helps us break that "boys will be boys" cycle for everyone involved.

also i'm autistic and on the piss on the poor website so i just wanna add that i'm not disagreeing with the points being made here, so my bad if it comes off as me arguing against either of you

I don't think men saying out of pocket shit to me on the internet is because they're men. everyday billions of men wake up and don't say out of pocket shit to me on the internet. this is clearly an active choice