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joelsrose · 2 days ago

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Dark Matter

i haven't written reed before but here we go! i hope yall enjoy xx

warnings: fingering, age gap? (reader is mid 20's), cheating (sorry sue), power-dynamic, semi-public

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You walked into the lab the same way you always did—quietly, carefully, your notebook hugged to your chest like a shield, pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite, filled with half-solved equations, theoretical scribbles, and tiny margin doodles of molecules and stars.

The click of your heeled boots echoed off the cold, polished floor, a sound that somehow felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The air inside was always a little too cold, like the whole space was suspended in a vacuum—untouched by the warmth of human hands—but you liked it that way. It made you feel sharp, focused. Like anything could happen here. Like everything already had.

It had been exactly seven days since you started your internship under Mr. Richards—or Reed, as he’d insisted you call him on the very first day, his tone polite but firm, eyes flickering to yours with something unreadable when you stammered out “Dr. Richards” instead. The man was brilliant. Obviously. He was also deeply intimidating in the way only truly intelligent people could be—effortlessly so, like he didn’t notice the way the rest of the world bent around his mind.

He wasn’t cruel, not at all, but there was something about him that made your pulse skip whenever he turned to you with a question, something about the way he spoke in low, thoughtful tones, his hands always busy with some piece of machinery or scribbling formulas on the glass board like his thoughts couldn’t be contained by paper.

You’d been selected from a pool of thousands—won the LUMINA International Science Initiative, a fellowship that granted a single spot, once a year, to shadow one of the world’s leading innovators.

You never expected to get it. You’d submitted your proposal last-minute, half-convinced it was too ambitious, too naive. But something about it must’ve caught their attention—maybe your hypothesis on temporal field distortions, maybe the way you phrased it like a love letter to curiosity itself. Either way, it landed you here, standing just inside the threshold of the Baxter Building’s most secured lab, wearing your best skirt and your favorite boots, heart thudding in your chest like a metronome gone mad.

You adjusted your grip on your notebook and cleared your throat softly, the sound swallowed by the lab’s cavernous quiet. “Morning,” you offered, voice smaller than you meant, eyes sweeping the room for him—half-hoping he wasn’t here yet, half-hoping he was.

From behind one of the massive monitors, you heard the gentle clink of metal, followed by a low voice.

“You’re early.”

You turned and there he was, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collarbone peeking where his lab coat had come undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d been up for hours already, running his hands through it between equations. There was graphite smudged on his wrist, and a faint streak of oil down one thumb, and somehow that made him look even more untouchable. He glanced over his shoulder at you, then down at your notebook.

“More scribbles?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting—not quite a smile, but close enough to make your chest flutter.

You nodded, holding it out. “A few questions from last night. I kept thinking about the energy dispersion curve in the 5-D field model, and—well. It didn’t make sense that it plateaued. Not at those values.”

He took the notebook, flipping through the pages like he was reading a novel written in his own handwriting, then looked up at you with a sliver of something warmer in his gaze.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I think you might be the first person to ever challenge that curve. Everyone else just accepted it.”

You blinked. “Oh. I—didn’t mean to be... disrespectful or anything.”

“You weren’t.” He looked back at the page, his brow furrowing like he was genuinely considering your notes. “You’re just... asking the right questions.”

And the way he said that—asking the right questions—it made your cheeks heat, made your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you were suddenly fifteen again, flustered and awkward and unsure of what to say next, even though you were here because you belonged here, even though you were brilliant in your own quiet way.

He glanced at you again, slower this time, eyes scanning your face like he was watching a theory unfold in real time, and said, “Let’s run it. See if you’re right.” Just like that, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Hours passed, though you barely noticed them. What started as a single equation quickly unraveled into an entire evening of hypotheses and recalibrations, the two of you moving around each other in this strange, quiet rhythm—typing, adjusting, scribbling, calculating, retrying, failing, fixing, retrying again.

The room had fallen into that kind of sacred stillness where every noise felt sharper—the whir of machines, the scratch of pencils, the occasional creak of the stool beneath you. Every time a result came back wrong, you’d lean in beside him and try again. Every time it came back right, your shoulders would touch, just barely, and you’d both say nothing.

And then it happened again—casual, effortless—Reed stretched.

This time, to grab his phone from across the room without moving from his chair, his arm extending impossibly far and elegant, fingers curling around the device with that same practiced ease, like it was just another part of his body responding to his mind. You watched it happen with that same quiet awe you always did, eyes following the length of his arm as it retracted, as he settled back into himself like it hadn’t been strange at all, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t even the stretch itself, not really—it was the nonchalance, the way he didn’t even think about it. But you did. You thought about it too much.

You were still thinking about it when he glanced at his screen, a quiet frown flickering across his face.

“It’s eight already,” he murmured, thumbing through a text. “We’ve been here all day.”

You blinked, surprised by the time, and then watched as his expression shifted—something soft and faintly guilty tugging at the edge of his mouth as he read whatever had been sent to him.

“Sue made dinner,” he said after a beat, sighing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he hadn’t sat down for a proper meal in days. “Guess I should…”

He trailed off as he stood, the chair sliding back with a scrape, and something in your chest twisted—tight and unexpected. Not sharp enough to hurt, but deep enough to notice.

You weren’t sure if it was jealousy, exactly, but there was something inside you that ached a little at the thought of him leaving. At the thought of him sitting across from someone else, in a warm apartment somewhere above the city, eating food someone else had made for him, laughing over things that had nothing to do with lab results or radiation curves or the way your hands always trembled just slightly when he got too close.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he glanced back at you with one brow arched, curious, amused, his coat slung half over his arm and a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Something wrong?” he asked, voice low and too steady, like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

“No,” you said quickly, too quickly, the word tripping over itself on your tongue. “No, nothing.”

He looked at you for a long second, long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it, his eyes steady and a little too knowing, like he could see past your flustered expression and straight into the chaos of your thoughts. Then—he chuckled, soft and brief, like the sound had slipped out before he could stop it, low and warm and close enough to make your pulse stutter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, not in disapproval, but something more bemused—like he found you endlessly curious and had all the time in the world to figure you out.

You ducked your head, the heat rising in your cheeks again, blooming in a flush that you tried to suppress with a tight little smile, your fingers worrying the corner of your notebook as though it could ground you, steady you, hide the fact that your heart was now pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

Then his voice came again, low and coaxing, that soft velvet drawl of someone deeply used to being the smartest man in the room—“Come on,” he said, “what’s going on in that brilliant mind?”

And you should’ve lied. You should’ve laughed it off, said something safe, something neutral, something clever and unassuming and appropriately scientific. But your brain had been wandering all week—had been drifting there over and over again, uninvited, unwelcome, inappropriate, gnawing at the edges of your curiosity in the quiet moments between experiments.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried not to let your gaze linger when he stretched, tried not to imagine what else could stretch, how far, how much, how deeply.

And somehow—somehow—it slipped out of your mouth before your brain had a chance to intercept it, just a whisper of a thought spoken aloud, soft and breathless and too curious to be innocent.

“Does everything stretch?”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You heard it in the way the machines kept humming but your breath caught.

You felt it in the way Reed’s eyes snapped to yours, too quickly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

And you saw it—oh, you saw it—in the way he froze, the way the lines at the corners of his mouth shifted, lips parting slightly like he was about to speak but couldn’t quite remember how.

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your whole body locking in mortified horror, hands flying up to your face as if that could undo what you’d just said, as if that could pull the words back into your throat and shove them into the void where they belonged.

“Oh my God—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that, I swear—I swear, it was just—I was talking about your arm, I mean your body—not your—oh God, not your body body, I meant your abilities, like biologically—scientifically—I’m so sorry—”

You were rambling now, barely breathing between the words, voice growing higher and faster with every sentence, and he was still just looking at you, still absolutely silent, like you’d short-circuited him and he was trying not to let it show. His expression hadn’t changed much—but his eyes were different now, darker maybe, or maybe just sharper, like a wire had pulled taut somewhere beneath his usually-calm exterior.

Then—finally—he blinked.

And his mouth twitched.

Not a smirk. Not quite. But close. Very, very close.

“Everything?” he echoed softly, voice rough around the edges like it had dropped an octave without permission.

You wanted to melt through the floor.

“Forget I said anything,” you mumbled, practically squeaked, your hands halfway up your face now, notebook clutched uselessly against your chest like a shield made of paper and shame.

But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just looked at you for another long moment, like he was tucking the question away in some private drawer of his mind, like he was considering it—you—carefully.

And then he said, his voice quiet and unreadable. “Some things stretch more than others.”

He said it with the same offhand ease he might’ve used to mention the weather or the results of an equation, as if the words weren’t heavy with meaning, as if they didn’t land like a struck tuning fork in the center of your chest and hum there, low and electric. And then—just like that—he glanced at the time again, slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency, and looked toward the door without even a flicker of hesitation in his expression.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice smooth and calm, like it had all been nothing—your question, his answer, the unbearable silence that followed—like he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling, wide-eyed mess with five words and a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then he turned and walked out, his footsteps steady and unhurried, as though the entire moment hadn’t happened, as though he hadn’t noticed the way your breath had caught or your lips had parted slightly or the way your fingers had curled around your notebook like you were holding onto it for dear life. The door eased shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the silence that followed felt far too loud, as if the air itself had been holding its breath and now didn’t know what to do with the tension left behind.

You stood there for a moment, completely still, eyes fixed on the door like he might come back—might say something, might clarify or laugh or admit that yes, that had been what you thought it was, that you weren’t imagining the way his gaze had sharpened, the subtle shift in his voice, the pause before he’d answered like he was trying to decide how honest he wanted to be.

But the door stayed shut. The lab was quiet. And your face was burning.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The next morning, you thought about quitting.

No—worse—you thought about being removed, escorted out of the lab with quiet, professional shame, the faculty committee shaking their heads at the girl who couldn’t keep her thoughts scientific. You’d spent the entire night twisted in sheets and mortification, staring at the ceiling of your tiny dorm room with cheeks that wouldn’t stop burning and hands that kept curling into fists against your pillow, your mind looping the same sentence over and over like a taunt.

Does everything stretch?

It had sounded so much worse in hindsight. In your head, it was a purely biological question—curiosity, theoretical, relevant. But the moment it left your lips, soft and shy and tilted with unintended suggestion, you’d felt the way it landed. The way his eyes had flickered. The way his voice had dropped just a hair lower. The way he’d looked at you after.

And then he walked out like it was nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

So when you walked into the lab that morning, notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, heart crawling up the back of your throat with every step, you were fully prepared for disaster—for tension, awkwardness, maybe even polite dismissal. But he was already there, of course he was—leaning over one of the central consoles with his sleeves rolled, hair still rumpled from sleep, lips pursed slightly in thought as he ran through some new readout, a mug half-full of black coffee resting near his elbow.

And when he glanced up at you?

Everything was... fine.

He offered you a brief, familiar nod, the same one he always did, and then gestured to a screen without so much as a hint of discomfort, as if the night before had been a dream, as if you hadn’t asked the most humiliating question of your life and then spiraled into a dimension of shame he probably discovered himself.

You blinked, stunned by the ease of it, by the way he moved through the morning without even a trace of tension, without a single flinch. It was—professional. Cordial. Kind.

And strangely, that grounded you.

The day unfolded slowly, then steadily—small victories, clarified hypotheses, new data sets—and your body slowly began to relax into the rhythm you’d started to love, the silent teamwork of minds that trusted each other. And even though he hadn’t said anything beyond the work, even though the stretch of time passed with nothing but research and updates, you caught yourself looking again—watching the way his hands moved, the way he’d lean into the screen, the way he thought so deeply with his whole body, and the way you were beginning to understand him in ways that had nothing to do with science.

It wasn’t until late afternoon, when the sun outside had dipped low enough to cast long gold shadows across the lab floor, that he finally spoke without referencing an equation.

“Sue was asking about you,” he said casually, eyes still on his screen, voice calm as if he didn’t know he’d just sent your stomach tumbling.

You blinked, startled. “Oh?”

He nodded once, the motion subtle. “Think I’ve been talking too much about how smart you are.”

Your breath caught in your throat and then returned all at once in a rush of heat to your face. You looked away, your lips parting slightly as your blush bloomed across your cheeks, creeping down your neck, the words lingering like sunlight on your skin.

“She wants to meet you,” he continued, finally glancing over at you with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made you feel a little exposed, a little unsteady.

“Really?” you asked, blinking up at him, your voice too soft, too unsure. “I—I mean, I’d be honored.”

He chuckled, quiet and amused, and God, it made your heart stutter.

“Tonight?” he asked, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Your lips parted again. “Tonight?” you echoed, because your brain was clearly still catching up.

He tilted his head, expression flickering with something close to amusement. “Unless you’re busy,” he said smoothly. “Or unless you were planning on camping out here all night again, trying to crack the wavefield inversion curve without sleeping or eating—because that does sound like you.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, the sound escaping like a sigh, soft and a little breathless, and he smiled—genuine and rare, the kind that made your knees feel unsteady and your chest warm.

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “No,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not busy.”

“Good,” he said, his smile deepening just slightly. “I’ll see you for dinner then.”

And with that, he turned back to his screen, the moment slipping away like mist, but the warmth of it stayed, curling low and steady in your chest.

You were going to dinner. With Reed Richards. And Sue Storm.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

The Baxter Building stood tall and impossible in the heart of the city, its sleek, glinting frame catching the last of the golden evening light like it had been plucked from some distant future and set gently down in Manhattan.

The security in the lobby had let you through without question, as if they’d been expecting you, as if your name already belonged in the same breath as Reed Richards and Sue Storm, and that thought alone made your stomach twist with something between awe and panic as you stepped into the elevator.

It was silent inside—sterile and smooth, the walls a brushed metal that reflected the softest version of your silhouette back at you, almost dreamlike. You stared at your reflection for a moment, adjusting the bottle of wine you held with both hands, the paper bag crinkling slightly beneath your fingertips.

You’d picked it up on the way here after spending a full thirty minutes in the wine shop pretending to know what pairs with intellectual dinner parties hosted by superheroes. You smoothed the front of your dress—a soft, modest thing that you’d chosen carefully, something that felt like you, but maybe a little prettier, a little more delicate than usual, your lips painted just faintly, enough to make you feel like you were trying without looking like you were trying.

You exhaled slowly, barely noticing the way the elevator glided up without a sound, your heartbeat louder than anything around you. Your thoughts raced, of course they did—what if it was too much? What if you shouldn’t have come? What if he hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, that subtle curve of his voice when he said see you at dinner, the glint in his eye, the way his attention had lingered for just a moment too long?

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors opened.

And then— There he was.

Reed stood just inside the threshold, one hand braced casually on the edge of the doorway, the other slipping his phone into his back pocket like he’d only just finished checking something, his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collarbone peeking slightly where his top button had been left undone, no tie, no lab coat—just a simple, perfectly tailored shirt that made your brain stutter for half a beat.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly more than once, and there was a tiny streak of ink or maybe graphite on his knuckle that hadn’t been washed off completely.

It was Reed, but not the version of him you’d grown used to seeing in the lab, not the hyper-focused, brilliant blur of intellect you worked beside every day—this Reed looked like he’d been waiting. For you.

His eyes moved over you slowly—once, all the way down and back up again, not rushed, not obvious, but deliberate enough that you felt it everywhere, like heat pressing into the skin of your chest and the backs of your knees, your fingers tightening instinctively around the bottle you were holding.

He didn’t say anything at first, just quirked the corner of his mouth into something halfway between a smirk and a smile, soft but amused, his gaze still lingering just a little too long.

“You clean up well,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, not teasing exactly—more like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Your mouth parted slightly, but your voice caught, and when you finally managed to speak, it came out soft and a little breathless. “I—brought wine.”

He glanced down at the bottle, then back at you, his smile deepening just enough to make your heart skip. “Dangerously overqualified,” he murmured, stepping back to let you in. “Smart and thoughtful. Sue’s going to love you.”

You stepped past him into the apartment, the warmth of the space wrapping around you instantly, the scent of dinner and city lights and him curling at the edge of your senses, and even as you tried to focus on your breathing, on your posture, on not tripping in your kitten heels, you could still feel the echo of his eyes on your skin, like he hadn’t really stopped looking.

The apartment unfolded around you like a page in some impossibly curated design magazine, only softer, warmer, more lived-in than anything artificial—clean, modern lines met rich textures, brushed steel softened by warm walnut floors and deep navy accents that glowed golden under the cascade of low, amber-hued lighting.

One entire wall was glass, and beyond it, the Manhattan skyline burned softly against the horizon, city lights just starting to glitter like distant stars, and even the air inside smelled expensive and comforting—like slow-cooked herbs and something faintly sweet.

You were still catching your breath, still clutching the wine like a lifeline, when you heard a voice float in from down the hall—clear, warm, and unmistakably female.

“There she is.”

Sue Storm walked into view like she had been sculpted from light itself—tall and impossibly graceful, wrapped in soft neutral fabrics that draped just right, her golden hair falling in loose waves that framed her face perfectly, her eyes a crystalline blue that held a kind of sharpness you immediately respected.

She was breathtaking, in that way women are when they know who they are, and the moment she looked at you, her whole expression softened with something kind and curious and real.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said with a small smile, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea, her gaze never once breaking from yours.

“Hi,” you breathed, the word escaping before you could shape it into anything more eloquent. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

She waved you off with a flick of her manicured fingers, as if the formality embarrassed her. “Please,” she said with a light laugh, stepping closer. “The way my husband talks about you? I’m the one who’s honored.”

And you blushed so hard you felt it in your ears, your whole body warming beneath the soft light, fingers tightening just slightly around the neck of the bottle as you dipped your head in modest disbelief, not quite sure if you should laugh or hide.

Reed, who had stepped away to adjust the music or maybe just give you a moment, said nothing, but you felt the weight of his glance again—the quiet satisfaction in the corners of his mouth like this was exactly what he wanted: you here, now, nervous but luminous, admired and welcomed.

“Come in,” Sue insisted gently, her hand brushing your arm in a way that grounded you immediately. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made way too much food—he said you don’t eat much, but I never trust him when he says that. He’s never once finished a plate himself.”

You smiled, heart still beating a little too fast, and followed her deeper into the space, the sound of your shoes soft against the hardwood, the city glowing quietly beyond the windows as if watching you take your first steps into something bigger than an internship—something warmer, more dangerous, and far more personal.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

Dinner was lovely—elegant but warm, the kind of meal that felt intimate without trying, served at a long polished table that glowed honey-gold under the overhead lights, the city sparkling just beyond the glass like a living mural.

You sat across from them, Reed to your left, Sue across from you, and despite the tight coil of nerves you’d carried into the evening, it was… comfortable.

Sue had a way of making you feel like you belonged, like you weren’t just a guest in the home of two of the most brilliant minds on the planet, but someone worth sitting at their table, someone they genuinely wanted to know.

You found yourself watching them more than you meant to—Sue leaning toward him with quiet laughter, Reed murmuring something back without looking up from his wine glass, the two of them moving in the kind of rhythm that only came from years of intimacy and quiet understanding. And still, as you watched them, something bloomed low and warm in your stomach—not jealousy, exactly, but a kind of quiet ache, a fascination that hummed beneath your skin, a longing that had less to do with their relationship and more to do with him.

You were still chasing the thread of that thought when Sue turned to you again, eyes bright with interest.

“So,” she said, “how did you get interested in all of this?”

You blinked, startled out of your reverie, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with a shy smile. “Well,” you began softly, glancing down at your plate before meeting her gaze again, “ever since I was a kid, I just… I always wanted to understand how the world worked. The math, the movement, the rules. I remember watching the stars and thinking—that’s what I want to learn. That’s what I want to be part of.”

Sue offered you a warm smile, nodding in that gentle, encouraging way that made you feel like your words mattered, like they weren’t small or naïve or too eager. “Well,” she said, “it’s always nice seeing young people interested in this kind of work—especially a fellow…” she paused, grinning as she reached for her glass, “…girl genius.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, about to reply with something awkward and grateful and probably too modest—when it happened.

You felt it.

Unmistakable.

A hand. Large, warm, and undeniably real, sliding gently across your thigh under the table.

Your heart stopped. Your breath caught somewhere high in your chest, your eyes flickering toward Reed so quickly you barely caught Sue sipping her wine across from you. But he didn’t look at you—not exactly. His gaze remained calm and forward, his profile composed and entirely unreadable as he took a slow sip of his wine and then glanced up at Sue, his hand still resting firmly on your leg.

“She’s brilliant,” he said casually, his voice smooth and even, like he was commenting on the weather, like he wasn’t currently touching you from across the table while sitting next to his wife.

You sat frozen, pulse thundering in your ears, body rigid but electrified, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of your glass as you tried to focus, to breathe, to not move.

“She corrected me the other day about a flux equation I wrote in ’04,” he continued, eyes finally drifting to meet yours—and holding there, steady and direct, a silent dare written behind his calm expression. “She was right, too.”

Sue laughed, clearly delighted. “Good. God knows someone needs to keep you in check.”

You could barely hear her. Could barely focus on anything except the heat of Reed’s hand, the way it pressed gently into the top of your thigh, just enough to let you know it was real, just enough to make your stomach twist with something hot and shivery and shamefully thrilling.

And then—his hand moved.

Not in that subtle, polite way you might’ve been able to ignore or convince yourself had been some kind of misunderstanding, not a graze or a twitch or something incidental—but deliberate, slow, intentional, his palm sliding higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress in a single fluid motion that felt so impossibly confident it made your entire body lock up at once.

The heat of his skin against your thigh stole the breath from your lungs, and when his fingers skimmed the delicate edge of your underwear, just barely brushing the fabric, you felt your heart climb straight into your throat and stay there.

You almost choked on your wine.

The glass halted halfway to your lips, your hands trembling just enough for the crystal to click against your teeth, and you let out a strange, stifled sound—half gasp, half cough—your eyes wide, your posture going ramrod straight as you struggled to swallow the panic and arousal crawling up your spine in tandem.

“You alright?” Sue asked gently, glancing up from her plate with concern etched between her brows, the picture of warmth and kindness and everything undeserving of what was happening beneath her dinner table.

“Yes,” you stammered, too quickly, the syllable snapping out of your mouth like it had been fired from a slingshot, your cheeks flushed a deep, telltale red as you nodded a little too hard. “I’m fine. Just—went down the wrong way.”

Across from you, Reed glanced up from his glass at the sound of your voice, his expression calm—no, worse than calm—amused, like he was enjoying watching you fall apart in real time, like he was studying the way you squirmed and flushed and fidgeted with quiet, academic satisfaction. His fingers moved—barely a shift, just enough to press the pad of his thumb along the inside of your thigh, skimming the thin lace of your panties with a featherlight drag that made your vision blur for a moment, your teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek to stop a sound from escaping.

Sue kept talking, mercifully, unaware of the silent war happening beneath the table, and you tried to nod along, tried to pretend you were still following the story she was telling about something at the foundation gala last week, but Reed’s hand was still moving—so slowly, so wickedly gentle, fingers drifting along the edge of the fabric like he was memorizing it, teasing it, learning every soft line of you with nothing more than a ghost of touch and that insufferable, unreadable look in his eyes.

You were blushing so fiercely now you were sure it had reached your chest, heat blooming down your neck like a fever, your knees squeezing together reflexively beneath the table as your breathing turned shallow, chest rising and falling in a way that did not feel casual anymore.

“Are you hot, honey?” Sue asked suddenly, concern returning to her voice, her eyes flickering to your cheeks. “A house full of so-called geniuses and we still haven’t figured out how to fix the aircon properly. I’ll be back—I’ll check the thermostat.”

And before you could answer—before you could find any response at all—she stood, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate and disappearing down the hall with a rustle of fabric and the click of her heels.

The door hadn’t even shut all the way before Reed finally spoke, low and calm and just for you, his fingers still resting against the soft, soaked curve of you beneath your panties.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, voice a dark, honey-dipped whisper that sent shivers straight through your bones. “Don’t stop now.”

“Reed—” you stammered, your voice cracking under the strain of your own name trembling on your lips, barely more than a whisper, a breath caught halfway between panic and disbelief, your thighs squeezing together out of instinct, out of desperation, out of need you didn’t yet know how to name. “What are you—”

He didn’t lean in.

He didn’t move closer.

He didn’t even blink.

He simply sat there, on the opposite side of the table, one elbow resting near his wine glass, the other arm subtly stretched beneath the surface like a quiet secret unraveling in the dark, and his voice, when it came, was soft and low and steady.

“Tell me to stop.”

And as he said it—calm, impossible, infuriatingly composed—you felt it: the cool air against your skin, your panties slipping down your thighs with a slow, torturous grace, peeled away by a hand that wasn’t even near you, stretched from across the table, precise and gentle and unspeakably brazen. The fabric caught just slightly at your knees before his fingers nudged it past, and you sat there frozen, wide-eyed, red-faced, with your dress pooled neatly over your lap and nothing beneath it now but heat and humiliation and the thundering pulse between your legs.

“Reed—” you breathed again, barely able to shape the word, and his gaze met yours in that maddening, quiet way—no urgency, no shame, only that still, measured calm that made your insides tremble, as if he was watching a reaction unfold under glass.

And then—

Sue's heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she entered the room again, moving with that effortless, elegant grace as she crossed behind you and returned to her seat.

“That should fix it,” she said lightly as she sat, her smile warm and unbothered, her tone casual as if nothing had changed in the few moments she’d been gone.

You turned toward her, your face flaming, your smile shaky and paper-thin as you tried to find your voice again, tried to stitch together whatever pieces of yourself hadn’t yet dissolved under Reed’s hand, which now rested high on your bare thigh like it belonged there.

“Thank you,” you managed softly, the words nearly catching on the breath that refused to sit still in your chest, and somehow, impossibly, you held her gaze.

And across from you, Reed Richards—calm, brilliant, monstrous in his control—simply took another sip of wine.

You tried to focus, truly you did—on Sue, on her words, on the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle thrum of jazz somewhere in the background—but all of it became nothing more than a blur of light and noise the moment his fingers moved again, slow and purposeful, the stretch of his arm impossibly seamless beneath the table, as if he could command every tendon, every muscle, with surgical precision.

He didn’t even shift in his seat, didn’t look down, didn’t so much as twitch, and yet—you felt him, truly felt him now, his fingers slipping between your thighs with exquisite control, brushing over your bare, trembling core with a deliberate slowness that made you forget how to hold your breath steady.

And then—he pushed.

Just one finger at first, and it was too much, because it was him, because it was stretched impossibly long and thick, curling up with inhuman ease, reaching deeper than anyone had ever dared, pressing into you like he already knew exactly where to go, what you needed, like he’d studied your anatomy and had all the answers memorized.

Your thighs tightened automatically, knees trembling under the weight of holding in a sound you very nearly let out, and your hands clenched into your lap, the wine glass beside you forgotten, your whole body alight with the unbearable tension of being touched like this—open, pulsing, absolutely undone—and doing nothing about it.

And then—

“Why don’t you explain to Sue what we went over the other day,” Reed said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just buried his finger inside you under the dinner table, as if he wasn’t slowly crooking it up to find that sweet, aching spot that made your stomach twist and your eyes nearly flutter shut.

You froze.

“What?” you whispered, blinking at him.

He offered a slight tilt of his head, his eyes resting on yours with a look of calm expectation—amusement, even—and then shifted his gaze to Sue, who was looking at you with the kindest, most open smile, entirely oblivious.

“The resonance collapse formula,” Reed said helpfully, voice steady. “She corrected one of my assumptions about it earlier this week. She’s sharper than she lets on.”

He curled his finger again.

And it took everything in you not to cry out.

You blinked rapidly, your lips parting around a breath that wasn’t quite a word, trying to remember the theory, the math, the basic principles of language, but all you could feel was the stretch inside you, the thick, gentle press of him moving in slow, unrelenting circles, coaxing you open without haste, without apology, without shame.

“I—” you started, your voice embarrassingly thin, “we—uh, we talked about—about the resonance curve failing at the threshold of—”

He added a second finger.

Your breath caught so hard you coughed, the burn of it tight in your chest, and you reached for your water like it might ground you, like the coolness of the glass could balance out the unbearable heat pulsing between your legs.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Sue asked again, concerned.

You forced a smile, shaking your head quickly, eyes wet with the effort to look normal, to act normal, when Reed’s fingers were pushing deeper now, stretching you in a way that was obscene, careful, perfect, and somehow managing to keep the rhythm slow and steady, barely moving, just enough to make you drip helplessly onto his knuckles under the table while you tried to describe a physics principle with your body unraveling second by second.

“I’m okay,” you managed to whisper, voice too soft, too high.

Reed’s thumb brushed upward. You jolted. He smiled—just slightly.

“You were saying?” he asked gently.

You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl under the table and never come out.

Instead, you looked up, cheeks flushed, throat tight, and murmured, “We adjusted the decay rate curve based on the harmonic threshold failing beyond point-six-three, and—and recalibrated the control conditions to reflect a more dynamic waveform—”

His fingers pressed up, deep, and you gasped—but you made it sound like awe, like wonder.

Sue beamed at you. “That’s amazing.”

You blinked, barely nodding, and Reed—still untouched himself, still seated like a man entirely at ease—just gave you the faintest smile across the table, like he was proud of you. Like you had passed some unspeakable test.

You weren’t sure when it changed—when Reed’s fingers, once so slow and exploratory, shifted their rhythm, no longer teasing but deliberate, their movement suddenly quickening beneath the tablecloth, each stroke firmer, deeper, more precise, curling up into that one devastating place inside you with the kind of methodical expertise that only a man like him could possess.

His thumb pressed again and again against your swollen clit in quiet, unrelenting circles, and it was obscene, unbelievably obscene, because he was still sitting across from you, back straight, shoulders calm, expression thoughtful and polite as Sue continued her story—talking about an ambassador, or a charity gala, or maybe a speech she gave—and you couldn’t hear a single word of it.

Because you were about to come.

Right there. At their dinner table.

Your thighs were trembling beneath the fabric of your dress, your body pulled taut like a string about to snap, nerves alight and burning in every limb, and you could feel it rising, fast and hot, building in your belly like a storm, spreading up through your spine with every practiced motion of his hand—stretched from across the table, long and dexterous and hidden beneath the soft, quiet clink of silverware.

You were soaked, dripping, pulsing around his fingers, and he knew. Of course he knew. He could feel every flutter, every desperate little squeeze your body gave him, and when he looked at you—really looked at you—his eyes burned with a satisfaction so soft it felt like praise.

You tried to hold it back. God, you tried. Your nails dug into the fabric of your skirt, your breathing shallow and uneven, your lashes fluttering as you ducked your head and bit into the back of your hand, trying to hide the sound, trying to bury the moan that threatened to rip itself from your throat. You were right on the edge, hovering there, helpless, when—

DING!

The sound of the oven’s timer rang out sharply through the kitchen, perfectly, cruelly timed—at the exact second you broke apart, your body shuddering around his fingers as the climax hit you so hard and fast you saw stars behind your eyes. You muffled the moan with your hand, trembling violently in your chair as you faked a cough so sharp it made Sue look up, concerned, just as she was standing to go check the dessert.

“Poor thing,” she said sweetly, already halfway out of the room, completely unaware of what had just happened right beneath her nose. “Let me go grab the cobbler��Reed, didn’t I tell you to turn on the vent fan for the oven? It smells like caramelized sugar in here.”

You barely managed to nod, your breath still stuttering in your chest, the taste of your own bitten-down moan lingering in your mouth like smoke, your vision wet and dizzy as you tried to collect yourself—but it was impossible, completely impossible, because Reed was still watching you, still calm, still composed, still seated like nothing had happened at all, as though his fingers hadn’t just coaxed your orgasm from you with the kind of precision that only a man with endless patience and supernatural reach could possess.

And then—he moved.

His hand, the one he had just pulled back from beneath your dress, rose slowly from beneath the table, casual, unhurried, and with the sort of smooth detachment that made your blood run hot all over again. You watched—helpless, horrified, entranced—as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his expression unreadable but his gaze never leaving yours, and then—

He licked them.

Just the tips. Just a quiet, deliberate motion—his tongue flicking out to drag across the pads of his fingers with unbearable slowness, like a man tasting something rare and sacred, like someone who savored knowledge, savored reactions, savored you—and your breath caught so hard it made your throat ache, your hands clenched in your lap, body still trembling beneath the table.

And that was the exact moment Sue walked back in.

The tray in her hands held a golden, bubbling dish still steaming at the edges, a pitcher of vanilla sauce tucked beside it, and she moved with the same easy grace she always had, placing the dish gently in the center of the table as the scent of caramelized fruit and butter filled the space.

“Was the sauce that good?” she asked with a light laugh, glancing over just in time to see her husband finishing his little motion, his fingers slipping from his mouth like it was nothing at all. “You just licked your fingers like you hadn’t eaten in days.”

Your entire body tensed.

Reed—calm, collected, horrifyingly composed—didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He simply tilted his head toward her, then turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours across the table, his gaze heavy with meaning, with memory, with the weight of what he’d just done to you, and said, without a flicker of shame—

“Delicious.”

Your stomach dropped. Your cheeks flamed. You looked away instantly, your eyes darting toward your lap, toward your empty plate, toward anywhere that wasn’t him, your skin hot and crawling with mortification, your thighs pressed tight together under the table, still slick and tender and sensitive as hell, and now—now you had to eat dessert.

With him. With her. With the taste of your orgasm still on his mouth.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

You said your goodbyes to Sue as sweetly and shakily as you could manage, your voice still thin and breathless from the quiet ruin Reed had left you in, the remnants of your orgasm still echoing in your body like a pulse you couldn’t calm, and still—still—you smiled, you nodded, you played the part of the polite, well-mannered girl who had not just come in silence at the dinner table. Sue hugged you lightly at the door, warm and soft and lovely, thanking you for coming and saying how nice it was to meet you, her words kind and sincere, her smile so genuine it made you ache.

“We’ll have to do this again,” she said gently, her voice carrying no suspicion, no awareness, only the comfort of a woman who’d welcomed you into her home and truly meant it.

“It was an honor,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, eyes lowered, fingers nervously wrapped around the strap of your bag, heart pounding loud and unrelenting in your chest.

Reed appeared behind you then, as if summoned by the rhythm of your exit, and without saying anything, without asking, he moved to walk you out, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back—a simple gesture, one that should’ve been harmless, innocent, but that felt anything but, especially after what those fingers had just done to you beneath a tablecloth in the dim golden light of a family dining room.

The door clicked shut behind the two of you, and the hallway beyond was quiet, cool, and still, a soft hum from the city beyond the glass, but the silence between you buzzed with something thicker, darker, more intimate than you could bear. He said nothing at first, only walked beside you with slow, unhurried steps, like the moment hadn’t already been branded into both your bodies, like he hadn’t watched you fall apart with your hand over your mouth while his wife got dessert.

At the door to the elevator, he stopped, and you turned toward him, still too flustered to meet his eyes, still trying to hold yourself together with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, your lashes lowered as you whispered, “Thank you for… dinner.”

His response came after a pause, his voice smooth, impossibly steady. “You were perfect.”

You froze—eyes flicking up, breath catching—and found him watching you with that same calm, unreadable expression, but there was something beneath it now, something warmer and darker and dangerous, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth that made your knees weaken all over again.

“Good girl,” he added softly, low enough that only you could hear it, and the elevator doors opened behind you with a soft ding, cool air spilling out into the hallway like a breeze that didn’t belong.

You stepped inside on trembling legs, unsure if you remembered how to breathe, and as the doors began to close, you looked back—just once—and there he was, standing exactly as he had before, his hands in his pockets, head tilted ever so slightly, still watching you, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t wait to take apart again.

And when the doors shut fully, sealing you into silence, your hand finally flew to your chest.

Because you had just survived dinner. Barely. And you weren’t sure you’d ever be the same again.

☄︎₊˚⊹☆

let me know your thoughtssss

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holyschnitzel · 14 hours ago

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Hi holyschnitzel!

A friend showed me the game's demo and I absolutely loved it, I got really obsessed with the character Damon. The game's background is really interesting, so I started following you to keep up with the lore and updates.

However, when I started looking into things, I was surprised that MC basically end up in a three-way relationship with DG and Damon, which isn't apparent in the game.

I don't really like this idea and wanted to ask if this will stay this way or if there will be individual routes where they haven't slept together before (like I see in posts about him taking her virginity) and have just been friends… I saw them as a family and it feels like incest.

I've found out that quite a lot of people think the same.

Thanks a lot for your time

Blastic is having trouble explaining this properly, so I'll take over :)

First of all, thank you for your interest in Broken Colors and for sharing your thoughts. I appreciate your enthusiasm for the game and especially for Damon's character <3 You seem to have some misunderstandings about the relationships in the game, so I'd like to clear that up for you!

Let me clarify that DG and Damon are absolutely not family or related in any way. They are explicitly established as friends (with benefits) who met as adults. There is no familial connection whatsoever between them, so your concern about "incest" doesn't apply to them. Just because you consider them family doesn't make it incestuous, this is not how it works, you naughty little thing you! ;P

Next, regarding Damon's personality and behavior: While Damon does have attachment issues and can be intensely possessive, his relationship with DG is unique and established before the events of the game. Their dynamic is special precisely because DG is the only person Damon trusts enough to consider sharing someone with. This is actually consistent with his character - he's not casually sleeping with multiple people; he has one deeply trusted connection (DG) that allows for this specific arrangement aka poly-relationship.

About the possible routes in the game:

There will be a route where MC ends up with DG.

A route where MC ends up with Damon.

And a poly-route option with both of them.

You're free to choose whichever route appeals to you most. If you prefer a one-on-one relationship with Damon, that route will be available to you. The poly route is simply an additional option for players who might be interested in that dynamic :)

Of course, we understand some players may have different preferences or interpretations, but Blastic wants to stay true to her characters and world she has created. Everything you have read are intentional aspects of the narrative and character development!

Well! I hope this clarifies things. Thanks again for your support and for engaging with the game so thoughtfully, eleipsis! ^o^

#br<3ken colors #br0ken colors #brokencolors #eleipsis ask #I hope everyone is well #I collapsed in the shower last week and bruised my leg #But I'm fine now #So don't you worry ^^ <3

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navybrat817 · 6 hours ago

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Hit to the Head

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Nurse!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Meet cute (of sorts?), possible concussion, mention of HYRDA, team dynamic, humor, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: A new AU (as if I need more) inspired by this wonderful nonnie. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the assurance on the medical discussion), but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn't need medical attention. That was what he told himself, and he said the same thing to the team after he took a hard hit to the head. But he made the mistake of telling Bob that he admittedly felt a little dizzy, who then told Yelena, who then demanded that he go to the hospital. Not only did she demand that he go, they all went and were currently hanging out in the lobby to make sure he was okay.

It was a sweet gesture, if not a wasted one.

He took a hit to the head. So what? He experienced much worse when it came to his head and he was a super soldier for God's sake, so he’d heal just fine. It was a bit cocky to think like that but others needed help more than he did and he wasn't in the mood for anyone to inspect him or ask questions.

At least he wasn't until he saw your face.

“Hi,” you smiled, pulling back the curtain to give him some privacy. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He opened his mouth to say he hadn't waited long at all, but no sound came out. Thank God he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor because it would've picked up on the accelerated rate when you smiled at him again. He almost forgot to breathe before his body reminded him that he needed oxygen. No one should look as beautiful as you in medical scrubs or under the harsh hospital lighting. He wondered if he looked okay despite the blood and dirt on his clothes.

Wait, why did it matter what he looked like? He wasn't there to flirt with or impress you. There was no reason for him to sit up straighter or flex his right arm. There sure as hell wasn't any reason to run his fingers through his hair to get the tangles out. It was a hospital visit, not a date.

You wore a name tag, but introduced yourself before taking a look at his chart. “I understand you took a pretty hard hit to the head, Mr. Barnes.”

His voice came out huskier than he anticipated when he said, “Call me Bucky.” Clearing his throat he added, “If you consider a slab of concrete to the head hard, then yeah, but at least my head didn't split open.”

He felt the need to assure you he was fine when concern crossed your beautiful features. “I’m very thankful your head didn't split open, Bucky.” He liked the way you said his name. “But a concrete slab to the head is no joke.”

“You should see the other guy,” he joked, making you giggle. Was he funny or were you only laughing for his benefit? “But seeing the other guy wouldn't matter anyway since you won't let me leave without an exam,” he guessed. Even if he didn't believe he needed one.

It wasn't just his belief that he was fine. Most didn't know it, but every now and then hospitals made him feel like he was back at HYDRA, ready to be strapped to a chair to await his next form of torture or to be experimented on. He wouldn't say he was afraid, but there was discomfort. Enough to make it feel like the walls were slowly closing in.

With a deep breath he thought instead of his wonderful treatment in Wakanda and reminded himself that he was safe, free. It helped the next breath come easier. He then looked at your face where he only saw concern and compassion. You weren't going to hurt him. You were there to help.

“Well, I wouldn't be a very good nurse if I just let you walk out, would I?” you gently smiled.

He managed a smile for you because you weren't just doing your job. You also seemed kind. “I guess not.”

He could get through a simple exam.

Bucky inhaled, detecting a hint of something sweet under the sterile surroundings as you checked his heart beat. It was so subtle that he wouldn't have been able to pick up on it if it weren't for his heightened senses. He almost leaned into you before you pulled away, and thank God for that. Would he have been able to blame it on his head if he did?

“I don't have a concussion,” he blurted out.

“Is that right?” He swore there was amusement in your tone when you shone a light in each of his eyes. “I imagine you're somewhat familiar with them in your line of work.”

“You can say that,” he said. He had his fair share of hits to the head, and helped his teammates get through injuries. “No nausea, no stiffness or imbalance.”

He didn't mention the dizziness since he didn't want to stay longer than he needed to.

“Any issues with your memory?” you asked.

He smirked a little. “That's a bit of a loaded question.”

“Can you tell me what day it is and what hospital you're at?” you asked.

He answered the questions with ease. He also spelled “world” backwards when you asked him to. “See? I’m fine,” he said.

“Your vitals are normal. Pupils reactive. But-”

“Look, I appreciate you checking me out,” he cut you off, keeping the bite out of his voice because he refused to snap at you. “But I don't want to waste your time.”

Bucky hated that he was trying to rush out when you were only trying to help, but he could hear people in the other rooms even as he tried to block it out. They were in pain, struggling. They needed you more than he did.

“And I appreciate that you're thinking of my time, but it’s my job and I wouldn't feel comfortable with you leaving without completing my exam,” you said, taking a closer look at him. It wasn't concern he saw in your eyes now, but understanding. “You're not exactly a fan of hospitals, are you?”

The question took him by surprise. How did you guess? “Not exactly,” he replied, choosing not to elaborate on that and you were thoughtful enough not to push. Just a sympathetic nod, which he appreciated. “But the work you and everyone else in the medical field does? It's incredible. Thank you.”

In his eyes, people like you were the real heroes. You didn't just face battles, you faced pandemics and life changing events. You risked your lives, saw the best and worst of people, and how many thanked you in return? And from the little time he knew you he could sense the love and dedication to your job and patients. He respected that.

“Thank you. And thank you for all that you do, too,” you said sincerely. The compliment had the corner of his lip tugging in a smile. “I know you want to get out of here, but I am here to help. If you're fine, great. If not, please, let me help you.”

He tried to look anywhere but at you. It unnerved him that you got under his skin with so few words and he wondered for a second if that hit to the head did more damage than he thought. “I feel a little dizzy, but that’s all,” he admitted, and he felt better by doing so.

You put a hand over his, little currents of electricity shooting up his arm. “Thank you for telling me,” you whispered, like it was your little secret. “Since you are feeling dizzy, I would like you to stay for observation.”

Bucky sighed. “How long do I have to stay?”

“As long as everything is stable and there are no new or worsening conditions, you’ll likely be discharged within an hour or two,” you replied. He almost argued that he healed from injuries faster thanks to the serum, but that wasn't too long. Better safe than sorry. At least it wasn't a headscan. “Would you like some water? I can get you a snack, too.”

The snack and drink were likely to make sure he could keep them down. “Sure, thanks,” he whispered.

“Sorry that you’re stuck with me checking on you for the next hour or so,” you said.

Bucky’s smile grew before he chuckled. “You won't hear me complaining,” he promised.

Hell, he'd probably fake an injury just to see you again, or at least ask for you if he ever had to come back to the hospital for any reason. He wondered if you were single. You weren't wearing a wedding band or an engagement ring. That didn't necessarily mean-

“I’m single,” you said quickly.

He glanced at you before his eyes went wide. Shit, he said some of that out loud? “Oh, well, that’s…” He wasn't sure what to say. Should he apologize? “Nice.”

He grimaced. Nice? What was wrong with him? Maybe he had a concussion after all.

You looked at him, your smile soft and easy. He either wasn't the first patient to make a fool out of himself like that or you were being nice. “I’ll be back shortly, but buzz if you need anything.”

“I will,” he said, his finger itching to push the remote the second you left him alone.

He leaned back in the bed and tried to make himself comfortable while he slowly looked around. How was it that the room seemed darker, as if you took a bit of the light and warmth with you? He shook his head slowly and carefully. It was a ridiculous thought.

“Observation for an hour or two. You okay sticking around so you can drive me back?” he messaged Yelena.

Yelena messaged back almost immediately. “Everyone is staying. Even Walker.”

He scoffed, but there was a smile behind it. “Not that you need my permission, but you can punch him if he steps out of line.” Yeah, John was still an asshole, but they did work together and he was trying. Some days.

He perked up when you came back with a cup of water and a snack. “You doing okay?” you asked.

“Since you left a minute or two ago, yeah,” he teased.

“Were you a sarcastic guy before the hit to the head, or is this a new side to you?” you teased back.

“Oh, the sass has always been there,” he said, taking a sip once you handed the drink over. “Better to be smart-ass than a dumbass, right?”

Why was he talking so much?

“So much better,” you smiled, going to the small computer to type something in. He tried not to stare as your fingers flew across the keyboard. He could always blame it on his head if you caught him. “I’ll be back in just a bit, but-”

“Buzz if I need you. I know,” he smiled.

“At least there isn't too much sass in your tone,” you joked before you left him alone once again.

If he didn't know any better he would think you were flirting with him, but you were just being a friendly nurse.

He also tried not to eavesdrop when he heard you assisting others, but your voice drew his attention and he hung on your every word. You were professional, yet personal, showing each patient expert care. You lightly scolded an older gentleman who hadn't listened to you, which brought a smile to Bucky’s face when the man apologized and didn't give you any trouble after that. It was a delicate balance to be kind and assertive and you did it well.

“You are something,” he said to himself.

For the next hour or so Bucky didn't say much when you checked on him, but you had his undivided attention, his eyes following you wherever you went. He wanted to find excuses to keep you there and possibly make small talk, but it felt wrong when there were other patients who needed your attention. He caught that sweet scent again whenever you were close to him. Alluring, captivating. He tried to figure out if it was a body wash or just you.

Something he noticed and tried not to was that your heart raced faster when you were near him. Maybe there was a slight chance that you were attracted to him? Beyond being a friendly nurse, maybe the possible attraction was why you kept smiling at him. He wanted to believe so. He wanted to feel your hand on his hand again. The brief touch had him wanting more, which was crazy.

And before Bucky knew it, it was time to leave.

“Vitals still look good. No change in symptoms,” you confirmed after he said the dizziness had subsided and he didn't feel at all nauseous after the snack. “Do you have someone to drive you home?” you asked.

“Yeah, I have some friends here,” he answered. Even if he wasn't dizzy there was no way they'd let him drive after that.

“Try to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours. If there are new symptoms or if the dizziness gets worse, you should return to the hospital,” you told him. “Other than that, I think you're good to go,” you smiled, but it didn't look as bright as before.

Were you disappointed that he had to leave? Bucky was disappointed, but what could he do? He had no excuse to stay. Ironic how he was itching to leave when he got there when he now wanted a reason to stick around.

“Thanks.” He grabbed his jacket after slowly getting to his feet, your gaze lingering on him when he slipped it on.

“Why don't I walk you back to the lobby?” you offered.

“Oh, you don't have to do that,” he said, regretting it since it sounded like a brush off and that wasn't his intention. “But if you wouldn't mind?”

Your face lit up, at least he thought it did. “I don't mind at all.”

Keeping a respectful distance, but not too much of a gap as you walked together, he stole a couple of glances at you. The quiet confidence in which you carried yourself was beautiful and you turned a few heads from nearby patients. He wondered if you noticed.

He smiled to himself when he spotted his teammates sitting in the waiting area. None of them looked particularly comfortable, but they stuck it out for him. It meant a lot.

“That group right there is my ride,” he said, not wanting you to go any closer. If they got the slightest hint that he enjoyed your company for a short time, they’d pounce. “Thanks again.”

“I’m glad I could help," you said, gazing at him. “Havd a good night. And don't forget to take it easy for the next 24-48 hours, hero.”

Hero. The nickname almost made him smile. “You have a good night, too.”

You lingered for just a moment, almost as if you expected him to say something else. When he didn't, you offered him one last smile and scanned your card to get back through the double doors. His shoulders dropped once you were out of sight. He should've said something.

“Hello?” Yelena asked, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked a few times. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, I think he was staring at that pretty nurse,” Ava answered.

Bucky shot the entire group a glare, his cheeks hot. “No, I wasn't,” he grumbled. Except he was. He stared at you. And by the amused looks on their faces, they all saw it.

Yelena exchanged a look with Ava before they both smirked. “Yes, you were. Do you like the nurse?”

Bucky’s fists curled. He was not having this conversation after a hit to the head. “Can we leave?”

“It’s okay to stare or have a crush. She’s a beautiful woman.” Alexei clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She would be lucky to date the Winter Soldier.”

A growl escaped before Bucky could stop it. Yes, you were beautiful. Did he need Alexei to point that out? And he didn't have a crush. How could he?

“When was the last time you went on a date?” Ava asked.

Bucky took a deep breath. He really didn't want to talk about this. “Does it matter?” he asked.

“Ask her out! I drive you for your date!” Alexei offered, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll set the mood. You see.”

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “Dad, stop.”

Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes, wishing he could teleport himself out of there. “Yes, please, stop.”

“Is your head okay?” Bob asked, making him open his eyes. Of course he was concerned with his pain, and Bucky was glad for the change of topic.

“I’m fine,” Bucky assured him. There was nothing for him to worry about. “I just need to take it easy for the next day or so.”

John stretched his back once he stood up. “If you really want to see that nurse again I can make sure you get another hit to the head.”

Bucky’s eyes turned cold. “I’m not a killer anymore, but I may make an exception if you try anything.”

John held his hands up, but still had a smirk on his face before Yelena shot him a look. “A small injury could bring you back here.”

“No one is injuring me to bring me back here,” he announced. Everyone looked disappointed except for Bob. “What, you all want me to get hurt?”

Why did he decide to join this team again?

“No, we just want you to see the nurse again,” Ava said.

“Let’s go,” he ordered.

As the group left, Bucky snuck one last look over his shoulder. You were a good nurse, and you made his night better. A small part of him hoped he made your night a little better, too. And while he certainly didn't want more injuries, a part of him did if only to bring him back to you.

So, what injury is Bucky getting so he can see you again? sebastian stan x reader, james bucky buchanan barnesLove and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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tempestaurora · 1 day ago

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#he is her little shithead son and I love it so much but I’m mainly reblogging to say#the fact Dana’s known Langdon and Collins for the same however many years#but her relationship to both of them is vastly different#and their relationship to her is vastly different#says a lot!!!!!#the intimacy and reciprocal nature of her care for collins versus langdon’s simple reliance on dana#like the way Langdon looks at collins when she asks if she can give Dana the good news#right after he jumped straight to ‘good so she can get back to work!’ and didn’t even consider#dana’s needs. which tracks with their conversation in the staff room during the finale#but the way he is taken aback by collins jumping on the opportunity to be the one to take care of dana#it’s just so jarring to him and I think that’s because. like. dana is this untouchable brilliant force of nature that he can always#trust will be there when he needs her#but he can’t fathom her needing him#meanwhile he realizes that’s not the relationship that collins had with her#gets a glimpse into how dana does need someone and that someone is collins#and it’s like. yeah it’s jealousy because how did she do that with robby and how did she do that with dana#ugh#the pitt via @harrietdyker

oh i think you might understand this dynamic better than all of us put together

i think we're not paying enough attention to dana and langdon yet. dana giving him redbulls. dana's "you're like the son i never wanted". langdon talking about his family with her and her trying to coach him lightly into giving his wife more time to herself and more help. dana's "i love you kid" and langdon admitting to her how scared he is now he's fucked up. i just really like the thought of charge nurse dana evans in her job for 30 years and this little shit starts his residency in her ED and she thinks he's a ridiculous asshole but also someone she cannot help but want to take care of. just a tiny bit. she just can't let him know as much though because he'd never let her live it down

#something something how children hero worship their parents #and how langdon cannot fathom dana needing his help. shes been here 30 years #and how he probably looked at his parents as a kid and assumed they knew everything too #in comparison to collins who meets dana as a fellow adult and friend #and so knows that she is fully and perfectly human #the pitt

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directdogman · 2 days ago

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A few words about the upcoming Olandy route!

First of all, want to quickly apologize for the relative quietness on my part as of late. I'm still in the middle of an international move right now and I'm officially on the final bureaucratic stage before I can physically pack up and complete the move. I've gotten quotes from moving companies, found a good service for Salvage's transport (which was a challenge in of itself) and now I'm just waiting for the final legal paperwork to process. Combined with my recent stint in hospital (my heart did something zany) and preparing for an upcoming merch campaign whose launch month was decided at the start of the year, you may see why I'm behind my own schedule. I can however confirm that work is still on-going... just slower than I'd like. However, I've taken this partial hiatus in production to think over the route and make sure it'll be as conceptually solid as I can make it.

One concern I'd like to address because I've seen it mentioned a few times is the fear that the route may veer into fan service territory in terms of characterization/scene content and I'm hoping I can put those fans at ease. I understand these concerns. The very concept of an Olandy route does seem kind of rife for this sort of thing. The thing is though, the idea for an Olandy route was a cut concept from DT's basegame, when I thinking of ways to double up characters in order to have more three-way dialogue scenes.

Obviously, given that a whole route was cut from the game, this idea ended up in the same nether-sphere as the other potential route ideas, like the Fusco route. But, this was an idea that I considered long before the Olandy ship gained popularity and that's why I was eager to tease the idea after release. I get many requests for routes with characters like Harry, Peter, which would undeniably sell well, but that I'd really have to headscratch to think of a way to make work. My point is, I'm only interested in ideas that I'm confident in.

Would Randy and Oliver completely work as partners? There's points for and against it. Do they have a strong/unique dynamic? Definitely. Randy is someone who looks to others for comfort/confidence and he's not good at dealing with things alone or without guidance. Oliver is confident in himself and very much a pack animal, who loves receiving validation/affection and feeling useful. This roughly explains why they veer towards each other even without considering stuff like romantic/behavioural compatibility.

As for the route itself, my main goal with their dynamic is to give an honest exploration of each character and to show a side of each not seen in their route, while also staying consistent to who they both are. It's important to note that this isn't just a Randy-Oliver route, but very much a Randy-Oliver-Gingi route. You shouldn't worry that the route will be sappier or more romantically heavy than the other routes as I'm actually including an option to play the route completely platonically and both options won't be too dissimilar outside of certain dialogue lines from both characters.

The key thing here is that I'm writing the route just like any other DT route and my main focus is having fun scenes where the characters talk about themselves in order to compare and contrast the differences/similarities between each character within the trio. There are scenes where Oliver is serious and confides in Gingi. There are scenes where we see Randy's insecurity/cowardice paint him in a bad light.

The DLC will also not replace either of their routes, and will instead aim to emphasis traits + backstory each character has that's kind of implied subtly in each of their routes, but not specifically outlined, to give you a more well-rounded view of each character. So, my goal is certainly not to flanderize, but quite the opposite. I want to give a deeper view on each character that's consistent with previous characterization, by further explaining why each character is the way they are and providing more context to stuff mentioned in Randy/Oliver's main routes. Oh, and advancing Gingi's character further, akin to in Roger's route.

(And before you ask, yes, I do have a similar plan for Karen later on, but I have a very specific idea of where it makes sense to put it as it's a much more involved project than a simple DLC. It will definitely take longer to pull off. But, her day will come.)

So, yeah! Obviously Roger's route took care to display the datables in their cameos with the nuance they have in the basegame. From Randy's impurity (willingness to be part of a con), Oliver potentially freaking Gingi out and being unsure of himself upon meeting it, Karen cracking a spontaneous joke (and it not landing), etc. It's important to me that I don't flanderize these characters or reduce them to their outermost traits.

I'm still not 100% confident in the route draft, but that's a given. I never am. But, I can say, I'm really excited for people to see the character stuff I have in mind for Randy, Oliver + Gingi, particularly what's revealed about both in the heart to heart in the good ending. You have a rough idea of what to expect from the route as per previous routes and while this one won't be nearly as large as Roger's route, I still wanna make it the best experience it can be for you all. Thank you! :)

#dialtown

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thepencilnerd · 3 days ago

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A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail.

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing.

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin.

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended."

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised.

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s.

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it.

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner.

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying?

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit.

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all.

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn.

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title.

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind.

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments.

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip.

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything.

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night."

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life."

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay."

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream.

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang.

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read.

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water.

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

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berrryparfait · 2 days ago

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Hii this is My first time asking for something like this, but, can you write "How much age difference" love and deepspace boys would hace with his girlfriend? 🥹

age gap(?) ༉‧₊˚.

***i hope u don't mind me giving u a short answer instead of a full fic—i'll def write one in the future if u'd like! <3

honestly, i can see xavier being a couple years (3?) younger than his gf, mainly because he's a little more reserved in nature and would probably be drawn to someone slightly older than him. i also think it would be fun / ironic how he's a freak in the sheets and quite dominant in bed despite his younger age 🤭

in my head, rafayel is centuries older than his gf. mentally, him and his gf are around the same age (same maturity level) but he's existed for much longer due to his status as a god (not canon). i think rafayel being technologically illiterate would be so hilarious and adorable. imagine mc teasing him for not knowing how to use emojis 😆

sylus is older than his gf, ranging from 6 to 20 years older lol. he could either be an oppa type of guy or a full-on silver fox, depending on how dilfy you'd like him to be. he's naturally protective, enjoys taking care of you and makes sure all your needs are met—but at the same time understands you're your own person and knows not to overstep.

i think most people would agree that caleb is older than his gf, maybe about 4 years older(?) he's known her since they were kids so he's also very protective of her, and likes it when she depends on him. ofc, mc wants to be independent and fight her own battles, but she secretly delights in the fact that she can always rely on him should the need arise.

zayne could either be younger or older than his gf, but not by much. i've always seen him as a mix between xavier and caleb (more so xavier, personality wise), so he could lean either way. he gets teased by mc a lot, but also enjoys teasing her back. they have a healthy, mature dynamic with just the right touch of playfulness 💕 and ofc, they both look out for each other at all times.

#‧˚˖✩ bp asks #love and deepspace #lads #lnds #sylus #zayne #caleb #rafayel #xavier #sylus x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #caleb x reader

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livesbetweenpages · 2 days ago

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Thinking about this beautiful post again esp after the fight but what if it’s not Eddie who says it first but Buck - but still friendship style. Still the exact dynamic and perspective said above. It’s just Buck remembers not saying it to Bobby and remembers Maddie saying given the circumstances I thought I should say it more. So he does. Just in case. Tells Eddie he loves him thinking that that’s what you should do when your closer-than-family friendpartner is trapped with you and you might die. But Eddie doesn’t know any of that reasoning. Hasn’t talked to Buck about Maddie, let alone Bobby. And he hears Buck tell him Buck loves him. Something they’ve never said to each other before. Despite the amount of ndes they’ve gone through. And then it hits him. Oh. that’s what I feel. Eddie who needs to be given the reason to say the thing he’s feeling, can say it because he thinks Buck’s saying it first. And then they spend s9 with Eddie happy and casually flirting thinking they’re on the same page, wow dating IS easy and no pressure, all the while Buck is thinking yup! My bestboyfriend Eddie who always touches me (but now it’s different) and looks at me like that (but now it’s different) and cancels or doesn’t make plans because we’re hanging out at home tonight nothing special (but now it’s different). Wonder what that’s about (I will not analyze it).

do you know what i actually think would be a juicy and consistent conclusion to what we’ve seen from this season. is a one-sided love confession from eddie. but it happens in the heat of the moment like they are getting earthquaked or methane exploded or set on fire or whatever. and eddie tells buck that he loves him. and buck (following the pattern of his thinking that we’ve seen forever but especially all this season) is like yeah eddie i love you too (friendship style) but we’re going to make it out of this. because he does not realize what eddie is saying to him. and is not allowing himself to even contemplate the idea of it being anything other than friendship. because eddie is straight and is not an option, and buck has literally Not given himself the space to self-reflect about any of this or about his own feelings because he is a) holding it together for everyone else out of deadbobby necessity, b) prioritizing what he assumes are Eddie’s feelings/needs, and c) protecting himself subconsciously. and so the season ends with an eddie who has confessed his love for buck and a buck who is openly bisexual but thinks they are status quo best friendism. and S9 is the push/pull of waiting for them to figure themselves out.

#and then Maddie tells him oh I see the building didn’t kill you guess I will because I cannot with this anymore #and then when he finally figure it out he’s like Eddie Eddie I have to tell you something!!#Eddie voice yeah bud?#buck voice Eddie. Eddie I love you #Eddie voice 🥰😊 yeah bud love you too #buck voice no Eddie you don’t understand. I LOVE you #Eddie voice 🤨 yeahhhhh me too?? but thanks?#Buck voice. ugh no! you don’t get it!! (new approach) go on a date with me #Eddie voice: we already have reservations at that place you like Friday???#buck voice 🫠 I have to call Maddie #buddie #911 abc

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mywritersmind · 23 hours ago

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Hii babe, I have another little request if you’re taking them!

Could you write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s super stressed because she’s about to take her final exams (like the French bac) and she hasn’t started revising at all?? It’s literally in a month, and she feels completely overwhelmed and behind.Like she’s spiraling a bit, maybe crying over highlighters and making dramatic “I’m gonna fail” speeches while Kimi just tries to calm her down and support her. Maybe he helps her organize her revision or just stays with her through the stress, reminding her that she’s smart and capable even if she doesn’t feel like it.Basically soft academic panic + golden retriever boyfriend energy. Only if it inspires you of course!! But I’d love that dynamic.

OVERWHELMED IS

AN UNDERSTATEMENT - KA12

listen up : no warnings! thank you for the request this is super sweet! i hope you enjoy!

words : 514

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“I’m gonna fail!” Is the first thing Kimi hears when he walks into her room. She’s sat on her bed, surrounded by notebooks, two computers, an ipad, loose paper, and a million sticky notes.

There are tears streaming down her face. When she asked him to bring over some highlighters, he did not expect this. “Love, no you’re not.” He says calmly, clearing a path in the mess of study material so he can sit next to her.

Kimi takes her hand, rubbing her back at the same time he kisses her marker covered hand. “I’m so stupid- I haven’t studied at all! I’ve been so distracted and didn’t even see it coming even though it’s been on the calendar for months!” He wails, hurrying her face into his shoulder as he hums in understanding.

“Then we’ll study every day until the exam. You’re the smartest person I know, You literally single handedly got me through my last year of math.” This makes her laugh a bit, sitting up again and sniffling.

“You’ll be gone though.” This makes her get a second wind of her meltdown, reminded of Kimi’s busy schedule and how she doesn’t fit into it.

“We can facetime!” He rubs her arms methodically, “You do need to sleep after all… I'll be racing when you’re sleeping.”

“I have no time for sleep!” She groans, looking around her and letting her tears fall onto the paper.

He takes her face in his hands, “Baby…” Using his thumb, he gently wipes her cheeks as she pouts with wide teary eyes. “You can do this. You already know more than your class, you just need a couple extra study days.”

She sniffles again, a broken sob escaping her lips. Kimi frowns, his hands back on hers, “Breathe for me, yeah?”

She breathes in with him, then out. After a couple rounds, the only remnants of her tears are the drops on her shorts and papers. “I’ll be here all night, okay? I brought highlighters too!” He turns to the papers and when she sees the bright highlighters he pulls out of his pocket, she breaks down again.

“Baby…” She sobs as his soft words, “Hey- it’s gonna be okay.”

“Thank you.” She says, pushing back her hair that’s escaped her bun, “You’re the best ever.”

He smiles, tucking a particularly stubborn piece of hair behind her ear, “Show me where to start and you’ll be teaching this to me in no time.”

She smiles at her boyfriend, wondering how she got so lucky with the most comforting boy in the world. “I love you.” She kisses his cheek and leans into him again, “I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Never apologize for asking for help.” He kisses her softly on the lips, “And you’re not dragging me into this. I love you. Spending time with you is all I want. Especially if I can help you in any way.”

She almost cries again at his words, instead she wraps her arms around him for one last hug before the two get to work.

#formula 1 fanfic #fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #kimi antonelli fan fic #kimi antonelli fic #kimi antonelli angst #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli x reader

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 1 day ago

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Wouldn't it be nice

Part three

Summary: Harry processes not only finding you again, but the possibility of having a daughter. Deciding to talk to you again the next day leads to some questions being asked and answered. And dinner....

Pairing: Harry Castillo x fem. reader

Rating: G

Wordcount: 2.8k

Warnings: vacation romance, unplanned pregnancy, death of parents, Harry is a family man, sister and brother dynamics, anxiety, fluff? (look these two are in love okay)

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Main Masterlist // Harry Castillo Masterlist // Wouldn’t it be nice Masterlist

„What’s going on with you today?“ Sarah asked once Daniel was in bed.

Ever since Harry and Daniel had come home, it was her brother who kept staring of into the distance in deep thought. Her son on the other hand was still on top of his sugar rush, thanks to his uncle buying him ice cream and a milkshake, and it took her almost an hour to get him to go to bed.

She thought Harry would be gone by now, so she was surprised to find him sitting on her couch, glass of wine in hand as he starred into the fireplace, a fire flickering.

They were living in the same place, Harry in the penthouse of the building on the 101 and 102nd floor (he could talk about the deal he made for this penthouse for hours if you let him) and her on the 45th floor. She would have never been able to afford this place on her own, but her brother insisted to buy it for her as a divorce gift.

She made him swear to never gift her anything for the rest of her life, something he, of course, ignored.

Sarah reached for a glass, filling it with the remaining wine as she walked towards her brother, sitting down next to him.

There was something off with him today.

„When I picked up Daniel from school today,“ he finally started to talk, „I ran into the teacher who will take over the class once Miss Cooper goes on maternity leave.“

Sarah would never be able to express how thankful she was about how involved her brother was in her sons life, something her ex hadn’t even tried when they were still together.

„She has a little girl, turning three in a couple of months. Shit, I didn’t even ask her name,“ he mumbled to himself and Sarah frowned.

„The teachers?“ She asked and he shook his head.

„The girl,“ he took a sip of wine.

„Why would you ask the name of the kid of a teacher?“ Sarah was getting more confused by the second. Harry finally looked at her and the look in his eyes made the hairs in her neck stand up.

„Because Daniel’s new teacher is the woman I spent the week with on the Caribbean three years ago,“ he said.

„Okay….“ Sarah said slowly.

„And the girl, her kid….. I think she’s my daughter,“ he whispered and Sarah’s eyes widened.

"She looks just like you when you were that age. She has... She has dads eyes, my eyes…“ he shook his head.

„Hold on Harry. Did she say that she was yours?“ Sarah asked, mind already wandering further. Harry was a wealthy man. Woman showing up, claiming their child is his happened more often than she liked to admit in the past.

„No. To be honest she looked like she was ready to bolt out of this situation as soon as she could,“ he rubbed his hand over his forehead before letting himself fall backwards against the couch.

Sarah looked at him. Her big brother.

He had been… kind of a mess when he got back from that vacation. But he was so… happy, at least in the beginning, she hadn’t seen him like that in a long time.

„You still love her?“ Sarah asked and Harry groaned.

Of course there had been women in the past three years. Okay, there were two women and it was a strictly for sex arrangement both of the women had agreed on.

Harry didn’t do relationships. Not since his ex wife.

But with you? Fuck, he was ready to ask you to elope on the day after the two of you met. The way you had looked at him like he was the most important thing in the world when you told him about your dreams.

„Yeah. Yeah, I do,“ he finally said, tilting his head to look at Sarah who shrugged.

„Then you know what to do,“ she said with a small smile.

„How would I even go about this?“

„Oh please. From what you have told me, I am still traumatised by the details you let me know by the way, she was very much as obsessed with you as you were with her. Talk to her. Invite her for dinner. Or… a walk in the park. If you think she could make you happy? Truly happy? You have to go for it,“ Sarah said, reaching over to squeeze his arm.

„But do me one favour,“ she said and he nodded.

„Get a paternity test,“ she said pointedly and he rolled his eyes.

„Don’t you think if she wanted money, she would have found a way to contact me? She had my name. One google search and she would have known exactly who I am,“ he said.

„I am not saying it because I don’t trust you with your instincts. And you make a valid point about her not coming for money earlier. But… do it. Just to be sure,“ she said and he sighed.

„Eventually,“ he grumbled.

„Good boy,“ she tapped his head twice and he slapped her hand playfully away.

„I am really glad you’re my sister,“ he said and Sarah smiled before she hugged him.

„I am really glad I’m your sister too.“

„This one?“ You held her yellow dress up and Emily shook her head.

„This one?“ The blue dress. A safe choice. Immediately she clapped her hands with a smile that you returned.

It was the morning after you ran into Harry Castillo, catching you completely unprepared.

Not that anything could have prepared you to meet him ever again.

All night you kept spiralling. By three am you were ready to camp out in front of his office (the address also suspiciously saved in your phone) to talk to him.

You hated this.

Your mind had ran your thoughts in a direction you really didn’t like. A direction that made you seriously consider just grabbing Emily and getting the heck out here again, before anything bad could happen.

What exactly the bad thing happening was?

You weren’t sure. Your brain provided a list of scenarios, one worse than the other. Only one scenario, a wishful hope and fever dream, left you and Harry running off into the sunset together, happy, as a family.

But who were you kidding?

He was so out of your league, you were only able to have his interest back on the island because island you was a completely different version from you than normal you.

You weren’t bold, you weren’t confident.

And you definitely didn’t have sex with men you met on the same evening.

As a matter of fact, you didn’t have any more sex after him.

Why were you thinking about sex?

„Mommy?“ Emily asked and you blinked out of your thought spiral of doom.

„Yes baby?“

„Can we go now?“ She asked and you smiled with a nod, grabbing your bag and her little rucksack, before you got on your walk to school.

You had the suspicion that Harry would be the one who picked up Daniel today too, so you told Miss Cooper that you would handle the pick up that day. She didn’t put up much of a fight. Her baby was due in six weeks, and you could remember how miserable you were in those last week of your pregnancy as if it was yesterday.

You didn’t pick up Emily right away today, wanting to talk to Harry without her there if he ends up coming.

Because it had almost always been you and her ever since she was born, she never questioned where her father was. You had a story prepared for the day she would eventually ask where her daddy was. A grand story about how her daddy lived on an island very far away and took care of…. Fish. Okay you maybe had to work on that story.

You were anxious the moment you stepped out of the building, the kids running past you and out of the school, eager to get to their parents and home after a day full of learning.

The kids in your class were bright and curious and you were looking forward to teaching them about everything you knew in the next months. You waved at some kids who said goodbye to you you smiled.

A smile that froze when you let your gaze wander over the school yard and saw Harry walking towards you. A woman was walking next to him, who was talking to him but the moment you looked at him, his eyes were focused on you.

You wondered who it was.

The woman.

Was he in a relationship?

„Mom!“ Daniel flew past you and right into the arms of the woman Harry had come with. Okay, that made sense. So this must be Harry’s sister Sarah. You…. Might have read up on your students today during lunch break, spending a little more on getting familiar with Daniel’s file.

Sarah Castillo-Jones was Daniel’s mother. A father wasn’t listed, and only Harry Castillo was named as being the other emergency contact person, his uncle.

Feeling nervous all of the sudden, not only because of him but because of his sister, your whole body was buzzing with too much nervous energy.

Harry said your name when he was close, his sister giving you a small smile before she and Daniel left, leaving you and Harry alone. There were still a few kids running around, playing, waiting to get picked up. You looked at your watch, knowing you still had another fifteen minutes before you could leave.

„Hi,“ you said and he smiled softly at you.

„Mind if I stay for a moment?“ He asked.

„What about…?“ You nodded towards to where his sister had just disappeared.

„Oh my sister has to take Daniel to his karate lesson. They’ll be okay,“ he assured and you nodded.

He came to stand next to you and you just stood next to each other for a moment, the school winding down, the last kids leaving.

„What… What is her name?“ He asked after a while and you smiled softly.

„Emily. Emily Harriet,“ you said quietly, looking up at him seeing the surprise in his face at her second name. You had thought about it all your pregnancy. You couldn’t give her his last name. You didn’t list him as a father, scared that somehow this information would come to light.

You had read your fair share in sleepless nights about the gossip the press came up with about him. You didn’t want your baby girl to be part of that. Not when he didn’t even know about her existence.

He smiled when you looked at him.

„That’s a beautiful name,“ he said and you nodded.

This whole situation was super awkward. But you didn’t know how to make it better. You didn’t even really know what you wanted. You were still processing that you somehow found each other again.

So your brain decided to blurt out the first thought you had, like it always did.

„You could have really paid me for all those overpriced chocolate bars you stole from my mini bar when we were in the hotel, you know,“ you said, hoping to break the awkward energy.

His eyes widened before he laughed.

„Yeah. Yeah I could have. I should have,“ he corrected himself.

„I… googled you. More often than I like to admit. I had no idea…“ you shook your head, turning your body towards him so you could face him. He slowly reached out, taking your hand and you closed your eyes for a moment at feeling his skin against yours after such a long time.

„I loved that you didn’t know who I was. For you I was just a normal guy. We only knew the things about each other that we told each other. It was… you were so different from all the women I have ever met. And I am not gonna lie, I was crushed when you didn’t call. My sister had to talk me out of hiring a private investigator to find you,“ he said with a chuckle.

„I… I called your office. Once,“ you confessed and he squeezed your hand.

„I was miserable. A lot of shit happened during my pregnancy and I felt… lonely. But I couldn’t tell your secretary that I needed to talk to you because I was pregnant with your child, could I? And so… I didn’t,“ you shrugged. He shook his head, his eyes watering before he took a step towards you. You had to tilt your head up a little.

„You could have. I don’t care. I… cared about. Deeply. And… I wanna spend time with you. I mean what are the odds? I fell for a beautiful woman on a tropical island and three years later I find her under all the people in the world and she had a beautiful baby girl? A girl that is… mine?“ He asked and you nodded, with tears in your eyes.

He fell in love with you?

„Can I… Can I take you out for dinner. To talk. To… I want to be in your life. And if you don’t want that, which I can understand, a lot of time went by, I’d like to meet Emily. Maybe… be her father?“ He asked and you gulped.

„I need to ask you a question. Because I am an over thinker and my mind has been anxious since I saw you yesterday,“ you said and he nodded.

„You… You won’t take her away from me, right?“ You asked, voice just above a whisper.

Immediately he shook his head, once he processed your words.

„Is that what you think of me?“ He asked, hurt. You also shook your head.

„I just… You’re rich Harry. If google is right, you could probably buy a small country and still have enough to live comfortably for the rest of your life. I’m… I’m a broke single mother, who moved across the country for a chance. I lived pay check to pay check for the last three years. I don’t think you would do anything to take her away from me. But I know you could if you really wanted. So I… I just need to hear you say it,“ you said and his eyes softened.

„I would never take her from you. She doesn’t know me. I’m a stranger to her. I had no part in her life apart from… well from helping you make her,“ he said and you smiled softly.

„If I would take her, it would only be because you would be coming with her. To me. To be a family,“ he added and you were sure you melted.

„You don’t know me. How can you…?“ He stepped closer his other hand coming up, cupping your cheek.

„I know enough of you to know I fell in love with you three years ago,“ he said quietly and you felt a tear run down your cheek that he brushed away.

„Let me take you out for dinner,“ he repeated and you closed your eyes.

„I… I don’t have a babysitter. I don’t know anyone here yet. I moved here two weeks ago,“ you said. His face fell at your words.

„But… you could come to dinner at my place once Emily is in bed?“ You asked and he nodded.

„But I’ll bring dinner,“ he said and you huffed a laugh.

„Okay,“ you nodded.

„Okay,“ he repeated before he slowly leaned in and kissed your forehead.

The timer on your phone rang, reminding you that you had only fifteen minutes left to pick up Emily.

„I gotta go,“ you said and he nodded.

„When can I come over?“ He asked.

„When do you have time?“ You asked back.

„Tonight?“ He said, hopeful. You took a deep breath. Your apartment was still a mess, boxes unpacked and some walls unpainted because you couldn’t decide on a colour.

„Tonight,“ you finally said and his whole face lit up.

You exchanged numbers and you gave him your address, before you turned away from him, walking back into the building to pick up your daughter, missing the way he looked after you with a warm smile on his lips, only leaving when he was sure you were back in the building.

#my fic #harry castillo #Harry Castillo x fem. reader #pedro pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction

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prettyboykatsuki · 3 days ago

Text

heaven in your eyes | zayne (li shen)

♡ tags ; afab + gn!reader, established relationship, porn/no plot, role-reversal, so much dirty talk, soft dom + top!reader (using strap), slight brat + bottom!zayne, very light d/s dynamics, orgasm denial, rimming (m!recieving), anal fingering (m!recieving), pegging, zayne-centric, 18+

♡ wc ; 5.4k (just kill me)

♡ a/n ; this is so embarrassingly self-insert and self indulgent. im going to screamdfjkgs. so sorry. i hope its a good read at least.

title from lemme know by vince staples which will be good to listen for vibes. plus the lyric after this one. anjksdkj

additional authors note at the end abt his characterization here!!!

♡ synopsis ; zayne has a hard time asking for what he wants. you have a hard time paying attention when he wears his new outfit.

“My love. We’re not gonna make it to our—“ A deep shuddering sigh leaves his lips as you peer up at him, your hands just at his waist - lips against the column of pale neck. “…our date,”

“Hm? Oh, I guess not.” You murmur, not paying attention. You feel Zayne flush under you, the soft beat of his pulse under his skin.

He gives you a long look. A half-hearted attempt to sway you. You’re almost out of the door by now, and if you don’t leave soon - you’ll be in a rush. All of these are fair worries. You applaud Zayne for being so considerate under the circumstances.

Even after you’ve nearly jumped him by the doorway, hands wandering as you peer up at him. You feel a little guilty for potentially ruining your evening plans. But even if you did go to dinner now, you’re sure your patronage would be unwelcome.

You’re not sure you have the self-restraint needed to not eye-fuck Zayne in a crowded dining room—even less that you don’t pay the bill too early to lay your hands on him in the car.

And that has its own appeal, sure—you think about doing it just to be polite. But it’d be all sorts of inconvenient trying to drive back home in that state, disheveled and half-way to restless so you could get what you’re really offer.

You nip at the junction between jaw and neck, teeth lightly scraping thin skin as you trail a kiss up to his earlobe and bite. “I feel sorry about our reservation but I can’t find a good reason to go when I could just bend you over right now,”

His expression is charming. There’s an innocence to it, a novelty at his surprise hearing you speak so clearly that makes you shiver. A flush pinkness that deepens at the tips of his ears, the soft furrow of his brow. Like he’s embarrassed even though Zayne is not particularly self-conscious or coy.

You suppose this element of your relationship still proves to be a bit much for him. It’s less that Zayne hates showing weakness - but more that control and the presence of it define his life. It’s hard to give that up so easily, you’re sure. Yet you want to do it anyway, so desperately the words fail you and lead you into cornering him for it. You like that it makes him self-conscious. It’s endearing and arousing in the same breath to watch him fall into familiar habits - unsure of himself. Fidgeting with his sleeve, thinking things over.

A lot of things in your relationship are new for Zayne, but he must’ve had thoughts. Ideas about what love would look like and what sort of man he’d be. You feel a little sorry you’ve thrown a wrench in those plans simply by being what you are. But if he could see it from your view, you’re sure he’d understand.

He looks almost displeased now though - a silent plea in the small micro expressions of his face, yet he doesn’t do anything to turn you down.

Truthfully you’re fond of this mild resistance. It fills you with a playful sadism seeing his general affect change so drastically in a heartbeat. You pull back to look up at him - kissing his jawline again. You let your hand ghost along the edge of his white blouse, tracing the folds of fabric with a thoughtful hum.

“Would you be more inclined if I said please?”

Zayne doesn’t say anything back, just looks down at you with expression nearly indiscernible from his others without the keenest eye. Fortunately you’d recognize that mild embarrassment anywhere. You grin haphazardly at him, head tilted.

“Or maybe it’d be better to be direct and tell even if we do leave, I’ll be thinking of nothing but fucking you until we get home anyways,” You muse. His brows raise ever so slightly. You play innocently, pretending to think. “But if you’re feeling hungry or really want to go then I’ll wait it out. Is that alright?”

His expression blooms, a bright red flushing down to his chest - avoiding your prying eyes. “You’re being smug,”

A grin splits your face. “Am I?”

“We shouldn’t…” He trails off, finally noticing the distant stare in your eyes as you him.

“Proper as always, Doctor.”

You’re at a stand-still. Zayne frowns, expression weary in that sweet way. A little more.

“My love,”

“It’s your call, sweetheart.”

“You mentioned liking the outfit on me,” He says, soft and quiet. Not quite a protest - something closer to self-defense. You smile a little.

“I did. I do. It’s distracting me,” You hum. “You wore it for me right?”

His blush deepens, just a little. He frowns. “You’re rather easy to distract,”

You’re kind enough to not point out his avoidance of the question. “Guilty as charged,”

You let yourself push forward. Your fingers dip underneath the hem of his shirt before you slide your hands underneath, palms pressing hot against cool skin. Smooth and warm to the touch, you squeeze just above his hips, to the small of his back - tracing a line down the center curve until you’re just at the waistband of his pants. You peer up at him again, standing tall enough to press a kiss to his lips as a small offering.

In many ways, you find this part of Zayne amusing. He’s not shy in the least bit, not really. He can meet your flirting with his own wit so well you’d go as far as calling him smooth. Charming in all the right ways. It’s fun to flirt with him and know he’ll always match your energy.

But he’s surprisingly weak to directness. No beating around the bush, no euphemism or innuendos. Whenever you make your intentions as clear as you can are the few instances he seems to be sincerely surprised - almost coquettish in a way you find so charming on him when he’s often anything but.

This specific attention draws it out of him most, and it’s fun. You think it’s less that the attention itself embarrasses him, and more that he finds it hard to admit that he enjoys it. Maybe it’s your own disposition speaking - but you like that aspect best. That he does like it despite himself, and that you get to exploit the few moments he lets himself be caught wanting such a thing.

You can’t be sure if this is what he had in mind but it doesn’t change that he wore for you because you told him you liked it. And you do like it on him - both in memory and in aesthetics.

They’re not clothes he’d pick for himself. Long and silky, an open chest and lace choker - layered necklaces and flowers. He looks like a prince out of a fairy tale, an unusually sweet appearance. He’s handsome enough on his own, really. Whenever you let your eyes linger too long you grow impatient.

He always looks good.

The clothes soften him is all. It’s a different look and you like it on him. You love it really - if you’re honest. Enough that every time he wears it a thousand thoughts run through your mind and none of them are especially appropriate. Surrounded by flowers, dressed in pink and white. Pretty. Zayne is handsome by nature, but it’s rare he ever looks so pretty. Pretty in the same daisy flowers are. He leaves you half-way between wanting to preserve him, string him into something nice - or wanting to ruin him completely.

You pull away from the kiss, lips brushing his. A warm feeling settles in your stomach as you look at him again.

“We’d better go now if you still want to,” You say slowly, eyes flickering to his as he turns the choice over in his head.

Zayne doesn’t say anything but steps away from you. You find yourself ready to relent and go to dinner - but to your surprise he makes no move to leave. Instead he locks the door where it was unlocked and looks at you with a very faint blush. You laugh warmly at him, it’s just like him to do.

“Guess we’re canceling,” You hum, pulling him towards you by the wrist. “Good boy for being honest,”

“I was concerned for the patrons,”

You laugh brightly at that. “I’m sure you were,”

He trails behind you as you make your way to the bedroom, his hand in yours squeezed tight. You pull him without looking back, only stopping to shut the door behind you both. The room is dim as the sun gets close to setting - room painted in the warm shades of dusk. When the door closes, you crowd in on him until his back is pressed against it.

He breathes a long, drawn out breath. The air in the room is thick, dense with tension. You draw your hands up the nape of his neck until both of them thread through his hair, tugging slight enough to draw a breath from him. You push up on your toes to kiss him like this, a hand on your back to hold you steady but obedient enough not to ask for anymore, not to pull you closer without permission

Zayne always kisses desperately. His body is honest about his desires always, no exception to the rule. A shaky breath and a deep, murky desire , he’s eager for you when you slot your lips against his. You waste no time in stringing him along, giving him a deep kiss with tongue and teeth. You feel him melt in your grasp at the aggression, smiling into it - his sweet panting breaths like music to your ears.

“So fucking cute,” You breathe, pulling away. His lips are pulled into a frown, but his eyes are something else entirely. He lets his forehead rest on yours.

“You’re the only one who’d say that about me,”

“I’m the only one who should,”

His expression is honest. Eyes widening before the flush on his face goes deeper, glassier. He likes things like this. You always make sure to say it out loud just to see it, and it never fails to fan the flames of your desire. You loosen your grip, cradling his face with both hands to look at him more closely. A face reserved for you - hazy with anticipation and so eager. Wanting for your attention so seriously you feel your core throb just laying eyes on him. You kiss him again gentler, pulling away and pressing a thumb to his lip when you do. Zayne parts his lips unthinkingly. Your thumb slides against his tongue, watching as he closes around the digit. When you pull back, you brush his saliva against his lips, wetting them before kissing him again.

“It’s good we stayed home,” You murmur. A kiss on the corner of his mouth as you speak. “I don’t know if I’d make it back to the car if we went to the restaurant,” Another, closer to his chin. “I’m sure I’d take my heels off and get you hard under the table instead. You’re good at keeping a straight face so I’m sure we’d be fine,” One more, further down, closer to his pulse. “No one would catch us, so there’d be no good reason for me to stop doing it, either.”

Zayne lets out a soft groan, something from the back of his throat. You trail down at to his neck, stopping your wet kisses to sink your teeth. You suck a hickey into the open space.

Zayne’s voice is a tremble - still on the edge of even. “You—That’d be… hard for me,”

You kiss the bruise you leave, finger tugging at his lace choker to leave another one underneath it.

“Right, of course. And you can’t make a mess even if you wanted to so you’d have to wait till after dinner,” You take a beat to bite down again leaving a bigger mark this time. You feel the capillaries split underneath the dull scrape of your incisors as a hickey forms - throbbing as it bruises and blooms. “You’d have to wait until after dinner to get any relief, but I think I’d have to leave you on edge ‘till we got home,”

“Why would you—?”

“It’d be a waste to make you cum anywhere other than on my cock since that’s what I wanted anyway. Of course I’d feel a little sorry for you, so I’d take the edge off,” You trail down lower, nose brushing against his collarbone and clavicle as you stop to leave more marks. You hear Zayne inhale underneath you - making you smile. “I’d use my hand since it’s easier to tell when you’re going to cum but I can’t let you. And then, when you can’t hold it anymore - then we’d have to go home,”

Zayne makes a noise. It’s a soft sound, throaty and desperate as you’ve set him on edge. Pleasantly needy. You kiss down his chest, over each brand new mark - adding color to the display of necklaces he already has on. You use another hand to slide down his chest, his stomach and waistband - until you settle over his cock. It’s hard, strained against your palm as you cup and squeeze. He lets he’s head fall back, eyes fluttering closed as you keep speaking.

“But you’d have to wait a little while longer even we got home. You let me in here easier now,” You slide your hands around, squeezing his ass. Zayne makes a strained sound, muffling it as best he can. “But I can’t just shove it in right? You’re a good boy so you’d have to wait it out some more for me.”

Zayne pants, eyes searching for you as the room slowly darkens. “My love,”

“What is it, baby?” You hum. Your eyes meet as you rest, your thumb over the tip of his cock over his clothes. He lets out a shaky breath.

“Please don’t tease me,” He says flatly.

You laugh at him. It comes out a little meaner than you want, but it can’t be helped. “You don’t want me to?”

He frowns at you. “No,”

You pretend to frown. “Too bad. You’re fun to tease,”

He looks at you with his face slightly pinched. “Please,”

“I’ll play nice since you were a good boy for me today,” You praise. You see Zayne blush. “Think you can be good for me again?”

He nods. You smile, pressing up to whisper against his ear. “Take these off and bend over the side of the bed. Wait for me,”

Zayne meets your eyes. Obvious embarrassment has a flush crawling down your face, but he goes anyhow - waits for you as promised, as you creep to the other side of the room as you open a drawer in your bedroom. You strap into the harness first, tightening yourself into it until its snug - heavy weight between your legs secured. You take the lube next, assessing that there’s enough in the bottle to make it work.

Your boyfriend waits for you like you've asked. Kind of. At the edge of his bed with his arms folded on the mattress and his knees on the floor - back arched. He’s slipped his pants just below his thighs but his boxers are on still. You turn a dim light on to keep the room from pitch black before you settle down behind him. Zayne looks over at you from his shoulder when you do - your hands on his hips as you bend yourself over him.

It’s easier this way to talk to him, your chin on his shoulder and your body pressed to his spine - voice next to his ear. “I thought I told you to take this off,”

Zayne tucks his chin. “I thought this would be fine,”

You laugh “Is that right?”

You do him the favor of leaving his pants on, pulling them down to his knees before you tuck your fingers in his boxers and pull them down entirely. Zayne flinches at the sudden change in temperature. You take a second to admire him. Smooth pale skin flushed rosy as you slide the boxers off, revealing him to you completely. His cock sits heavy, tip ruddy and leaking against your bed sheets as Zayne shudders from the friction.

You run your finger on the underneath side of his shaft - watching his shoulders tremble at the featherlight sensation. Your lip twitches.“I barely touched you. Did you work yourself up thinking about what I said?”

He clears his throat. “…It was very detailed.”

You hum. “Yeah? What detail made you like this? The part about being teased or the part about being fucked?”

You can see Zayne blush even deeper. It’s visible. His ears are red, but this time its all the way down his back. You don’t think you’ve ever seen it go down so far.

“No answer?” You coo.

“…If you already know, it’s impolite to ask,”

“It’s fine to say it directly,” Your hand slides from his hips to his stomach “That you wanna feel me right here,”

He shrinks underneath you, face buried in the mattress. You snicker at his reaction - nearly petulant with how he moves away.

“Are you that embarrassed to say it? You’re good at dishing it out but you can’t handle it at all.”

“It’s hard to say,”

“I tell you stuff like that all the time,”

A beat. “It’s different,”

“It is? I see, I see. Think you can answer questions then? Just a yes or a no.”

Zayne pauses, suspicious but unsure. “I don’t see why not,”

“Do you want me to then?”

“To what?”

You grin.

“Do you want me to fuck you, baby? You haven’t told me straight once even though I’ve been so direct about exactly what I want to do. I thought maybe you need more details to make you feel comfortable,”

You can hear him flounder. “That’s not—“

“See, I’ve got such a pretty picture of you in my head already. You look just like this but you’re getting stretched on my cock and fucked half stupid,” You trace your hand down his spine “Holding you down so you can’t run away from it and making you cum until there’s nothing left to fuck out of you. But I can’t do it until you say yes, see? So it’s a bit of predicament.”

Zayne’s voice is hoarse. “You’re being unfair,”

“You said you could answer me right? So answer me. Just a yes or no, with your words and we can make something even prettier out of you together. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

He’s shaking under you. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

“Y-yes. Yes, just -“

“It’s alright baby. I’ve got you,” You coo at him, and you mean it. And you’re sure Zayne is more than fine with keeping quiet for the time being.

You kiss down his spine over his clothes, not wanting to take the shirt off even still. All the way down to the small of his back, lower and lower. You use your hands to spread his ass apart, amused by the way he trembles.

It seems like he catches on too late to what you’re going to do.

“Wait, wait, you don’t need to—“

The words fall on deaf ears as Zayne falls forward with a shudder, his hips giving out almost immediately as your tongue slips against his hole. You can hear him start to say something but each time the words seem to fall flat, dying in his mouth. Replaced with what you’re certain are choked out moans that he’s trying desperately not to let out. You press your tongue flat against the tight rim until you fall into a steady rhythm, feeling him twitch on each pass. He’s a mess above you - you’re not sure if it’s from shame or pleasure or both, but he hasn’t made a single attempt to push you away from it and it’s only goading you further.

You’re being relentless - for no real reason other than you want to, want to see how far he can be pushed this way. You collect your spit on your tongue before pushing into tight hole with a little effort. Zayne lets out a sound like the air has been punched right out of his lungs, his cock twitching endlessly. When you sink in with your tongue in his ass as far as you can, you use one of your hands to wrap around his shaft.

Zayne hisses, a broken huff forced out of him immediately.

“P-please, just—mm,”

It’d be easy to make him cum like this, you think. You tease him with it, hand rubbing over the tip - thumb underneath the head and over the slit. He twitches hard in your grasp, and you know a little more would be enough.

So you stop, pull your hands away completely and watch with amusement as he chases friction, air, anything and finds none. Hips stuttering as he seeks relief you refuse him so openly - but still trying his best not to appear impatient.

It’s an open secret that all Zayne has to do to get what he wants is ask. Throw away his pride for a split second, just long enough to whimper out a simple turn of phrase and it’s his. Whatever he wants. If he can’t yet, then he’s still not where you want him.

Zayne shudders when you pull away from him completely. Hand and mouth at once, a muffled sound of displeasure at the sudden loss of friction.

“Felt good, baby? Seemed like it,”

Zayne looks at you briefly from over his shoulder. You shiver at his expression, so troubled. So frustrated. You smile at him unhelpfully.

“Did you have something to say?” You ask, goading. Zayne pauses.

“…No,”

“You sure?”

You can hear it in his voice. “I’m certain,”

You shrug, wordlessly opening the bottle of lube you’ve brought with you and pouring it into your fingers. Pressing yourself to his spine, you fold over him and slide your land lower. Your fingers rub a slow circle against his rim, amused as Zayne breathes shallowly.

“Hm. Guess you’re not relaxed enough then,” You murmur, voice hot against the shell of his ear “Deep breath, sweetheart,”

He lets out a soft affirmative. It’s muffled where he presses his face into the mattress, buried into his arms. It’s easier then normal to slip your first fingers in since he’s already relaxed - though the fit isn’t much less tight. Down to the knuckle in one smooth motion, Zayne groans. You pull back slightly, kissing at the expose nape of his neck as his shirt rests haphazard.

When you’re sure a second one will fit, you add in a second more slowly. His shoulders are trembling. Breathing heavy, thighs tensed from the sensation. You let out a thoughtful hum and scissor your two fingers until it doesn’t feel like there’s any resistance.

You pause, waiting a beat before pushing yourself deeper and curling your fingers up. It’s helpful you’ve done this enough time to have it memorized. Your fingers press up against his prostate with ease, knowing his body better then your own.

It’s easy to tell when you’ve found it. Zayne moans. It’s loud and unabashed, the kind of sound you know is completely involuntary - no longer able to hold it in. You use your free hand to continue stretching him open - the other one reaching from his face. Your hand slips in the small space, carefully pulling him up by the chin. His expression is flushed, mildly startled - but not strong enough to escape from your grip.

“No more hiding,” You tell him, sharper than before. His eyes go lidded, nodding in an absent way. His brows twitch as you rub against his prostate relentlessly. Shuddering, nearly at the tipping point of his coherence. His hands are clawing into the mattress underneath him as he does. You can see how bad he wants it, but his teeth are still firmly in his lip. “You’re still being stubborn about it, huh? Even though it feels good,”

“I d-didn’t say it didn’t feel good,”

“You’re shaking,” You point out plainly “You still won’t tell me what what you want? Hm?”

Still nothing. You take a deep breath, considering your options before slowly adding another finger. Zayne gasps quietly, sweat forming at the base of his neck from the tension. With your middle, pointer, and ring finger pushed inside of him down to the knuckle, you find his prostate a second time. Without mercy, you thrust and curl and push up against it - pulling away from him to get a view of him bent over.

Zayne’s cock is twitching, silky strings of pre-cum pooling at the floor underneath him. So red it almost looks painful, balls tight. His cock looks heavy and strained - needy. You use your other hand to tease his length, never once getting close enough to give him any relief.

It takes you wrapping your hand just barely around the head to evoke a whine out of him.

You stop again. Zayne chokes, hips stuttering at the lack of friction. He pushes back against you, chasing the pleasure but you’re gone before he can. You tsk as you watch him strain himself, but you still give him a minute to breathe.

The room goes quiet, silent as you let him cool off before Zayne finally breaks the tension himself.

“Please,” He begs, sounding almost helpless.

You put your hand on his waist. “Please what, baby?”

Zayne sighs, exasperated - then hiccups. His voice sounds so different - so out of it. “Please, my love—it’s too much, please,”

“Is that so?”

He turns his face towards you more, eyes asking for mercy. “Please.”

You won’t budge on it, though.

“Please what?”

A beat followed by a shaky breath, voice small. Almost fragile.

“Please let me cum,”

Without hesitation, you wrap your fist around Zayne’s cock and fall back into a smooth pace fucking him open. You feel him crumple immediately under the weight of the pleasure, his body wracking with shivers. His moans growing louder, less coherent.

“Good boy,” You praise, increasing the pressure as high up as you can as Zayne cries out. You feel him finally give into the touch completely, desperate and breathy as you pump his cock and fuck him open on your fingers. Your mind is occupied suddenly by the sight of him. Bent over at the waist and shaking, pushing himself into the mattress with his body clasped tight. Like he’s at an altar - vulnerable and waiting. “I won’t stop this time so let it out,”

His weight collapses, body slumped as you watch the orgasm he’s been chasing wash over him in a single go. His whole body wracks, thrashing as the sensations overwhelm him - swearing under his breath as you touch him through his high until he’s begging you let him off and give him a breather. Thick, hot ropes of cum cover your fingers as Zayne comes down.

You use whatever left to stroke the silicone cock between your legs, rather then letting it go to waste. Once your hand is free of the mess, you lean forward and kiss the small of Zayne’s back as he re-collects himself.

“You did good for me, sweetheart. It wasn’t all that hard to say right? But maybe it’d be better if we kept practicing,”

“Please have mercy on me,”

You grin. “No can do. One more time, yeah? Tell me what you want and it’s yours,”

Zayne lets out a sigh, long and resigned. He looks at you from over his shoulders with a furrowed brow before speaking. “…Please put it in,”

You pause before breaking out into laughter. He groans from embarrassment.

“Sorry, sorry - I’m not making fun of you. Promise. It was better this time, so good work. Just relax, alright? For me,”

Zayne nods. Gives in, ultimately - pushing back up on his elbows as you line the tip of your cock against him, sliding it up and against fluttering hole before pushing in with a silent promise to clean him up after this. Zayne tenses only briefly as you push the tip in, watching with heavy eyes as he takes it.

“You’re stretching for me so nice,” You hum, both hands on his ass and pulling as you watch the pink rim open up around the narrowest part. Opening slowly as you slide your hips, his body reacting instantly.

As much as it takes to get him to relax, this works every time.

The tension melts out of his body like candle wax over low flame, hot and heady. “It’s not all in yet but you’re feeling it already. Maybe this was what you wanted, wearing this for me,” You murmur.

“Aah, aah,”

You slide yourself in, rocking your hips in measured beats until Zayne adjusts. All the way until you’ve bottomed out completely, cock swallowed all the way down to the base. Glancing where you’re sheathed inside of Zayne, you admire the view carefully. Holding still to let him adjust to the intrusion - you slide your hand underneath the billowy fabric of his shirt. It’s displaced - the nape of his neck and line of his back exposed. Blush-toned with a thin sheen of sweat rolling down the muscles while he hides himself away.

You had plans to be kinder to him but they go out of the window fast.

You place a hand on the back of his neck to keep him pinned down while the other one holds his hip. Your words come without ceremony.

“Tell me when you cum, but you don’t have to ask,” You say. Not particularly nice. “So we’re even,”

Before Zayne can manage a single coherent reply, you press down on him firm and pull your cock all the way before pushing it back in. It’s one swift gesture, not punishing - but quick enough to leave him off-center and clawing at the bedsheets at the sudden motion.

A thrill crawls up your spine at the sight of him. The sound of him. The touch, the way he trembles under your grasp. Your stomach turns on itself from the sheer elation of watching him fall apart for you without anywhere to run to. Perfectly pliant and made to take whatever pleasure you can give him. You build a pace up slowly as the flames of arousal lick at your core, grinding yourself into textured end of your strap each time. Once you find the right pace, you find it hard to focus on anything other then fucking him.

So you don’t bother on thinking about anything else, keeping your grip firm. Consistent and deep, eager as the room fills with the sound of skin hitting skin. Zayne’s moans come out stronger now, pushed out and spilling from his lips like a broken record. You hear him swear under his breath every now and again, when it gets to be too much. A litany of cries that sound sweeter than the chorus of a songbird - you find there’s nothing you want more then to fuck him completely out of his mind while you try and memorize the melody.

Zayne doesn’t last long at this rate, and it’d be unfair for you to expect him too. But it surprises you just how quickly it all comes down. It doesn’t feel like you’ve been fucking him all that long, especially since he only came a little while ago.

But you can tell - from the tremble of his hips and the sudden grip on the sheets that he’s close.

“My love I’m going to—“

“Cum for me baby. That’s all you need to do,”

And so he does, without any hesitation. Nothing comes out for it, but he does cum - and you see it in how he trembles and seizes. All the muscles in his body going taut like a bowstring before he breaks into something finer, like threads of fabric falling apart. He cums hard but nothing comes out, and he lays there in the aftermath.

You wait a while, but you stay. Sheathed inside of him, kissing a line up his back, at his shoulder.

“Aren’t you glad we skipped dinner?”

Zayne laughs tiredly. “Yes, I suppose I am. I would like a break though,”

“Oh?”

He sounds embarrassed but firm. “A reward, maybe. I-If it’s alright.”

You have the inkling that reward just means him laying between your legs. He’s worked hard enough to have it.“Mm. If you want. But I’m not finished with you yet, so it’ll be a little short-lived.”

“That’s fine. More then fine,”

You laugh at him. “Right. Then yes. You can have whatever you want,”

♡ a/n ; some notes about zayne here!! i know a lot of people write him as a rather obedient sub but in my honest opinion - i think zayne has a hard time seriously relinquishing control. it's such a center-piece of his life that giving it up and really letting someone have that sort of influence on him makes him a little shy - even though he is imo notoriously forward.

so i think he can be a touch stubborn / a little bratty when he's being sincere about being submissive. rather then just playing along with you if that makes sense!!

anyhow thanks for reading!!! rbs and tags always appreciated

#where zayne;#zayne x reader #zayne smut #lads x reader #lads smut #writing tag #where medium;#i need to be sdjkghdsjknfkjdbs . ran over #i can never read this back i feel ashamed HAKSDOFDHJFDK

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a-pute11as · 1 day ago

Text

i like you, dummy (part 2) - kika nazareth

word count - 3.8k | summary - part 2 of 'i like you, dummy'. part 1 can be found here.

the next morning felt somewhat normal, there was no real shift in your dynamic. kika was being as flirty and teasing as she usually was, just with added touches as the two of you moved around each other as you made breakfast. her hands dancing across your waist, fingers grazing your hands, or her body pressed close against yours the second you two sat down to eat.

you weren’t official, or dating and you knew you weren’t her girlfriend, at this point you were far past roommates, friends, even best friends but there was currently no label other than two dummies that really really really liked each other.

walking into training the next day with kika laughing at you for saying ‘you too’ when the barista said ‘enjoy your coffee’ was nothing out of the ordinary.

the majority of the team missed the way she opted to sit in your cubby instead of her own, leaving just enough space for you, mostly passing it off as the two of you being as close as usual.

ellie saw it though, her eyes lit up, a spark igniting in them as she watched how kika tugged at the hem of your shirt as you tried to put your hair up, or how her good leg kept nudging your feet as you tried to tie your laces.

ingrid saw it too, but her eyes didn’t light up the same, infact the opposite reaction. ingrid couldn’t help but analyse the situation, the way the blush crept up your neck when kika’s hands brushed your skin, or the way your eyes couldn’t help themselves but flicker to her lips every so often.

something was different, she could tell, of course she could. ingrid had known you for years, you were young when you first moved to wolfsburg, fresh out of the arsenal academy but wanting something different. ingrid took you under her wing like a big sister would’ve and helped you guide your new life in the foreign country before she eventually made her transfer to barcelona.

but she was still there, no matter the time of day or whatever she had going on, she’d always answer your calls.

ingrid knew everything… apart from your feelings about kika.

you knew she didn’t have a problem with relationships on the same team, well she couldn’t have when she was with mapi. but you vividly remember a comment she made when you first made the move, after finding out you’d be sharing an apartment with kika.

‘just don’t go falling in love with her, yeah? teammates are one thing, but roommates? that’s a recipe for disaster.’

and at the time, you laughed because the idea had felt ridiculous. kika was just the loud, dramatic midfielder who talked with her hands too much and stole your phone charger without shame. but now, months later, you were biting back a grin as she continued to make life a little more difficult with her teasing whilst you tried to get ready for training.

everyone slowly filtered out of the changing room, ingrid being one of the first, yet kika held you in a conversation preventing you from leaving.

suddenly the two of you were left in there alone, a silence falling upon the two of you as you simply smiled at each other, comfortable in each others presence.

“you need to go to your recovery session and i need to get to the pitch.” you smiled, rising to your feet, hand extended to pull her up too.

“but amorrrr, i hate doing all the recovery stuff, it’s boring.” she frowned, gripping onto your hand as she pulled herself up and grabbed her crutches.

“i’m sure it’ll be okay, plus you don’t have long until your boot will be off.” you tried to reassure her, but the look in her eyes showed you exactly how she felt about the recovery programme as well as being off the pitch in general.

you leaned forward, planting a small kiss on her cheek, one that made a small smile appear on her face. the two of you walked out of the changing rooms together, going your separate ways as you sped up trying to get to pitch before you had to face the punishment of extra laps if you were late.

you quickly turned the corner, met by ellie, her arms crossed as she leant against the wall waiting for you.

“fun night?” she smirked, walking with you as you hurried past.

“you could say that.” you mumbled, a small smile spreading on your face as you continued on your pursuit to the training pitch.

“oh my god, did you fuck?” ellie pratically shouted, causing you to turn round and instinctively cover her mouth with your hand.

“roebs, what is your problem?” you hissed, eyes wide as you looked at the goalkeeper in shock.

she simply shrugged her shoulders before you dropped your hand, “you have a post-sex glow.”

“oh my god, you're going to get me into trouble.” you muttered, turning back round as you continued your rushed walk.

she quickly caught up to you, her arm wrapping around your shoulder as the two of you walked in sync, “i’m not sure why you’re complaining, it’s just like the good old england camp days.”

you simply rolled your eyes, before she pressed again, “so you at least kissed right?”

the blush crept up your neck, but you couldn’t stop yourself from nodding slightly.

“i knew it, i fucking knew it!” she cheered, her arm unwrapping from your shoulder as she started skipping alongside you, “patri owes me 10 euros.”

“you bet on me?” you questioned, stopping in your tracks as your eyes widened. “hey i thought you would do it, patri thought you wouldn’t, so if anything you should be thanking me for believing in you.” ellie tried to defend herself, not that it really worked.

“it’s like you want me to suffer.” you groaned, your hand coming up to drag down your face as you finally reached the pitch just in time for training to start, alexia sending you a glare as you sent her a sorry smile for your lateness.

usually training would fly by, however this time it was full of anxiety as every usual part of your routine with ingrid had disappeared. she always patterned with you, for at least one exercise, but it was like she was avoiding you. every attempt to interact with a friendly comment, a targeted pass or floating in her direction when you needed a partner felt as if it was shot down when she suddenly looked the other way, partnered up with the closest person to her or avoiding passing back to you.

you weren’t able to approach her until the end of the training session, having perched herself on the cooler as she took a sip of her drink.

anxiety continuing to pool throughout your body as the stress of the situation presented itself to you. your hands were clammy, you felt like your heart was about to come flying through your chest and you could barely think about the words you wanted to say.

you cared what ingrid thought, a lot, you looked up to her, the thought of disappointing her made you shake.

“hey.” you smiled, approaching her slowly.

all you got in return was a short nod.

“why are you avoiding me?” you blurted, not thinking into it too much before you spoke.

“i’m talking to you right now.” she stated bluntly, not even looking in your direction.

“ingrid, you haven’t talked to me all day, you haven’t even looked at me, i don’t understand what i’ve done wrong.” you explained, your hands flailing about as if it was for effect when in reality you couldn’t keep yourself still.

she finally looked at you, her face blank, no expression at all, but her words hurt, “i saw how close you and kika were, something clearly happened and you haven’t mentioned anything to me, i warned you about how messy it will get and you’ve just done it.”

you felt the sting in her words like a slap.

“i didn’t mean to keep it from you,” you said quietly, stepping closer, “and i wasn’t hiding it, honestly, i wasn’t really sure what it was until yesterday”

ingrid let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “you’ve had a thing for her for months, i’ve been waiting for you to mention something but instead you’ve just been talking to ellie about it?”

you stayed silent. you didn’t really know what to say, and you certainly didn’t want to dig the hole any deeper but you wanted things to be okay.

she continued, voice a little sharper now, “i know what it’s like when things go wrong between teammates. it affects everything. the locker room, the pitch, everything. and you’ve worked too hard to risk it on some stupid fling.”

“she’s not just some fling,” you said, trying to steady your voice.

“but you don’t even know what you are to each other, do you?”ingrid shot back, “you're not dating, you said it yourself, so what is it?”

you hesitated. “i know it’s real. she cares about me, she makes me feel safe and you can tell just from the look in her eyes that she really does like me, even if we haven’t put a label on it yet.”

she looked away, jaw tense, “you should’ve told me, way before it got to this point.”

“i was scared,” you admitted, “you’ve always looked out for me, and i didn’t want to disappoint you by going against what you said.”

ingrid sighed, finally meeting your eyes again, “i’m not mad at you for having feelings, i understand that, i’m mad because you shut me out.”

you nodded slowly, throat tightening, “i’m sorry, i should’ve come to you sooner.”

the tension eased just a little, her shoulders dropped.

“you’re like a little sister to me,” she said, quieter now, “i just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

you were still on edge, but she stood up, making her way over to you as her arms encompassed you in a tight hug.

“i’ll let her know what happens if she ever hurts you.” she laughed lightly, pulling away after a final squeeze.

lunch at the training ground felt different, more exposed, as if everyone had eyes on you and kika and it didn't help that she practically glued herself to your side the second you entered the cafeteria.

her tray was in one hand, crutch in the other but her arm was so close to yours that people would think you were attached. your brain short-circuited every time her body coincidentally pressed against yours, heat rushing through your entirety.

you sat down with the team, kika predictably sitting so close you were basically on her lap.

jana raised an eyebrow from across the table, "okay so are we all pretending this is normal now, did something finally happen?” she asked, popping a grape into her mouth.

“what do you mean?” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows, feigning innocence very badly.

kika, not even looking up from her food, answered casually, “she’s just obsessed with me, i can’t get rid of her.”

“you were all over her last night and you’re all over her today,” patri laughed.

kika shook her head lightly, “my leg's still recovering, i need extra support.”

“i don’t think giving her shoulder massages helps her legs.” ellie added, grinning as she sipped her drink.

“ellie, do you ever shut up?” you glared at her, pointing your fork in her direction as she simply laughed.

even alexia, seated nearby her phone taking up much of her attention, looked up with an arched brow. “this is getting harder to ignore, you know.”

“you weren’t supposed to be ignoring it,” kika said, now finally looking up and locking eyes with you. her voice dipped slightly, playfully low. “i’m trying to make it obvious.”

you blinked, heat creeping up your neck, raising her eyebrows as she spoke.

“you two are disgusting,” jana added. “oh and patri owes me 10 euros?”

your mouth dropped open. “wait, you all bet on this?”

“obviously,” esmee said, not even pretending to deny it, “we’ve been watching the slow burn for months.”

just as the girls started talking about something else, kika leaned in, closer this time, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered something low and sultry in portuguese. you didn’t catch most of it, but the tone alone was enough to send a shiver down your spine.

your eyes widened. “kika,” you hissed under your breath, swatting at her arm, cheeks now a dark red.

ellie froze mid-bite, “wait, what’d she say?” she leaned it slightly closer, “it was definitely something dirty.” eyes now gleaming.

you groaned, covering your face with your hands as kika just leaned back smugly in her seat, sipping her juice like she’d done nothing wrong.

“stop trying to corrupt her in public,” jana scolded, half-laughing.

“oh, please,” ellie smirked. “we already know that’s happened.”

and even though you were mortified, you couldn’t help but smile, especially when her hand found yours under the table, fingers intertwining easily like it was second nature.

the drive back to your apartment was quiet but comfortable, the hum of the car’s engine the only sound between the two of you. kika sat beside you, your eyes were focused on the road in front of you but ever so often your eyes glanced over to kika, the sun casting a sunkissed glaze over her face, her dark hair shining in the light.

finally, kika broke the silence, her voice light and genuine.

“you know,” she began, “i want to take you on a date, a really nice one but something casual, just us two”

your heart raced, your hands were suddenly sweaty as all of a sudden your breath hitched in your throat, “a date?” you didn't mean for it to sound like such an abrupt question, but you had to hear her say it again for it to be real.

“mhm, i was thinking i could set up something really nice.” she confirmed, she sounded confident, sure of herself, but the slight tremor in her voice had you questioning how true that facade was.

“y-yeah, that sounds perfect, i’d love that.” you stuttered, the nerves already taking over.

kika simply hummed in response, her gaze turning back to the passing scenery you were driving past, “so tonight?”

“sounds good.” you practically whispered.

you’d been on a few dates, nothing serious ever came from those dates, a few blind dates, a couple of one night stands with friends of friends, or girls suddenly realising that dating a footballer wasn’t as easy as they thought it would be. but this was different.

you liked kika. a lot. you had never felt this way about someone before. maybe living with her had made those feelings feel more intense, you were with her constantly, it was impossible to not feel that way.

once you got home, you slipped your shoes off before heading into your room, supposedly to get ready for your date. you were under strict instructions from kika to not leave your room for the next hour and a half and whilst you needed to shower and make yourself look presentable, you were sat on the edge of your bed, your fingers working away at your phone as you sent a quick text to ellie before facetiming ingrid.

you - ellie she asked me on a date, what the fuck do i do

ingrid didn’t even speak before you started rambling, answering your facetime after only a few rings. you told her exactly what had happened, the entire conversation from start to finish.

“slow down, right she asked you on a date, and you’re really nervous.” she clarified, her eyebrows raising as she spoke.

“yes!” you practically shouted before realising kika would probably be laid on the sofa outside your room, “what do i do ingrid?” you groaned, throwing your head back.

“you said yes right?” you nodded, “so then you just be you, she likes you exactly as you are, she fell for you being you so that’s exactly what you do.”

“but what do i even wear? all she’s said is be ready in an hour and a half, no dress code or anything,” you spoke frantically, “maybe i should just tell her my head hurts so we don’t have to do it tonight.”

“no no, i’m going to help you pick something to wear, we will go with something casual but a little showy.” ingrid spoke slowly and it gave you a chance to focus on your breathing, to slow yourself down to her pace and think rationally.

“pick some nice lingerie!” mapi shouted from somewhere off screen, which had ingrid swearing at her in spanish, something about being inappropriate at the wrong time, but it did make you laugh.

you spent the next 20 minutes with your phone propped up in your room, showing ingrid a selection of t-shirts and jeans that you could pair together. in the end, you went with a shirt that scooped ever so slightly low, and jeans that hugged you in all the right places.

you said your goodbyes, ingrid wishing you luck and telling you to just be yourself whilst mapi made yet another comment about which set you had chosen to wear under your clothes, leading to an abrupt hang up from ingrid.

just as you were about to step in the shower, your phone pinged.

ellie 🩵- oh you’re so getting laid, just think about her in that bikini

btw i want all the details

you - you’ve got so many issues, can you be useful for once?

you watched the speech bubble appear and disappear before ellie’s response came through.

ellie 🩵- incase you need it…

**link to 🌶️🌶️🌶️ time playlist**

you - i’m never telling you anything, ever again

ellie 🩵- love you too chick xo

you rolled your eyes at ellie’s last text, but the nerves and anticipation fluttered in your stomach. with a deep breath, you stepped into the shower, letting the water wash away some of your tension. you practiced deep breaths, repeating ingrid’s words like an inspirational quote you’d find on facebook in your head, ‘she likes you for you.’

an hour and a half later, you stood impatiently at your door. fully dressed, still barefoot, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of your shirt. you took one last glance in the mirror, not too dressy, not too casual, exactly what you wanted.

“can i come out now?” you hummed, your hand reaching for the handle as your fingers tapped against it.

“you can come out now, amor.” you could hear the smile in her voice, it wasn’t teasing or nerve wracking, it was comforting.

you cracked the door open and were instantly welcomed with the soft sound of music, something acoustic and warm. the living room was glowing. candles were placed delicately across almost every surface, giving the entire apartment a golden hue, and the coffee table had been cleared and turned into a makeshift dining area.

kika sat in her usual seat on the sofa, her injured leg resting on a cushion, crutches abandoned down the side of the sofa. she was wearing loose black trousers and a tucked-in white tee, her hair still damp from a quick wash, her signature gold necklaces shining as they caught the candlelight.

she looked up as you walked in, and her eyes widened slightly, “wow,” she breathed, a grin tugging at her lips. “you look amazing.”

you felt your cheeks heat up, “you don’t look too bad yourself.”

she patted the space next to her, beckoning you over, “come sit.”

you walked over, heart racing, and the second you were close enough, she tugged gently at the belt loop of your jeans, guiding you to sit beside her, her arm naturally wrapping around your waist. her touch was warm and grounding, your anxiety melting away..

“i made portuguese soup, caldo verde,” she said, nodding toward the bowls waiting on the table, “and that is fresh bread, but i followed my mum’s special recipe.”

you smiled, leaning your head against her shoulder, “it’s perfect, you’re perfect.”

she paused, “you sure it’s okay? i know first dates are usually big and extravagant things but i wanted to keep it just us two and make it personal, but if you don’t like the food then we can order something.” kika sped up as she was talking, her nerves clearly getting the better.

you looked up at her, your hand reaching to cup her cheek, “kika, this is so much better than any fancy restaurant, this is perfect, thank you.”

the tv played in the background, a late-night telenovela rerun casting soft, flickering light across the room. neither of you were paying attention to it, your focus had narrowed to the steady rhythm of kika’s thumb rubbing lazy circles over your hand.

you both shifted sometime after dinner, finding yourself tucked into her side, your head resting just beneath her collarbone. she was warm, comfy and safe. even with the bulky brace on her leg, she managed to pull the blanket more securely over the two of you, her fingers brushing your waist as she did. you smiled into her, letting your hand move to rest gently over her heart.

“i'm so full,” you mumbled, your voice soft with sleepiness.

“you had three helpings,” she said, smug, clearly proud of herself.

“your mum taught you well, it was good,” you whispered, “you’re good.”

kika’s hand paused for a second, then curled behind your neck. when you looked up, her eyes were already on you, full of something that you were desperate to have more of. she leaned in, slow and sure.

the kiss she gave you wasn’t rushed, not teasing or playful. it was soft. her lips moving against yours like she was memorizing the shape of them, like she wanted to be careful with this, with you. kissing you as if she pressed too hard you’d suddenly disappear. she took her time, your lips dancing against each other, her hand tugging at the hair at the base of your neck as you crane yourself up further to embrace her touch.

when she pulled back, her nose brushed yours, her eyes still closed. you didn’t say anything, you didn’t need to. you were simply in that moment together, your bodies intertwined as you held onto each other.

a/n - thank you so much for the love on part 1, especially all the ideas for part 2 in my inbox, it definitely helps with the motivation to write when i get to hear you guys tell me how much you loved it! i hope i've done justice with part 2! my asks are always open for more ideas or feedback <333

#woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso oneshot #kika nazareth #kika nazareth x reader #kika nazareth imagine #fcb femení #barcelona femeni #barcelona femeni x reader

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revlw · 1 day ago

Note

The way I rushed to your requests when I found out they were open😭 your writing made me giggle and kick my feet you are SO talented

Anyways! Can I please request (if it’s okay with you) a Yandere team-up with Chance and Elliot (forsaken)? They’re both head over heels for the reader and so they decide to work together..

Headcanons are fine!! Make sure to drink lots of water and take care of yourself!!

𓏵 LUCKY STRIKE

Yan! PayCheck ( Elliot X Chance ) X Reader

Warning ! : Obsessive behavior , yandere themes , manipulation , possesive dynamics , mild stalking elements , potential gaslighting

Note ! : AAAAAA TYSM !!!! this means a lot to me truly! And I think Im KINDA bad ab headcanons so so its kinda a one shot???….,,,, I HOPE U LIKE IT!!!

Chance notices you first, but not in any dramatic way. He sees the way you hesitate near the fire, uncertain. The way you laugh too quickly when someone jokes, trying to fit in.

He likes that you don’t yet know the game. People like that are interesting. Predictable in some ways—naive—but also capable of surprising him. And Chance loves surprises.

He starts approaching you slowly. Playfully. Nothing alarming.

“You know, you keep standing by that tree like you’re expecting it to save you from a killer.”

You laugh. It’s easy to laugh around him. He makes it easy.

Elliot notices too. Not your laugh, not your smile—your fear. The way your hands tremble just slightly when you hear the killer’s scream. The way you fumble with a generator. The way you linger near others for safety.

He doesn’t say anything to you. He just… starts watching.

At first, he’s near you by accident. Or at least, that’s what it looks like.

You blow a generator? Elliot’s already nearby to cover for you.

Get knocked down? He’s the first to pick you up, silent, efficient.

You thank him. He nods once.

He doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Not yet.

It’s subtle.

Chance starts treating you like a game. Not a cruel one—but a test. A series of probabilities and risks. He bets you small things:

“Want me to boost you to that ledge? Let’s flip for it. But if I win, you owe me a secret.”

“Heads, we take the long way. Tails, we sneak past the killer.”

You laugh, roll your eyes. But you play along. It becomes habit.

He always seems to win, somehow.

Elliot, meanwhile, watches who you talk to. Watches how you smile at certain survivors. Watches when you flinch. He doesn’t say anything when you start trusting Chance more—but he watches him, too.

He starts intervening. Slightly.

That one round when you and Chance are paired together? Elliot joins too. He doesn’t speak, but he’s always just there, between you and a threat. Or between you and Chance.

They begin to notice each other.

At first, Chance thinks Elliot is just… hovering. A protective type. He finds it amusing.

“Silent knight,” he jokes to you once. “Pretty sure he’d throw himself in front of a trap for you.”

You glance at Elliot. He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head, quiet. Still watching.

Chance narrows his eyes. It’s not funny anymore.

Elliot doesn’t like how Chance makes you laugh. He doesn’t like how close he stands to you, how his voice drops when you’re alone together.

But Elliot is patient. He doesn’t act on impulse.

He waits. Watches. Calculates.

The Shift.

It’s during a brutal round—Jason, maybe, or c00lkidd. You get separated. Alone, bleeding, hiding behind a rock.

They both find you at the same time.

Chance crouches beside you, all charm, coaxing words:

“Hey, hey, easy. You’re alright. Just a scratch. Let me help, yeah?”

Elliot is silent, but his hands are already pulling out a medkit. His expression is unreadable, his eyes locked on him—not you.

Chance smirks.

“Oh, sure. You can patch her up if you want. I’ll just hold her still.”

The way he says it makes your stomach twist. You smile, nervously. Neither of them does.

They both fix you. Carefully. Silently. But the air between them is sharp.

From that moment, something changes.

They don’t argue anymore. They start working together.

Chance engages you with warmth and wit. Elliot handles logistics—watching your back, offering tools, helping you silently.

You barely get time alone. Not because they’re obvious, but because they’re coordinated.

One distracts while the other circles in. One keeps you smiling, the other keeps you safe.

And slowly, the others fall away.

Survivors avoid you—either pushed out, subtly sabotaged, or scared off. You never notice the pattern.

But soon, it’s just you and them. Always.

Chance manipulates the social side of things. He always has an excuse to talk to you.

“Hey, come with me. Safer in pairs, right?”

He makes you feel like choosing him is your idea.

He studies you like a strategist studies the board—tracking your fears, your preferences, even how fast your heart beats when he leans close.

If you ever question why people avoid you now, he shrugs with a smile.

“Maybe they’re jealous. I mean, you’ve got two of the best keeping you safe. Who wouldn’t be?”

Elliot doesn’t try to win you over with charm. He builds a quiet, unshakable presence in your life.

You fall, he’s there. You’re in danger, he’s already moving. You cry, he passes you a handkerchief without a word.

He starts taking things from you—not objects, but choices.

You don’t need to fix that generator. He already did it.

You don’t need to ask for help. He’s already beside you.

He never pressures you. But he’s always watching. Always waiting.

And over time, you start to rely on him. You trust him.

That’s all he ever wanted.

They talk when you’re not around. Quiet, tense meetings.

“They looked tired today.”

“I’ll handle it. You just keep them entertained.”

They don’t like each other. Not really.

But their shared obsession keeps them in orbit. And if either one of them ever steps out of line, the other is watching.

Because in the end, their goal is the same:

Keep you safe. Keep you close. Keep you theirs.

@revlw 2025

#𓉸ྀི𝑹𝑬𝑽𝑳𝑾 #forsaken x y/n #forsaken x oc #forsaken x you #forsaken x reader #forsaken #chance x reader #elliot x reader #paycheck #roblox

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pukefactory · 3 days ago

Note

your writing is making me ascend. Tho, how do you think the dynamic would be with ES x demon reader? Or a Yandere ES with an untempted reader? Like no matter what she does, they don’t seem to fall for anything?

₊˚⊹⋆ ♡〜 JUST COME TO ME 〜♡ ₊˚⊹⋆

˗ˏˋ ♡ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Yandere Eternal Sugar Cookie X A Non-Reciprocative Reader

˗ˏˋ ♡ Character(s): Eternal Sugar Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

˗ˏˋ ♡ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

˗ˏˋ ♡ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

˗ˏˋ ♡ Image Credits: @Devsisters

❤︎ Her smile never fades, but the tilt of her head is… odd today. You haven’t flinched once. Not when she sang that lullaby threaded with subliminal hymns. Not when she placed a candied crown upon your brow. Not even when she whispered in her velvet lull that “this moment is where your pain ends, my sweet.” You just blinked. Politely. Unmoved. Her fingers twitch over her lyre strings. Perhaps you’re simply tired. She’ll help you rest.

❤︎ You don’t laugh at her jokes. Not cruelly. Not awkwardly. Not even absentmindedly. You just listen, nod… and blink as if the air is stale. She’s tried every flavor of happiness on you—saccharine joy, sleepy bliss, the kind of slow-burning affection that makes other Cookies melt into her arms like softened caramel. You, however, sit like dry toast. Not unhappy. Just… unmoved. And she thinks: There must be a crack somewhere in you. Even sugar glass shatters under pressure.

❤︎ When you walk through the Garden of Delights, you touch nothing. The other guests nibble, sigh, weep in ecstasy. But you don’t look twice at the berry fountains or the trees that blossom giggling cherubs. You don’t even flinch when the eye-flowers wink at you. She watches from her perch like a celestial idol. She’s plucked the wings off birds for being less indifferent than you.

❤︎ “You are not resisting,” she hums, watching you with her swan-winged gaze. “You simply do not feel… anything. Why is that?” You say: “I feel. Just not like this.” Her halo flickers. Just once. No one has told her no in so few words. Not ever. She thinks she hears the lyre string snap. She thinks she will re-tune it with your name.

❤︎ She makes herself smaller in your presence. More human. Her voice is less honeyed, more hush. A failed angel with a halo dimmed, asking you to stay. Just stay. And still, you are kind, but unmoved. She speaks of eternity like a prayer and you tilt your head, the same way you did when she first offered you the Garden’s fruit. Somewhere deep within her, the Sugar of Happiness cries. Not for you. For herself. Because she doesn’t understand why you won’t surrender.

❤︎ You called her “Eternal.” Not Sugar. Not Beloved. Not Majesty. Just Eternal. Like a title. A fact. A name stamped in wax. It tastes sterile on your tongue, and it makes her want to carve it into her own with a ribbon of spun sugar and let it melt. She wants your voice to tremble when you say her name. She wants your voice to break.

❤︎ Her followers watch you with pity. Or perhaps envy. You do not fall asleep beneath her touch like the others. You do not cry when she sings of peace and finality. You are not transformed, they whisper. You are the still thing. The silent variable. The thornless rose that will not bloom. She tells them you are a “special case.” A stubborn soul that must be tended to. The night falls early today.

❤︎ Once, she placed her lyre in your lap and said, “Try. Create. Be still with me.” You plucked a single string and set it down. “It’s lovely,” you said. “But it isn’t mine.” It’s the closest she’s come to being angry. But Sloth doesn’t shout. Sloth drips. It corrodes. She left a sugared petal on your pillow, soaked through with lull-fragrance, sweet enough to slip past defenses. You tossed it into the pond. The fish didn’t bite either.

❤︎ She tried to give you your heart’s desire. The garden molded to the dream you once had in childhood, every color perfectly recalled. And yet, you stood there like a statue. “It’s not real,” you said. She blinked. For a moment, her lashes didn’t flutter. Her wings didn’t stir. “What if I made it real?” You turned to her. “Would it still be mine?” She never answered. The garden hasn’t changed since.

❤︎ She wonders what your tears would taste like. Would they be bitter? Or sweetened by the slow horror of knowing it was you who broke first? She wants to find the thing you fear losing. Not to harm it. No. Just to place it in a bell jar, like one of her candy roses. So that when you look at her, your voice finally shakes. So that you reach for her hand, not in peace, but in desperation. And then, she will call it love.

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jarofstyles · 3 days ago

Text

The Favor 13

I know it's taken a million years. I'm so sorry my ducklings. but the good news is that it's here! I hope you love it.

The Favor Masterlist

Check out our Patreon for early access to the next part up now and over 260 exclusive writings! (Sign up on your web browser to save $$)

WC- around 3.5k (next part is way longer)

Warnings- dom/sub dynamic, spanking, gagging, knife used in kinky way (briefly), edging, ,pain kink, he's a cutie pie, etc etc etc

----

Having Harry as her official boyfriend was weird. In a good way, of course! But it was something she was getting used to.

She had spent plenty of days longing for this sort of relationship. Longing for him, honestly, considering he had shown her the sort of attention she had been craving since she could conceptualize it, only to have obstacles make it seem impossible. Self inflicted obstacles, but still challenges nonetheless.

The terror of the unknown, the realization of the fact she wasn’t in love with her now ex boyfriend and only there out of routine and a self made obligation, the nerves over thinking Harry wasn’t actually into her and instead just teaching her out of pity- all of it had been things that were a bit self explanatory but she had gotten there eventually.

Breaking up with Danny and leaning into the man who had shown her how she should been treated had been the best thing she ever did, because now she had Harry.

It was still a bit to get used to, though. It wasn’t a bad thing at all, but having someone so attentive had been a bit of a culture shock. He was so kind, so sweet, checking in on her multiple times a day to make sure she was happy, doting on her when they were together, and doing things that Danny had never even thought of doing. That included taking her car to the car wash for her while she slept in, then coming back to make her breakfast all in the same weekend of them becoming officially exclusive.

One thing that got her in particular, though, was when she was at work and got a text from him saying he was outside. Danny had never visited her at work even when she had asked him to, and Harry was doing it unprompted.

Talk about a full 180.

H: Hi, sweetheart. I hope I’m not too late but I’m outside. I thought I could get you some lunch x

Y/N: Really?? 🥺

H: There is nothing I’d like more. I’m in the lot, but I can come up if you’d like.

Y/N: I’ll come down to see you!!! Be right there.

The vision of him leaning against his car in a blazer and trousers nearly got her weak in the knees, but the giddiness in her body nearly had her bouncing over there with a smile so wide it nearly hurt. It only got bigger as she saw him perk up at the sight of her.

With no hesitation, she walked into his arms that quickly wound around her body, inhaling the scent of him as she hugged him tight. Monday’s were particularly difficult days for her and he knew that now. It shouldn’t surprise her how thoughtful he was after spending so long getting to know him, but it still did. “Hi.” The muffled greeting in his shirt made him chuckle, slowly peeling her back so he could hold her cheek.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He spoke lightly, tapping his thumb over her lips. “You alright?”

“Mhm. Now.” She puckered her lips to kiss his thumb, making his eyes narrow playfully at her. It was thrilling just having him here, but getting to be given affection so openly was something she had been looking forward to with him. The majority of the time with their prior arrangement, she’d been fighting off the urge to cling- and now he was more than encouraging it. It made him happy; even!

“Want that answer t’be always good, my sweet. But we’ll work on it.” Removing his thumb, he replaced it with a soft press of his lips. And another, and another as Y/N leaned into him. “Mm.. my sweet girl.” He sighed against her lips, something dreamy in his tone. “Could do this all day, but I can hear your belly rumbling from here. S’time to get you some good food. Know you barely ate this morning.”

That had partially been his fault, though. They’d gotten distracted in their riveting conversation last night and she had forgotten to set her alarm, which made a mad dash for the door with an apple in her mouth like an afterschool sitcom where the family has elaborate breakfast set up and the character chooses the opposite. She’d always thought breakfast had been more important than school- but not her job, it seemed.

“I know. I’m sorry.” The apology was sincere. Harry had told her how much it meant to him that they looked after her health. It meant him providing the resources and her using them. It had been one of his rules. “M’sorry, sir.”

His demeanor shifted slightly as he gave a squeeze to her jaw, nodding down at her. “Know you are, m’good girl. Didn’t mean to. But we’ve got to work on that, yeah?” Y/N’s mind was scrambled and she genuinely forgot to eat sometimes. It wasn’t a problem or a conscious decision, rather an oversight until her tummy hurt and she realized she hadn’t properly eaten.

He was adamant that her vanilla iced coffee was not ‘breakfast.’ Only slightly less irritated when she used her protein drink as a creamer.

The use of the praised nickname had her relaxing slightly, nodding in agreement. “We’ll work on it. Promise.” She waited a moment before requesting her want. “‘Nother kiss, please.”

His demeanor softened, smile tilting on her lips as he leaned forward to give her what she wanted.

That whole thing was something else she was getting used to. How easily the dynamic flowed in and out. It wasn’t 24/7 in the way she expected, no, but it was better. He took a stronger hand when he felt it necessary, and she realized afterwards that it had been exactly what she needed. His dominant side was definitely present a lot but not in the glaringly obvious way, like when they were doing a scene. It was an undercurrent, the energy rising up if she disturbed the surface or needed some guidance.

Even more than that, it was more check in with her emotion than she had ever experienced in her life. Every day, multiple times a day, he made sure she was okay. Happy. If she wasn’t, doing what he could to talk through it and see why.

They’d only been an official couple for less than a month, and Harry had shown her more patience and emotional understanding than she’d experienced in her years long relationship. It was why she believed more and more that there was such a thing as right person, right time.

Harry did as he usually did, opening her car door and making sure she was settled before running back to his side. It was the little things like that that had her wondering why she had settled for so long. Harry was her ideal. As much as she tried not to romanticize him in her head, it was really fucking hard when he was as good as he was.

“What did you want t’have?” The large expanse of his hand settled on her thigh, curling around it like he owned it. He did. She knew it, he knew it, and that seemed to make her melt just a little bit more as she tried to think of an answer to his question.

“Do you want to try that taco place I saw on-“

“If you say tiktok, M’gonna spank you here and now.” Harry groaned, partially kidding- and partially not. He was what Y/N jokingly referred to as a ‘metaphorical boomer’ when it came to that specific app. While she was sure he didn’t exactly hate it all, she did know he hated misinformation and it seemed he couldn’t get past the few times he’d heard of the instances of that. Hard headedness was one of his traits Y/N was more aware of now.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Her grin was coy, but she did love a spanking. Truth be told, she probably didn’t get enough of them. Harry had gone a little soft on her lately but she was having her fun. Part of her wondered if it was because of how they were learning to navigate an actual relationship but she knew he still was very eager to be a Dom when the situation called for it.

“Don’t be a brat.” He grunted, pinching the soft skin of her thigh and making her yelp. The fabric covering it did nothing to help the little sting. He’d be well aware that the action itself would make her a little wet as it was. Pain was a motivator, she was also finding out.

The last month had been an very interesting time of discovery.

“Or what?”

——

Y/N was squirming.

Harry was well aware, but he chose to ignore it as he put some tapatio onto his lunch, humming under his breath. As it turned out, Y/N did enjoy showing a little bit of brat- and he had taken matters into his own hands.

Her ass still stinging a bit was one of the most beautiful and infuriating displays of the power she had ever experienced.

“Hands on the wall.” It was probably nasty, but she did it immediately. The bathroom at the restaurant was absolutely not the time or place to be flexing this dynamic- but she had asked for it. She’d been calling his bluff just a little bit and he had decided she’d had enough coddling. One too many smart comments he’d let go of in the last few days, trying to give her some room to be a bit disobedient… but it was obvious to him that she longed to be the good little sub she had always been meant to be.

It how quick she had obeyed, it was even more obvious that this was the exact thing she needed. “Stand still. Do not move, I don’t want to accidentally get you.”

“With what-“ Y/N froze as she heard the flip she knew all too well. The pocket knife he always kept on him. More like a multi tool, with a bottle opener and a screwdriver that folded into it- but that didn’t matter to her. Feeling the brush of cool metal against the hot skin of her inner thighs, she couldn’t help but shudder.

Of course the man laughed. “Yeah. Y’know what.” He chuckled, letting it turn into a warm hum as she caught herself before pushing back into him. “Don’t get too excited, pet.” His voice was syrupy and deep and she just wanted to melt into a puddle- filthy bathroom be damned. “M’not going to fuck you. Honestly, you don’t deserve it today. Not with how much of a brat you’ve been.”

Damn it. It felt like she had gotten her favorite treat taken away, a sad sigh replacing the way she wanted to protest. “I’m Sorry, sir.” Was what came out instead of the ‘you haven’t fucked me in three days and I want you to ruin me, please don’t take your cock away.’ She had wanted to say.

“Are you?” He tapped the flat side of the blade against her hip bone, yanking the bottom of the shirt up. “Because you’re been a brat. So rude t’me. Mumbling when I ask you something. Huffing when you don’t get your way… even spent half the day not answering my message when I asked you want y’wanted for dinner.” His tongue clicked as his free hand brushed her hair out of her face, knowing it was falling from the way her head was tilted forward.

“I know.” She sighed, heart feeling a little fuller from how he’d taken care of her comfort. Even if she was being punished, he made sure she was alright.

“Yeah. You’ve been doing it on purpose. Thought something may be up, but I don’t think you were lying t’me about feeling fine. So I figured it must be something you aren’t sure of talking to me about yet.” He paused. “Is it because I have t’go away to grab that book next month?” His tone softened, gathering her hair in his hand. “I don’t think that’s what it is, but give me a yes or no.”

“No.”

“Mm. So…. Do you think I’ve been going a bit too easy on you?” His lips brushed her ear, breath washing over the more sensitive skin underneath it. “Because I was trying t’be nice, you know. Give us time to develop our relationship outside of all of this…. But it’s a part of our relationship, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She swallowed thickly, eyes fluttering shut as the hum of agreement sent vibrations through her. “I… I don’t even know how to say what it is.”

“Then we figure it out together. Even if you don’t have the words, I may know the feeling. Y’can’t bottle shit up like that.” With an ease that took her by surprise, she felt the metal slip up and under the waistband of her panties and straight through it. The quick sound of the cut had her gasping. “Shh. You’ve been wanting to keep your mouth shut about this, so you need to practice that skill while I give you a reminder of why you shouldn’t.” Another slice, the cool air hitting her cunt as he gripped the fabric in his hand.

“We will need to have a conversation on what you want the mix to truly be with this as a staple of our relationship. I love it. Want you in any way you want me t’have you. But we’re not going to do it now.” His voice turned firm. Dark. The voice that had her understanding he was in charge, he was her dominant right now. Not just her boyfriend. “Open your mouth.”

Y/N hadn’t been sure what the purpose had been- but she had her mouth full of the panties he had just cut off before she could think twice.

“Need t’keep you quiet. You’re loud and fussy.” His hand smoothed over her ass, giving it a rough squeeze as he let out a sigh of admiration. “Such a shame you chose to be a brat instead of talkin’ to me. You want me to hold your leash a little tighter, pet?” He let his fingertips dig into the soft flesh, surely to cause bruises as she let out a whimpered moan muffled by the panties. The nod was hesitant, but truthful. She did was a tighter leash. It was so much easier that way.

“Fine. Since you’re fuckin’ with our communication rule, M’gonna punish you.” He gave her thigh a little swat, making her jerk. “Try and keep quiet. Don’t move those hands off the wall. And don’t be fuckin’ greedy. To you understand, pet?” Harry repeated it after she nodded in agreement. “Need to color out? Stomp your foot or hit the wall three times. Don’t care if it’s a punishment, don’t want you to hurt that bad.”

Y/N was dripping at the mere thought of it- but when she felt his hand stripe across her ass? She nearly came. Pathetic, yes, but she had missed it. Craved it. It was a shame his rings had been tucked into his pocket because god, would she loved that bird of pain. But it wasn’t up to her- this was his punishment to dish out.

Her job was to take it.

It was humiliating in a sense, acting out and needing a spanking- taking a spanking- in a bathroom in public. Panties in her mouth getting soaked in her spit and muffling the little squeak that tried to get out of her.

“That’s one. You’re getting 20.”

Each one melted her a bit more. The slap of his hot palm against her increasingly hot skin… the prickles, the cool breeze stinging her skin? It had her fall farther into it. Yes. She needed to talk to him. Make him understand she needed this more often. She didn’t want to have to be a complete brat just to get him to do this- though the trill was quite nice.

Her cunt was pulsing. Dripping. She could feel it against her thighs as her body moved from the impact of his hand. The gurgled moan was hidden away, but he didn’t mind giving her a reminder. “Said to shut the fuck up, Puppy. Keep quiet.” The message was sealed with a spanking.

It nearly made her cum.

She needed him now. At number twenty, she felt his hand slip between her legs and get slick with her, a sigh of disappointment. Giving her cunt a quick little set of taps, he pulled his hand away- and from what she could hear- lick it clean. “Such a shame to waste this.” He hummed, reaching for her spit soaked panties and pulling them out of her mouth. “But I need you to eat.”

“What?” Her pulse was thundering from pure need, but he was pulling her arms from the wall and leading her towards the sink to wash her hands. “But I… I took it. And you felt….” She looked at him in confusion. “Aren’t we gonna…” his cock was hard. She could see it here. He could tell, a shake of his head making him smile.

“Oh, no. The spanking isn’t the only part of the punishment, pet.” He laughed. “I know how much you love them. Knew you get wet and achy. The punishment is, you’re going to sit out there and be aching and horny. I’ll drop you back at work and when you come home, I’ll take care of it.” He said it so matter of fact, like it didn’t nearly take her to her knees.

So badly, she wanted to beg. Plead. But after being punished… she didn’t want to push it. Silently washing her hands, she watched him gather up some napkins to clean her stickiness up before righting her skirt back to where it belonged. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” She repeated.

“Know you are, my sweet girl.” He was back to half and half. Half boyfriend, half dom behavior. “You’re amazing. Take everything so well. I’ve got some salve in my car that we’ll put on before y’go back into work.”

——

He was acting unaffected, as if he wasn’t hard and tucked away. She wanted to glare at him, but he had a weird sense of attitude that a mother had when their kids said a cuss word under their breath.

“Had t’ask you something.” Harry asked, breaking the silence. It perked her up, feeling embarrassingly needy for some more attention. “The club is having an event night next week. Wanted t’know if you’d want to go.”

They hadn’t brought up the club since they’d gotten together. At first, she was curious if maybe he felt like he didn’t want to share her to anyone else’s eyes for a bit- but she didn’t know much about how often people went. She’d been wanting to go back really badly, but hadn’t had the balls to ask. “Yeah, that would be fun.” Her smile got a little bigger. “What the event?”

“S’a serious of events. It’s…” he looked around the place. “Probably a better car discussion for what it’s. A little out there.” He gave her a little wink, making her fluster. It had to be filthy considering he usually didn’t shy away from things in public… and that excited her.

“Oh, wow.” She cleared her throat, squeezing her thighs together again. Fucker. He did it on purpose. “Okay. We can talk about it in the car, but I’d love to go. I had fun last time.” Being able to fall into that space in her mind had been a good time.

“Alright, sweetheart.” He pushed her foot with his own. “Finish your food, please. Need to keep your energy up for tonight, mm?”

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