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thepencilnerd · 2 days ago

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When the Sun Hits

summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways, jack abbot on his knees—literally warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~ 7.2k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot. p.s., thank you to everyone who reblogs/replies/takes the time to read my brain vomit, i appreciate you more than you know ㅠㅠ <3

You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.

One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.

You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.

"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.

Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Automatic lock.

You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."

You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.

"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.

Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.

It felt like it was closing in.

It had been a normal day.

Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.

You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.

There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.

When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.

People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.

"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.

Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."

"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.

"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.

You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."

Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."

He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.

Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."

Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."

He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.

And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.

And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.

Now, you were stuck. Together.

The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.

Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."

You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.

The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.

The walls crept in.

You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.

Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.

You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.

You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.

"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."

You couldn’t.

It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.

Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"

He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.

"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"

You tried. You really did.

Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.

"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."

The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.

"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."

You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.

"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.

Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"

Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.

You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."

He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."

"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.

"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.

When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.

You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."

You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."

He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."

"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.

He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.

Only then did you both step apart.

You didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask you to.

You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.

"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."

Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."

"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"

He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"

That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."

You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.

Or so you thought.

Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.

His brow furrowed.

He hesitated, then turned to follow.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.

The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.

Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.

He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"

"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."

You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.

A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.

You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.

Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.

A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.

The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away.

Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."

You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."

That made him pause.

"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.

Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."

You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."

A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.

And handed you a key.

"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."

You stared at the key. Then at him.

He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."

You took the key.

Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.

Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.

He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.

"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.

The call room was quiet after he left.

Too quiet.

You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.

You didn’t text him.

You just went.

The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.

It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.

He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."

Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."

The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.

At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.

He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.

You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."

And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.

You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.

Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.

You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."

He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."

You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But the way he looked at you said enough.

You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.

Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.

You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.

Didn’t look away either.

Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.

You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.

The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.

Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.

Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you seriously making breakfast?"

He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."

You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."

"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."

You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.

"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.

You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."

He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."

"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"

"I was trying to protect my knees."

You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.

And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.

It was full.

If only tonight's circumstances were different.

Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.

He said nothing.

After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."

Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.

Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.

"Spare room’s on the left," he said. ��Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."

You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."

Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."

You turned slightly. "What?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."

The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.

You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.

"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.

"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.

You bit back a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.

You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.

You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.

When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.

He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.

His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.

"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"

Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."

You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly flushed yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.

"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.

Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"

You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."

That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."

You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."

He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.

Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.

You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.

"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

You flushed, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"

He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."

You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."

He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"

You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."

Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."

You grinned. "So you admit it."

And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.

Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.

"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.

"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."

"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.

Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your shirt down your back.

You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—

Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.

You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."

And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.

He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."

You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.

Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"

You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.

"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.

You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."

Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"

"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe." He started lowering his hands.

You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."

Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."

You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands.

"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.

You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."

But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he inched closer, crawling forward with slow, deliberate grace. His hands found your thighs, resting there gently, like a prayer. Thumbs stroked the place where skin met fabric, featherlight and reverent.

"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."

Your breath caught.

"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."

His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."

Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.

The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.

His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low. If you weren't so dazed, you could've sworn you heard a shadow of amusement. "You want to stop?"

You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.

"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"

The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response.

Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.

Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.

And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.

Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.

But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."

That was all he needed.

And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.

Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."

You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.

His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.

And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.

The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.

He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.

"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."

And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.

"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."

You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.

He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.

Beautiful.

Brave.

So fucking good.

Mine.

Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.

And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.

Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.

You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.

And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.

He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.

Every kiss was a promise, every touch a confession. He moved with aching tenderness, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, like this wasn’t just sex but something divine. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, breath catching in your throat with every thrust. It wasn’t fast or frantic—it was slow, overwhelming, unbearably close.

He whispered your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, and when you finally came apart beneath him, he followed soon after—undone by the way you sang his name like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.

"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"

"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."

Your laughter shook the bed.

Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."

You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."

He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."

You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Jack chuckled and pulled you closer, murmuring, "You make blushing look really good, by the way."

You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.

"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."

Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"

You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Total softie. Great cook. An absolute sex god."

Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."

"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"

You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."

Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."

"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."

He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."

And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.

Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."

When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."

The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."

"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."

You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.

You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.

It was home.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott #jack abbot smut #dr abbot smut

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obxsluts · 2 days ago

Text

Daddy’s Little Assistant - R.C

Rafe Cameron x wards assistant!reader

Tell me again how professional you are while I’m fucking you stupid

Ward had rules. Dress modestly. Answer every call. Don’t touch the bourbon.

You’d followed them to a T since day one—pressed skirts, tight buns, soft yes, Mr. Cameron and no, Mr. Cameron. You’d charmed him effortlessly, outshining Rafe in the only thing that ever mattered to him: his father’s attention.

Rafe noticed. He always noticed.

That morning he’d watched Ward hand you the keys to the family boat—the family fucking boat—and say, “You’re the only one I trust with this right now.”

He nearly snapped.

You were in the study that night, alone. Filing something, probably. Looking like temptation in kitten heels, a white blouse tucked into a high-waisted pencil skirt, lips glossed just enough to shine. You didn’t even look up when the door shut behind you.

“Miss Secretary,” Rafe drawled, mockingly respectful.

You flinched, turning to face him. “Rafe. Can I help you?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. That’s supposed to be my line, isn’t it?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already crossing the room—casually “You’ve been real helpful to my dad. Filing his papers. Pouring his drinks. Flirting with him like a little—”

“I don’t flirt with your father.”

“Oh?” His tone turned cruel. “Then what do you do? Huh? Smile pretty and bend over every time he drops a fucking pen?”

You backed into the edge of the desk. “You’re out of line.”

“I’m out of line?” he echoed, one hand bracing on the desk beside your hip. “You think you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger? Think a few good manners and tight skirts make you untouchable?”

You held his gaze, sharp and unwavering. “I’m good at my job.”

Rafe laughed, the sound bitter. “Oh, princess. You’ve got every man in this house fooled.”

He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair back into your bun with fingers that lingered too long against your temple. “You play the part so well. But I see through it. I see you.”

You swallowed. “Then what do you want, Rafe? You want me gone?”

He leaned in, “Nah. I want you to admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you like the attention.” His hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your skirt. “That you like being watched. Liked it when he handed you those keys in front of me.”

Your pulse pounded in your throat, but you didn’t move. “That’s not what this is.”

He smirked, fingers sliding just a little lower. “No? Then what is it? A promotion? A chance to be the new Mrs. Cameron?”

You slapped him.

The sound cracked through the air, sharp and satisfying, even as your palm stung. His head snapped to the side—but he only grinned wider, eyes wild now, feral.

“Touchy,” he breathed, turning back to you. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” you said, trying to sidestep him. But he blocked you easily, chest brushing yours as he crowded you back against the desk.

“Why do you hate me so much?” you asked, voice trembling—not with fear, but rage, confusion. You’d done nothing wrong.

He let out a humorless laugh. “Because he never looked at me like that.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He never gave me the keys. Never said I was the one he trusted. Not once. Not even when I—” He stopped himself, jaw tight. “But you? Walk in here with your shiny shoes and fake little smile and suddenly you’re his golden fucking girl.”

“Because I work,” you snapped. “Because I’m clean, and sober, and I don’t crash his cars or embarrass him in front of clients—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, slamming a hand down on the desk beside your hip. “You think he gives a shit about any of that? He just likes that you make him look good. That’s all you are. A little doll he can parade around to show he’s still got taste. Still got control.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. “You think you’re so different?”

Rafe blinked, as if you’d slapped him again.

“You act like you hate him, but every time he walks past you, you flinch like you still want his approval. You practically beg for it.”

He said nothing as you leaned in, whispering, “And you hate that I don’t.”

“You want to be in control so bad, don’t you?”

Before you could answer, his hands gripped your waist—tight, bruising—and hoisted you onto the desk. You gasped as your skirt rode up.

“You think you’re above me?” he sneered, yanking your thighs open.

Then he shoved your skirt up and tore your panties down in one vicious motion. The air hit your soaked heat and Rafe just… stared. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like your body was the final betrayal.

“No fucking way,” he muttered. “You’re this wet for me? For this?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“Slut,” he whispered, almost reverently. Then he spit—right on your cunt. Watched it drip between your folds, his thumb swiping the mess through your slick.

“God, you’re so fucked,” he growled. “You like pretending to be good. Dressing like a little wife. But underneath, you’re just filthy, aren’t you?”

You arched, whining as two fingers pushed into you without warning. He pumped them slow, curling deep, dragging out a cry that echoed off the walnut-paneled walls.

He pumped faster, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit until your thighs were shaking and your moans were desperate.

You came on his fingers, panting, shame burning through your veins as he dragged them out slowly, wet and sticky.

He popped one glistening finger into his mouth and groaned.

"Better than coke."

You were still shaking when he undid his belt with one hand, the buckle clinking, his slacks falling just enough for you to see how hard he was. You didn’t have time to speak before he was fisting his cock, dragging it through your folds, wetting the tip with your release.

“Rafe,” you whimpered, still breathless.

He grinned, feral. “Still so polite.” teasing you as he lined up and thrusted, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal motion. Every thrust hit deep, dizzying. Your blouse had ridden up, your bra askew. You were a mess—moaning, squirming as his thrusts got rougher. Your nails clawed at the desk as he fucked you through your second orgasm, and into your third.

“Not so fucking proper now, are you?” he snarled, snapping his hips so hard the desk shook. “Look at you. Legs wide. Mouth open. Moaning like a whore.”

You scratched at his back, your head tipping as pleasure rolled through you—hot, overwhelming, endless.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You gonna cum for me again, pretty girl?

You sobbed his name as your walls clenched around him, the overstimulation making your thighs tremble. He bent you in half, your knees pressed to your chest now, his cock drilling into you from above.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Rafe hissed. “Where do you want it, baby? On your back? Your tits? In that pretty little mouth?”

“Inside,” you begged. “Please—inside, fill me up—”

He let out a guttural groan, hips jerking wildly as he spilled into you, feeling his warmth fill you. He didn’t move for a long moment. Just panted above you, letting your body twitch and tremble under him.

When he finally pulled out, you felt his cum drip down your thighs, thick and hot.

Rafe smirked, brushing your hair from your face.

“Clean yourself up, sweetheart. Ward’s home in ten.”

And he walked out, leaving you half-naked, shaking, and soaked on top of the desk you once called your workplace.

So much for professionalism.

a/n: daddy i promise that ill never disappoint you😩

MASTERLIST

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #drew starkey #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x you #rafe x you #rafe smut #rafe cameron smut #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe cameron x smut #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe imagine #rafe cameron x y/n

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ijustwannabecool · 3 days ago

Text

Moments You Wish You Caught on Camera

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary... Six strangers. Six ordinary places. One unforgettable couple. This is a collection of short, cinematic glimpses into Max Verstappen’s life with the woman he’s loved since high school. Seen through the eyes of strangers who just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

A/N: Happy reading. I loved writing this piece and I hope to write more pieces like this, with Max and other drivers. You guys let me know who you wanna see next. As always enjoy it and have a beautiful day!!!

If you enjoy this story don't forget to like, reblog, and comment your thoughts and feedback.

---

The Pediatric Waiting Room

— Sofia, a tired new mom running on a lukewarm oat milk latte, not expecting to witness a world champion be a world-class dad.

It was 8:07 a.m., and Sofia was already regretting not canceling the appointment.

Her youngest had just started cutting teeth and had been up at 3:15, 4:52, and again at 6:01—each time with a cry like she was personally offended by the universe. Her toddler was whining for screen time, the diaper bag was short one essential wipe packet, and her phone had just died after playing Cocomelon on repeat.

The waiting room was mercifully empty. Cold, quiet, sterile. Just her, a too-small chair, and a little boy whose nose was running like a faucet.

Then the door creaked open, and in stepped someone she almost didn’t believe was real.

First, the man. Tall. Athletic. Messy hair tucked under a cap. Hoodie. Sweat shorts. That kind of effortless “I’ve got my shit together even though I definitely haven’t slept” vibe.

Then the baby carrier.

A tiny girl inside, swaddled in a soft floral blanket, a yellow pacifier in her rosebud mouth. Peaceful.

Then the toddler on his hip—grinning around a banana biscuit, curly hair tousled like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into a Gap ad.

And then her.

The woman.

Clearly postpartum. Puffy eyes, leggings, nursing tank, hospital socks still peeking from her sneakers. Yet… radiant. And holding herself like she was used to being loved out loud.

Sofia couldn’t look away.

They settled into the opposite corner. The man gently set the baby carrier down first, then lowered the toddler into a seat with a whispered, “Remember our agreement? Sit quietly until snacks, yeah?”

The toddler gave a dramatic thumbs-up.

Y/N approached the check-in desk, voice low and melodic as she confirmed their appointment for baby girl’s six-week weight check.

Max—because now Sofia realized that’s who he was, Max Verstappen—leaned over the carrier, adjusting the pacifier and brushing a finger over the baby’s cheek. His hoodie bunched at the elbows, revealing the black-and-gray ink on his forearm.

“She’s still got those hiccups, huh?” he murmured to her, voice so soft that Sofia almost didn’t hear it.

“She’s just dramatic like you,” Y/N teased, returning to sit beside him.

“You say dramatic, I say expressive.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately, curling into his side.

Sofia turned her gaze back to her own child, who was gnawing on a toy giraffe like it owed him money, but she couldn’t help but steal glances at them.

There was a rhythm to them. An unspoken choreography. Max peeled open a pouch of applesauce, offered it to the toddler with practiced hands, and even remembered to wipe the crumbs off his chin without missing a beat.

Y/N shifted the baby, cooing when she stirred. “She’s getting fussy.”

Max was already unzipping the diaper bag. “Bottle?”

Y/N frowned. “Shit. I think I forgot it. I—” Her voice cracked with guilt. “I thought it was in the side pocket. I triple-checked. God, I’m so tired, Max.”

“Hey,” he cut in immediately, warm and gentle. “She’s fine. We’ve got options. We always do.”

“I didn’t bring a cover either,” she added quietly. “I’ll go feed her in the car.”

“No,” he said firmly, already pulling his hoodie over his head and handing it to her. “You stay here. We’re good right here.”

He used the hoodie to drape over her shoulder while she adjusted her top and helped the baby latch on.

“There we go,” he murmured, rubbing small circles into her back. “You’re doing great.”

The room was still, silent, except for the suckling sounds and the cartoon jingle still stuck in Sofia’s head.

After a few minutes, Y/N whispered, “I just… I don’t know if she’s getting enough milk. She pulls off a lot. I think I messed up something with my supply.”

Max shook his head. “Babe. She’s got cheeks like brioche buns and arms like croissants. She’s fine.”

Y/N huffed a laugh, resting her head against his. “Croissants?”

“You heard me. That’s pure Dutch baby chub. I know quality carbs when I see them.”

When the nurse finally called them back, Max scooped up the toddler, hoisted the carrier with his free arm, and glanced at Y/N.

“You okay, mama?”

She nodded. “As long as you’re right here.”

He grinned. “Always.”

Sofia watched them go, still stunned by what she’d witnessed: a world champion who didn’t care about being recognized, a mom who looked like a goddess in leggings, and a love that looked like it was built on inside jokes, sleepless nights, and endless grace.

She pulled out her phone to text her husband:

"We’re trying skin-to-skin tonight. And also, maybe don’t complain when I forget wipes. Just tell me I’m doing great like Max Verstappen did.”

---

The Tiny Café in Tuscany

— Luca, travel writer, espresso enthusiast, and recently dumped romantic.

It was a sleepy café tucked on the corner of a side street in San Gimignano—one of those blink-and-you-miss-it places where the tiles were chipped, the espresso machine screamed like an old woman in a mood, and the overhead fan wobbled dangerously every time someone opened the door.

Luca had been coming here every morning for a week, hunched over his laptop, pretending to update his travel blog while actually stewing over a messy breakup with a man who said things like, “I need freedom” and “You’re too intense.”

It was on day five, as he swirled the last bitter sip of his third espresso and stared blankly at the same paragraph for the sixth time, that the door jingled behind him—and he looked up.

The couple didn’t match the usual tourist aesthetic. No clunky cameras, no loud American voices. Just a man in a navy hoodie and black shorts—tall, relaxed, with sun-kissed skin and a quiet sort of confidence. His hand rested lightly on the lower back of the woman beside him, who was wearing loose linen pants and a tank top tucked in with no effort but all the grace in the world.

They were talking softly in a strange blend of Dutch and English—Luca caught pieces of both as they approached the counter.

“No, Max,” she laughed, gently elbowing him. “You had two yesterday.”

He mock-pouted, a hint of an accent curling around his words. “That’s called balance. Two yesterday, one today. I’m growing.”

The barista, clearly familiar with them, didn’t even ask for names. Just smiled and went to work preparing their usual: two cappuccinos, one extra hot, and a slice of fig-and-honey tart.

They slid into the table directly in front of Luca—angled just enough that he could pretend to be focused on his screen while secretly watching them over the rim of his coffee cup.

“I had a dream last night you forgot our anniversary,” Y/N said as she took the first sip of her coffee. “You gave me socks.”

“Were they at least good socks?” Max asked, pretending to be offended.

“They had race cars on them.”

He grinned. “So… on brand. What’s the problem?”

“You told me they were on sale.”

Max placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Discounted love. Brutal.”

She leaned in, nudging her shoulder into his. “You know what’s worse? I still said thank you in the dream. Like a chump.”

“You’re a very polite chump.”

They laughed—quiet, unassuming, private laughter that made Luca feel like he was seeing something he wasn’t meant to.

He watched Max tear off a piece of tart and offer it to her on his fork. She opened her mouth with the same ease someone might accept a kiss.

The domesticity of it all—the comfort, the familiarity, the rightness—ached in Luca’s chest.

They weren’t checking their phones. They weren’t documenting the moment. They were just… being.

Max leaned his elbow on the table, fingers threading lazily through the ends of her hair as he spoke. “Do you remember that café in Bruges? The one with the green door?”

“The one where the waiter spilled a whole espresso in your lap?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, eyes soft. “I think that was the first time I realized I wanted this with you. All of it.”

She blinked, caught off-guard. “Because I laughed at you?”

“Because you didn’t care about the stain. You just said, ‘Well, now you match the chair.’ And I remember thinking… fuck, this is the person I want next to me when things go wrong.”

Y/N’s expression crumpled slightly with affection, her hand reaching to curl around his wrist. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t have the words then.”

Luca was still staring when Max glanced up, eyes locking with his for a brief second.

Not in a confrontational way. Just a knowing look. Like he knew Luca had heard everything. Like he didn’t mind, as long as it made someone believe in something again.

He turned back to Y/N, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“You still get this little line here,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the corner of her eye. “Right before you cry. You’ve had it since we were seventeen.”

She swatted at him. “Stop making me sentimental, Verstappen.”

“I’m serious. It’s my favorite wrinkle.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Wrinkle?”

“Expression line,” he corrected immediately, grinning like he was proud of himself.

They finished their cappuccinos slowly, not rushing, like they had all the time in the world.

And when they stood to leave, Max held the door for her—let her step out first like it was second nature—and tucked his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose without releasing her hand.

They disappeared around the corner.

Luca stared down at his blank document for a moment longer before finally typing:

“Sometimes love doesn’t need to be loud to be heard. Sometimes it just needs a morning, a fig tart, and someone who remembers your first wrinkle.”

And for the first time in days, he meant every word.

----

The School Fundraiser

— Camille, 27, first-year teacher, very overwhelmed, very underpaid, and absolutely not ready to witness Max Verstappen handing out juice boxes like a literal dad dream.

Camille had been teaching first grade for exactly four weeks and seventeen hours.

And she already knew that if one more parent tried to explain why their child didn’t need to follow “standardized discipline guidelines,” she would fake her own death and move to Spain.

The school fundraiser was supposed to be a “light lift,” according to her ever-optimistic vice principal.

Which was, apparently, a lie.

Because nothing about organizing a bake sale, a bouncy house, three food trucks, a dunk tank, a raffle, and a very temperamental face-painting volunteer felt light. Her hair was frizzing. Her shirt was stuck to her back. A juice box had exploded in her tote bag.

She was stress-sorting Capri Suns when she heard the murmurs.

“Is that…?”

“No way.”

“Wait, that is Max Verstappen.”

Camille looked up—half expecting it to be a false alarm or some dad who just looked like him. But no. It was him.

Walking across the school field in a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sunglasses pushed back into his hair, a backpack slung over one shoulder… holding hands with his toddler.

Behind them was a woman holding a baby strapped to her chest in a linen wrap, her other hand gripping the shoulder of a little boy in a Lightning McQueen hat who was dancing along the pavement like the ground was lava.

They looked so normal. And yet, not.

Max squatted down to fix the toddler’s shoe, glancing up at his wife. “Did we bring sunscreen?”

Y/N patted her tote. “Already did them before we left.”

He nodded. “That’s why you’re the boss.”

The baby squirmed in the wrap, and Y/N bounced instinctively, her voice light. “You’d think we’d remember to bring the pacifier.”

Max reached into his pocket and pulled one out. “Already ahead of you.”

“God, marry me.”

He glanced up, deadpan. “We are married.”

She smiled. “Marry me again.”

They made their way to the games area, Max lifting the toddler up so he could see better. “Where to, kleine muis?”

The little boy pointed at the duck pond game with such confidence that Max saluted. “Duck game it is.”

Camille tried to focus on organizing the juice cooler, but her eyes kept trailing back to them—especially when they came to her table.

“Hi!” Y/N greeted. “Can we grab some waters?”

“Of course,” Camille replied, fumbling a little. “They’re… they’re cold-ish.”

“Honestly, cold-ish is perfect,” Y/N said with a warm smile. “We’ll take four.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think the kids will go straight for the soda?”

“They can try,” she said, already tucking the bottles into her tote.

Max turned to Camille with a grin. “Let me guess. First year?”

Camille blinked. “How did you…?”

“The look of despair. I had the same one during my first press conference.” He said.

She laughed despite herself. “I wasn’t aware that despair was that universal.”

“It is. But you’re doing great,” he added sincerely. “This all looks amazing.”

Y/N nodded, reaching into her wallet. “Can we donate directly to your class?”

Camille’s heart skipped. “Oh��you don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Y/N insisted gently, tucking a folded bill into the donation jar.

Camille glanced down after they walked away and nearly choked.

A hundred euros.

Who just casually dropped that into a fundraiser jar?

The answer: apparently Max Verstappen’s wife.

—

An hour later, Camille was managing the chaos near the dunk tank when she saw them again—this time sitting on a picnic blanket beneath the shade of a tree. The toddler was in Max’s lap, licking an orange popsicle with sticky fingers. Y/N was lying on her side, her baby curled up against her chest as she wiped her son's mouth with a napkin.

“Easy, liefje,” she murmured when he got too excited and nearly dropped it.

“He’s trying to break his own record,” Max said, biting into his own popsicle and wincing. “Brain freeze. Why do I do this to myself?”

Y/N chuckled, tucking her bare feet under his thigh. “Because you never learn.”

He looked at her for a second too long.

Then, with all the gentle devotion in the world, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“I’m glad we came.”

She closed her eyes for a second, as if just letting herself feel the moment. “Me too.”

Camille tried not to stare. But it was like watching a scene from a movie that somehow escaped into the real world.

No drama. No noise. Just… partnership. Parenting. Love.

When the toddler reached up and touched Max’s cheek with a melting hand, Max just kissed his palm and said, “Sticky boy. My sticky boy.”

Camille went home that night and told her roommate, “Max Verstappen came to our fundraiser and made me believe in love again.”

And she wasn’t even exaggerating.

---

The Supermarket

— Zoë, 35, single, newly heartbroken, and very much just trying to buy oat milk and not cry in the produce section.

Zoë wasn’t in the mood to see anyone that day.

She’d cried in her car for twenty minutes in the parking lot, then sat scrolling through TikTok about “healing energy” while pretending she hadn’t just been ghosted by a man who once wrote her a poem about her freckles.

All she wanted was to get through her grocery list and be home before the sobbing resumed. The universe, however, had other plans.

Because as she turned into the snack aisle—debating between regular sea salt chips and the fancy truffle ones that cost way too much—she saw them.

Not in a tabloid. Not on TikTok.

In real life.

It was Max Verstappen.

Pushing a slightly scuffed shopping cart, baseball cap backwards, hoodie on, brows furrowed like he was solving a math equation instead of comparing two different brands of oat milk.

Next to him was a woman who could only be described as… anchored.

She didn’t look like a celebrity’s wife. She looked like someone who smelled like vanilla and fresh laundry. Her hair was tied in a messy bun. Her leggings had a juice stain near the knee. A toddler sat in the cart seat, happily munching on crackers.

And trailing behind them—barefoot inside Spider-Man crocs—was a little boy in a Red Bull jacket, holding a box of waffles like it was treasure.

“Did you write down whether it was the almond milk or oat milk that made her stomach weird?” Max asked, waving the carton slightly.

Y/N squinted at her notes app. “It just says ‘milk (weird tummy?)’ — which is completely useless. This is past-me setting us up for failure.”

Max sighed dramatically. “She’s going to be gassy for three days and we’ll never sleep again.”

“We never sleep anyway.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Zoë tried to duck behind a display of pretzels but ended up knocking a bag off the stack. It crinkled loudly. Mortifying.

Max glanced up — not with irritation, but mild curiosity — and when their eyes met, he gave her a small, polite smile. Then turned back to his wife like the world had narrowed back to just them.

“Do we have enough diapers?” Y/N asked.

“Define enough.”

“For two nights away and three ‘blowout emergencies.’”

Max tilted his head. “So… a hundred?”

“Give or take.”

He smirked and offered her the oat milk carton. “We’ll gamble. She’s had worse.”

Zoë followed them — not intentionally, just… coincidentally — into the produce section.

They were standing by the bananas when the toddler in the cart dropped her snack container and immediately began to whimper, tears bubbling up in her big blue eyes.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” Y/N cooed, reaching for it—but Max was faster.

He picked it up, brushed it off, and crouched so they were eye-level. “Hey, kleine prinses. Look—it’s back. Just a little floor spice. Builds immunity.”

The baby blinked at him, then gave a hiccupy giggle before popping a cracker into her mouth.

“You’re so weird,” Y/N said fondly, watching him rise.

“You married me,” he shot back, brushing his hands off on his sweats.

“And I’d do it again. But only if you promise to stop saying ‘floor spice’ in public.”

“I make no promises.”

The little boy—Ezra, they called him—was tugging at Y/N’s sleeve, holding out the waffle box.

“Can we get two? One for home and one for the car ride?”

Y/N crouched down, eyes level with his. “Do you promise not to eat them all before dinner again?”

“I pinky swear on Daddy’s racing helmet.”

Max gasped. “That’s legally binding. Now you have to behave.”

Ezra beamed as his mom kissed the top of his curls and stood back up.

They wandered past Zoë again near the bakery, Max now balancing a bouquet of tulips awkwardly in one hand.

“Who are those for?” Y/N asked, amused.

He shrugged, adjusting the flowers. “You. You’ve been in a mood lately and I like it when you smile.”

She blinked at him, stunned for a moment. “I’m not in a mood.”

Max raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I’m maybe…slightly overwhelmed.”

“You’re allowed. But flowers still help.”

They shared a look so full of unspoken history that Zoë had to look away.

Later, while unloading at self-checkout, Max gently peeled open the baby’s fruit pouch and helped Ezra scan his waffle box. Y/N was half-asleep on her feet, leaning against the cart as he gently nudged her shoulder.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll finish up and load it.”

“You sure?”

He kissed her forehead. “Always.”

She left with the kids, and Max packed the groceries methodically, organizing by category.

Zoë stood frozen in line behind him, cradling her oat milk and sadness like a broken promise.

And then Max turned, caught her staring again, and—once more—just smiled.

Not like a celebrity. Not like a man who thought he was better.

Just a tired dad, happy husband, and guy who clearly lived for the people who called him home.

As he walked out of the store with a bag in one hand and tulips in the other, Zoë opened her Notes app and typed something new.

“It’s not the big gestures. It’s someone remembering oat milk, wiping cracker crumbs off your mouth, and handing you tulips in aisle seven because they just want you to smile again.”

---

The Train Station

— Matteo, 19, pizza delivery guy, chain smoker, and hopeless romantic against his better judgment.

He didn’t mean to stare.

But the girl was crying, and the guy was arguing with a vending machine, and somehow both things were happening like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Matteo was sitting on a bench at the Eindhoven train station, waiting for the 3:15. He was sweaty, out of cigarettes, and coming off a breakup where his girlfriend said he was “emotionally dense” because he forgot their six-month anniversary.

Whatever.

He wasn’t eavesdropping. He just… noticed things.

Like how the girl in the jean jacket had smudged eyeliner and messy hair twisted into a bun with a pen. And how the guy in the Red Bull hoodie kept slapping the side of the vending machine like it had personally insulted him.

“You’re not eating M&Ms for lunch,” the girl said, sniffling.

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to eat them for comfort,” he muttered, still jabbing the buttons.

“You literally have a race tomorrow.”

Max turned, grinning. “And if I crash, I want to know I died with peanut chocolate in my bloodstream.”

“Max.”

He sighed like it physically pained him, turned, and held out his arms. “Okay, okay. Come here, crybaby.”

She glared at him but walked straight into his hug. He wrapped his arms around her like he’d done it a thousand times.

Matteo watched her melt instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his chest.

“You’re allowed to be upset. Your parents were unfair.” He leaned down to kiss the crown of her head. “But I’m proud of you for coming anyway.”

She wiped her eyes. “I look disgusting.”

“You look like my future wife.”

Matteo blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

She shoved him lightly. “You’re such a liar.”

“Nope,” Max replied, tone light but his eyes serious. “I’ve known since the first time you wore that ugly jean jacket.”

“Hey!”

“You looked like someone who’d ruin my life.”

“And?”

“You did. And I love it.”

They were quiet for a minute, sitting on the bench beside Matteo. Close enough for him to smell her cherry chapstick and his cheap cologne.

Max reached into his backpack and pulled out a chocolate croissant wrapped in a napkin. “Didn’t get your M&Ms. Got you this instead.”

Her face lit up like a child on Christmas. “You remembered?”

“You always want croissants when you’re sad.”

“I do.”

Matteo saw it then—saw the whole damn thing. The beginnings of forever.

They were too young. Too reckless. A little dramatic. But there was something magnetic about the way they looked at each other, like they were already writing the rest of their lives in real time.

As the train pulled in and they stood, Max laced their fingers together like it was automatic. She leaned her head on his shoulder, still holding the croissant.

They walked onto the train like two people who didn’t know how rare that kind of love was. Who didn’t need to.

Matteo pulled out his cracked phone and wrote a note he’d forget about until years later:

“Sometimes forever starts at a vending machine. And the person who buys you a croissant instead of saying the right thing is the one who actually gets it.”

---

The Airport Lounge

— Helena, 42, business consultant, solo traveler, professional people-watcher, and casual believer in fate.

The Zurich airport lounge was surprisingly quiet for a Friday afternoon.

Helena had parked herself near the floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of pinot and a half-read book she was pretending to finish. Her flight to Madrid had been delayed, and she was nursing the rare, delicious silence that came with noise-canceling headphones and no Slack notifications.

Until she noticed them.

They weren’t loud or dramatic. Just… still.

The woman sat curled up in the corner of a leather armchair, knees tucked beneath her, oversized hoodie swallowing her whole, damp curls loosely braided down her back. She had a book open on her lap but wasn’t reading it.

Instead, she was watching the man beside her — Max Verstappen, though it took Helena a moment to place him without the racing suit, the cameras, or the speed.

He looked softer like this.

He was seated slightly sideways in the chair, legs stretched out, thumb stroking lazy lines into her ankle where it rested against his thigh.

Her sock had a tiny embroidered mushroom on it. He was focused on it like it held secrets.

They weren’t speaking. Not really. Just occasionally exchanging glances, faint smiles, little movements that spoke volumes.

Max reached into his backpack and pulled out a tupperware container. “Eat,” he said simply, handing it to her.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured.

“You always say that and then eat half of mine.”

She squinted at him. “Is it the good pasta?”

“The good one. From that place near the ferry.”

“…I hate you.”

He grinned. “You love me.”

“I do.”

Helena didn’t mean to watch. But it was hard to look away from something that looked so much like home.

After a few quiet bites, the woman reached over, tugging the hem of Max’s sleeve with childlike gentleness. “Do you have to go today?”

Max hesitated. “Yeah.”

He said it softly. Not coldly. Like he hated the truth of it just as much as she did.

She nodded, lips pressing into a tight line. “It’s just a few days. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t try to talk her out of it. Instead, he reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Open it after I leave.”

“Is this a love letter?”

“It’s a maybe-you-won’t-murder-me-for-being-gone-so-long letter.”

She smiled, but Helena saw the way her fingers tightened around the paper.

“I left little notes in your bag,” Max added. “One in your book, one in the snack pocket, and one in your makeup bag.”

“That’s excessive.”

“That’s love,” he shrugged.

Helena found herself blinking rapidly.

She wasn’t used to seeing people who still made space for each other like that. Who weren’t rushing, glued to their phones, or distracted by other people.

Just present.

After a while, Max stood, stretching slightly. His flight had been called.

He reached for his carry-on, then paused and knelt in front of her.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

She leaned down, and he kissed her — not rushed, not showy, but full. Her hands slipped into his hoodie, his thumb brushed her cheekbone, and Helena knew she wasn’t the only one watching now.

But neither of them cared.

When they parted, Max rested his forehead against hers for a beat. “See you Monday.”

“See you Monday.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t cling. But as he walked away, she held that letter to her chest like it was armor.

Helena watched her breathe in slowly. Then she tucked the note into her book and picked up her phone—not to scroll, but to open the photos app.

She was scrolling through pictures.

Ones of Max. Their kids, probably. A dog, maybe.

Every one made her smile in that quiet, half-wistful way that meant: I’ll be okay, but I miss you already.

Helena turned back to her wine thinking about how beautiful of a relationship they had.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x max verstappen #f1 x max #max verstappen x reader #reader x max verstappen #max x wife!reader #husband!max verstappen #husband!max x wife!y.n #max verstappen x wife!reader #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fic #max verstappen

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jaesblogstuff · 2 days ago

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Attitude, no problem pt.2, ~pt.1~

oral (f receiving), choking (light + consensual)...smut all around man

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You toe off your boots, still tasting the spice of red curry on your tongue, and Simon’s jacket brushes your back as he follows close—too close. You barely get your coat half-off before his voice cuts in from behind, low and guttural.

“Been watchin’ you pick at your food all night,” he says. “Figured you’d either start talkin’… or you’d need to be reminded how to use that mouth.” The coat slips from your shoulders and hits the floor. You sigh, just feeling the weight of him behind you. “Simon just forge-“

“You were quiet,” he interrupted, fixing your eyes to him. “Not in a way I like, thought I told you to fix that.” Then his hand wraps around your throat, not tight. Just there. A promise. A warning.

He drops—drops—to his knees like he’s being called, like worship’s second nature. His hands grip behind your thighs, lips already parting as he yanks your pants halfway down your legs. “We're gonna have a little talk, isn't that right?” is he talking to my-

You choke on a moan when his tongue slides up your cunt in one long, filthy stroke. His groan vibrates into you like it pisses him off how good you taste. He tongues your clit with slow, brutal circles. Just enough pressure to drive you insane. No hesitation. No restraint.

You gasp, hips jerking, and his hands tighten, yanking one of your thighs over his shoulders. “You always get quiet when you’re like this?” he mutters into you. “Or just when you’re tryin’ to pretend nothin’s wrong?”

You tremble. Fingers in his hair. His tongue flicks just right and your head thumps back against the wall. “I—I wasn’t pretending,” you manage, breathless.

He hums, like he doesn’t believe you. Lips slick with you, tongue working in slow, punishing strokes. “Don’t lie to me,” he growls, voice nearly lost between your thighs. “You forget who the fuck you’re dealin’ with?” He sucks your clit hard and you cry out, back arching off the wall. Your hands claw at his scalp, and it only makes him groan louder, like he likes being pulled apart.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whisper, broken and raw. “Was just a rough morning” His mouth pauses. Just a second. That’s all it takes. He feels the shift—the hesitation. Feels you go quiet. And he stops, just enough to make you notice. He licks once, slow and deep, then breathes against you:

“Say the rest.”

“there’s nothing more…” he fucking stops. With a forceful suck before he lets go and looks up at you.

“I—” You swallow; he continues.“Fuck—I’m… I’m drowning in reports. Price just keeps dropping shit on my desk like I’m his fucking secretary, and Soap—Christ—he keeps asking me to do his tasks ‘cause—fuck, Simon, slow down—‘cause his ego’s too fucking big to admit he can’t handle them”

Simon groans. Deep. Wrecked. Like your honesty just shattered something in him.

“That’s it,” he mutters, voice rough with something between hunger and satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for that. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

But then, He pulls back again. great. Just enough. Fingers still buried in you, but his mouth gone, heat gone, the drag of his tongue gone, and it’s a betrayal so sharp you actually whine, hips bucking, chasing the friction he just ripped away.

“Simon,” you gasp, dizzy, frantic. “What the fuck—”

“You think you get to come after the way you talked to me today?” His voice is low. Dangerous. Almost smug. “You think I forgot that fuckin’ tone? That little attitude you’ve been throwin’ around all goddamn day? Nah, sweetheart.” His fingers curl deep, just once, slow and devastating. “You’re gonna sit with it.”

“Are you…” You bite back a sob, thighs shaking. “You’re seriously punishing me?”

“Not punishin’.” His lips brush your inner thigh, featherlight, maddening. “Just remindin’ you who’s in charge of that pretty little cunt.” You glare down at him, wrecked and furious and dripping for him. “You’re a fucking asshole.” He grins. Licks his lips like he tastes your fury. “Maybe.”

And then he’s kissing you. Filthy. Deep. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue while he lays you back across the sheets, eyes dark, full of something too big for words. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’ve said it all. Not until you’ve come again with his name in your throat and your fears on your lips. You don’t even remember when he stripped— just the heat of his skin against yours now, the weight of him between your thighs, the thick slide of his cock dragging across your slit, smearing you open.

He doesn’t press in right away. He waits. Watches your eyes. Palm still cupping your jaw. Like this part—this slow unraveling—is what he’s been craving all along. “You sure?” he murmurs, voice pitched low, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s grounding you to the moment. “I need to hear it.” (a man of consent yes)

You breathe, shaky. Still wrecked. Still open. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Simon.” His name sounds small on your tongue. He groans, like it guts him. And then he presses in.

Thick, slow, unrelenting.

You gasp, hips twitching, legs spreading wider to take him. He moves like he’s afraid to break you, but desperate to fill you, to feel every inch of you wrapped around him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “So tight—still fuckin’ twitchin’”

He sinks deeper. You claw at his shoulders, mouth parting in a soundless moan as he bottoms out, your walls clenching around him like you don’t want to let go. And he just stays there. Not moving. Just breathing against your throat. Letting you feel the weight of him. Letting you get used to it—to him.

Then his lips find your ear. “You don’t need to ask for help,” he murmurs, voice low and burning. “You need to take it. From me. Always.”

He rolls his hips. Once. Deep.

It knocks the air from your lungs. And then again. Slow, deliberate thrusts that drag against every swollen, sensitive nerve he already unraveled with his mouth. He fucks you like he’s trying to build you back up one stroke at a time- steady, grounding, anchored in something real.

Your nails dig into his back. You whimper. He groans, mouth at your throat.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” he rasps. “Needed me to shut your head up for you.” You nod, barely, eyes rolling back as your body tightens around him. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “I know. I fuckin’ know.”

Your hips buck. Your eyes burn.

“Simon…”

You sob into his mouth when he kisses you again. This time deeper, tongue claiming yours like he’s desperate to steal your silence, your sorrow, your shame.

His thrusts grow harder, never fast, Just deep. Measured. Every one a promise.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, over and over, like a prayer. “You hear me? You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not leavin’ you to drown in it.” Your body starts to quake again. The pressure builds fast—your cunt fluttering around him, oversensitive from his mouth, your second orgasm rising like a flood. And he feels it. Of course he does.

“Let go,” he groans. “Don’t hold back this time.”

You fall apart with a cry. Clenching around him, back arching, fingers gripping his forearms like a lifeline as your body spasms through another high, softer than before, but deeper. Devastating. It leaves you wrung out, voice caught in your throat, chest heaving.

He buries himself to the hilt, head tucked against your neck, groaning like it splits him open. Warmth floods you, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe—just holds you like the world outside the bed doesn’t exist.

Minutes pass. His hand cradles your jaw. He kisses your temple, once, slow. “Next time,” he murmurs, breath still catching, “you ask for what you need, yeah?” You nod, wrecked. Quiet. And you don’t miss the way he holds you tighter after. Like he already knows it’ll take time. Like he’s not going anywhere until you believe it.

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cheriedivine · 2 days ago

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Youtuber Ellie x Reader Hc’s <3

♡‧₊˚₊✧ pairing: youtuber Ellie Williams x youtuber fem reader (No use of y/n)

♡‧₊˚₊✧ CW: slight cursing

♡‧₊˚₊✧ Tags: just pure fluff tbh

♡‧₊˚₊✧ Author’s note: I’ve been watching so much Izzy&Emma lately and i thought about this fun idea and i love this so much lmk if y’all want a part 2 bc i definitely have more ideas for this ^~^ (maybe also a little one shot?)

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ok so Ellie convinced you to start a channel with her for shits and giggles yk but a video of you guys doing a Dress to impress gameplay went viral and it was all over tiktok.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Like the video got 100k views in 48 hours…

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ After that, she was hooked. She begged you to keep making videos together, saying it was “for the fans,” but really… she just liked having an excuse to be on camera with you.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ofc you accepted (how could you not when she was so cute)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ One of your most popular videos is the Couple Drawing Challenge where you switch canvases every 5 minutes. You couldn’t stop laughing, meanwhile Ellie was so serious about it. Like, genuinely stressed every time she had to give up her progress.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The paintings turned out surprisingly good (thanks to her of course), and she hung them up in your shared apartment like they’re museum pieces.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ While you love vlogging little cozy days, behind-the-scenes moments, aesthetic montages, Ellie’s more into chaotic gameplay and silly challenges.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ When you hit 1k subscribers (even though she was ready to celebrate at 100), Ellie made a cake from scratch. It was… questionable looking, but the effort was there. She even tried to pipe "1K BABY" on top with pink frosting. (You chose the colors)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ I just KNOW she’s the type to be like “babe we’re not doing a Q&A those are cringe” cut to 5 mins later: “so the first question is ‘who fell first’… it was me. obviously.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ELLIE WOULD FORCE JOEL TO APPEAR IN A VIDEO AND IT WOULD BE THE FUNNIEST SHIT EVER.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ I can imagine him wearing that “I love my lesbian daughter” shirt.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The comments immediately dubbed him “DILF of the Year.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie was disgusted. “Stop hitting on my dad, weirdos.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You made Ellie a swear jar so your videos wouldn’t get demonetized. She tried to cheat by using creative alternatives like “fork” and “ship,” but gave up after a week.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You’ve collected enough for like, a whole sephora haul

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ She bought you the Sabrina Carpenter skin in fortnite just so you’d play with her.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You did. And totally destroyed her. She was… not okay afterward. Her ego’s was a bit bruised ngl

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie insists on matching outfits when you film together. Oversized hoodies, themed shirts, stupid little hats, she loves it.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Also, she has her hands on you at all times. Arm around your shoulder, hand on your thigh, holding your pinky. Marking her territory for the creepy dudes in the comments.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ She always deletes hate comments so you wont get sad :( (cutie)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ But what she doesn't know is that you made a secret account so you could fight the incels in your comment section LOL

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You filmed a “Doing my girlfriend’s makeup” video… Ellie ended up looking like a glam rock star and refused to take it off for hours because “I ate this shit up to be honest.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The comment section was filled with “Is your gf single?, asking for a friend”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You deleted them <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie made you film a ghost hunting vlog in an abandoned building. She screamed first. You have the footage. You’re never letting her live it down.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You guys have a series called “Gayming o’clock” where you play dating sims, fortnite, roblox and chaotic co-op games.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Ellie accidentally went viral for being too soft with you on camera — like fixing your mic, brushing your hair away, or whispering “you’re doing so good, babe” mid-filming. The fans LOST IT.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ For your anniversary, she made a cringey but adorable montage of your funniest on-camera moments. It ends with her saying “Here’s to forever. Unless you beat me at Fortnite again, then we’re breaking up.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ There’s a running joke on your channel that Joel is the true star. You guys got him a little trophy and filmed him “accepting his award.” He actually smiled (rare footage!!).

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ You guys always EAT UP the fan edits on tiktok, you have a folder full of them.

#ellie williams #ellie williams oneshot #ellie tlou 2 #ellie willams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #tlou2 #ellie moodboard #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie williams headcanons #tlou fanfiction #tlou fandom #tlou ellie

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sluttapes · 2 days ago

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⌞ 𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ⌝

christoper owen & matthew bernard sturniolo

𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴!𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴ㆍ𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘺!𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵ㆍ𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬ㆍ𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴ㆍ𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨ㆍ 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰ㆍ 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 '𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵'

you’d forgotten how slippery the woods could get when it rained. maybe it was the fog curling low over the ground, or the way your brain felt fuzzy from the cold, but either way, you didn’t see the muddy step until it was too late. your foot slid right out from under you, your palms slapped wet wood, and before you could catch yourself, you were in a shallow puddle, jeans soaked through, cold seeping all the way into your bones.

when you finally got the cabin door open, you were shivering. the heat hit you like a wall, and the sound of soft rain on the roof filled the space. warm yellow light glowed from the bedroom down the hall, where matt and chris had already retreated for the night. you peeled off your wet clothes with shaking hands and tossed on the first dry hoodie and shorts you could find.

chris was on his phone, screen lighting up his face as he laid under the covers, scrolling. matt was already half-asleep, back turned to the room, sheets pulled low over his hips. you hesitated, staring at the empty bed on the other side of the room—yours—but something about that cold space didn’t feel right. it never did when you were with them.

you walked quietly to chris’s bed and slipped under his blanket without saying much. he glanced at you, barely lifting his head.

“cold as hell,” you mumbled.

“yeah, no shit,” he said, not unkindly. but the way his body stiffened next to yours made you pause.

“can we cuddle?”

he sighed, like the question annoyed him more than it should’ve. “you’re, like, way too warm.”

you didn’t argue. it wasn’t weird—you’d all been like this since you were kids. curled up on couches, sharing blankets on road trips, limbs tangled without a second thought. but tonight, chris wasn’t in the mood. you stayed for a few more minutes, staring at the screen with him as a few tiktoks played, but his energy was off. distant. maybe even irritated.

“can i play with your hair?” you asked, like always. you didn't lnow why, but it helped you relax, helped you drift off to sleep.

he shook his head. “nah. not tonight.”

the words landed heavy, heavier than you expected. you sighed, sifting next to him. you laid there awkwardly, unsure of what to do, when matt’s voice came, half-mumbled, barely coherent.

“you can climb over here,” he said, still facing the wall. “’s warm. play with my hair or whatever.”

it made you smile. you crossed the room and slid into his bed, body curling against his back, the cotton of your shirt sticking slightly to your damp skin. his back was warm—hot, actually—and your brow furrowed as you pressed your cheek to his shoulder.

“you’re warm as fuck,” you whispered. “you got a fever or some shit?”

“headache,” he muttered, voice low, sleep-drunk.

you hummed in sympathy, your fingers already threading gently through his hair. you always loved doing this—touching his hair, watching him melt like butter. the groan he let out was deep, not anything 'sexual', just pure relief, relaxing into your touch. he shifted closer to you, pressing back against you.

“mmmh,” he hummed. “i'ma pay for your nails next time if that means you'll give me head scratches more often.”

you giggled, light and quiet. he moaned again, soft and content, and that’s when chris spoke.

“dude, you creaming your pants or some shit? what’s all that moaning for?”

matt didn’t even turn. “kid, what are you talkin’ about? you pissed she’s in bed with me now or something? can you stop bitchin’ and go to sleep because i’m tryna sleep, actually.”

chris scoffed, rolling over and muttering something under his breath, but didn’t argue again. matt was awake now. you could tell by the way he shifted slightly, more alert under your fingertips.

“we’re driving back tomorrow, right?” you murmured, still petting his hair.

“yeah. early, if the rain’s not bad,” he replied, voice low.

you stayed like that for a while, the conversation drifting into little things—how much you loved these trips, how much they felt like home, how it reminded you of being kids again. but then the air changed. not drastically, not all at once. it was subtle. in the pause between words, in the way matt’s breathing slowed but didn’t return to sleep.

maybe it was the few drinks you’d had earlier. maybe it was the storm, or the heat of him against you, or the way chris had looked when you’d crawled into matt’s bed instead. but for some reason, the way chris seemed almost jealous of the fact you were invited over into matt's bed, and the fact you actually went to cuddle up with him instead of staying with chris, even after he rejected something he'd usually happily accept, made matt proud. he found it funny, but he also liked the idea of chris being all moody about the fact that you didn't stay with him tonight.

it was a weird feeling, but matt found some sort of push to claim something he knew chris would be jealous of, something he would definitely not appreciate. there was no reason to be jealous for chris. you three were best friends, no one was prioritized over the other one, but the slightest interaction that matt got more of than chris, made chris roll his eyes, scoff, and show how he was clearly feeling some sort of jealousy.

“do you wanna have sex?” matt asked suddenly, not turning to look at you.

you blinked. your heart stopped for half a second, huffing out a small laugh, not sure if he was joking or not. “what, with you?”

he shrugged, turning to face you. “it'll help you warm up better.”

you didn’t say anything at first. not because you were offended, but because you didn’t expect him to say it. and yet, you weren’t surprised either. you guy are close, all three of you. you talked about things to matt and chris that you talked to no one else about, and it was the same for them. whether it was about some awkward sex story when you guys were drunk, or just in general about anything to do with it. you guys had no filter, because you didn't need one. nothing was weird, nothing was tmi, simply because you guys didn't think about each other in that on sort of way, or at least you thought so...

“we don’t have to if you don’t wan—”

you cut him off with a kiss. his lips were soft, slightly chapped, warm against your cold skin. the kiss deepened quickly, almost desperately. his hand found your waist under the covers, fingers pressing into the curve of your hip, and you slid your hand along his jaw, holding him there like you were afraid he’d vanish. there was heat between you now—not just body heat, but tension, years of closeness building into something neither of you had ever even thought about. he pulled back just slightly, eyes dark in the low light.

“i shouldn’t want this because of him, and like, wanting to make him jelous,” he said, voice barely audible. “but i do. and not just because of that. you’re… i don’t know. you’ve always been mine a little bit.”

your chest tightened, heart pounding. “so take it,” you whispered.

he kissed you again, slower this time. claiming. like he wanted to etch the moment into both of you. your fingers slipped under his shirt, dragging over the warm skin of his stomach, and he hissed quietly at the contact. everything felt electric—his hands on your waist, your breath mixing with his, the rain tapping against the roof as if it were trying to drown out the quiet sounds you made for only him.

you weren’t just cuddling anymore, and you both knew it.

the room felt hotter than before, even with the rain tapping cool against the windows. matt’s lips didn’t stay on yours long. he was exploring now—pressing kisses along your jaw, down your neck, slow and deliberate. like he had all night, like he wanted to memorize the taste of your skin. you were already arching into him, your body pulsing with need you didn’t know had been buried this deep.

his hands were under your hoodie, thumbs brushing against bare skin, pushing fabric higher until your stomach was exposed to the chill of the air. but his mouth followed, warm and wet, trailing heat with every kiss.

“matt,” you whispered, breathless, fingers curling against his scalp.

he hummed softly against your ribs, and you felt the smile on his lips before he said anything.

“pretty sure chris is wide awake and pretending not to hear any of that.”

the comment made you laugh under your breath, a quiet, breathy thing that slipped from your chest without control. you looked toward the other side of the room where the blanket over chris was pulled up to his shoulder, completely still.

your fingers threaded through matt’s hair, tugging gently. “he’ll survive.”

matt looked up at you with a lazy grin, one corner of his mouth tugged up like this was all some game—one he was enjoying a little too much. his hands tugged at your waistband, slow and teasing, like he was waiting for you to stop him. you didn’t. he peeled your pants down with your underwear, the cold air shocking for a second, but he was there—warm, steady, grounding you with his tongue on your clit, his hands, the quiet, slow drag of his fingertips down your thighs.

the air between you crackled with tension, each breath shuddering as matt’s tongue flicked against your clit in a slow, teasing circle. you bit your lip to stifle a whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. he hummed softly against you, the vibration rippling through your body like a current.

“taste so fucking sweet,” he murmured, voice rough, his breath hot against your thigh.

he dragged his tongue up your slit, deliberate and languid, as if he had all night to savor you. his hands gripped your hips, anchoring you in place when you squirmed.

“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “let me take care of you.”

the shushing was gentle, almost tender, but it coiled something tight in your stomach. you arched into him, and he chuckled—low, smug—before sealing his mouth over you again. his tongue worked you with agonizing patience, lapping at your sensitivity until your legs trembled.

“matt—fuck—” you breathed, hips jerking involuntarily.

he pulled back just enough to glance up, eyes glinting in the dim light.

“that’s it, baby. let me hear you.” his thumb replaced his tongue, circling your clit in firm, slow strokes as he kissed his way up your stomach.

“you taste so good, sweetheart” he murmured against your ribs, teeth grazing skin. “always wondered… god.”

your breath hitched as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his palm grinding against you in rhythm. his lips found your ear, rough with stubble, his voice a gravelly whisper.

“you gonna cum for me? right here, with him probably listening?” his fingers sped up, relentless, and you choked back a moan, nails digging into his shoulders. “c’mon, sweetheart. let go. wanna feel that pretty pussy squeeze my fingers.”

pleasure crashed over you in waves, your back bowing off the bed as you muffled a cry into his shoulder. he kissed you through it, swallowing your whimpers, fingers slowing to a gentle pulse until you sagged against the sheets.

“thereee ya go,” he cooed, brushing damp hair from your face. his thumb traced your swollen lower lip, eyes dark with satisfaction.

you weren’t sure when exactly you stopped thinking and just started feeling. somewhere between the slow trail of matt’s mouth and the way his hands anchored your hips like he needed you still, something shifted in you—something full and warm and dizzying. it wasn’t just heat. it wasn’t just want.

it was him.

matt was hovering above you with that flushed, lazy look in his eyes, your heart was thudding loud in your ears. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours like he couldn’t look away.

“you okay?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

you nodded, cheeks warm, pulse still skittering. “yeah. are you?”

he gave a breath of a laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “just making sure you’re not about to slap me.”

“for what?” you smiled, fingers brushing his jaw.

“i dunno. taking things somewhere we haven’t gone before.” his voice dropped, and he tilted his head, eyes flickering toward the other bed. “especially with chris literally right there.”

you followed his gaze. chris still hadn’t moved. still didn’t say a word.

you whispered, “i don’t think he’s asleep.”

“oh, he’s definitely not asleep,” matt said, lips brushing the shell of your ear with a quiet chuckle.

you both fell into silence for a second. the weight of everything you’d just crossed settled in—not in a bad way, just real. and complicated. but matt didn’t move away. he just pulled you into his chest, one arm snug around your waist, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. your head found the spot right below his collarbone, heartbeat steady and calm beneath your ear.

“i liked that,” he murmured after a moment. “not just the sex stuff. like… you being here. close.”

you swallowed, your fingers tracing soft circles on his chest. “me too.”

you weren’t even sure if you were tired anymore, but the warmth of him, the steady sound of rain, and the way he kept you tucked into his side like you belonged there made you start to drift. but just before you could fall asleep, you heard a quiet, sarcastic mutter from across the room.

“next time, just take the fucking spare room.”

your eyes flew open. matt stifled a laugh against your hair.

“you were definitely awake,” matt said, grinning into your hair.

“hard not to be with all the groaning,” chris grumbled.

matt raised a brow. “you jealous?”

“whatever. you two can hump each other to death for all i care.”

there was a long pause. then you and matt both broke into quiet laughter. but underneath it, you felt the shift in the air. chris’s silence said enough. you'd definitely hear about this tomorrow. no matter how good it felt, no matter how comfortable and understood it felt with the fact that it was matt having you like this, you felt guilty now. ashamed almost. and chris's jealousy only made it worse.

oh well, driving home tomorrow morning when the three of you had sobered up would be fun.

tape extension

dividers by @strangergraphics

there could be a part two idk i feel like this has a lot of playroom. lmk if yall would fw that

🎥 @tits4matt @loser41ifee @sweetshuga @nickysturnss @courta13 @sophsturns @starsforu @applecidersturniolo

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shinoko-oshi · 1 day ago

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Simon with a sweet bird that never cusses until he overstimulates her

Simon Riley with a sweet bird, one that never cussed, one that had a voice like honey melting his heart every time she said his name, one that wouldn’t even hurt a fly— he’d seen you escort one out of the flat in a glass cup once, whispering an apology when it bumped into the window trying to escape.

The opposite of him. Basically.

You were the small slice of life that felt refreshing and comforting.

Coming home from days stuck in dirt and gunpowder, surrounded by a bunch of sweaty men, shit rations, stale air, everyone swearing like sailors and half of them snoring like hogs. Price.

Only to find his pretty bird waiting in the living room, the scent of your cooking greeting him at the door like it missed him too. You’d hum when you saw him, greeting him with soft, loving words that never failed to ease the tight coil in his chest. Following with you telling him to go wash up, a plate already warming in the oven, his favorite drink poured in a glass.

You were everything he didn’t know he needed until he had it. Until he had you.

So really, that’s why it shocked him so much when it happened.

When he had you spread beneath him, your thighs trembling, your cunt soaking, warm and needy around him. He hadn’t meant to overstimulate you. Not this time. But he’d gone weeks without you, and it was like his body was starving, needing everything all at once, the sounds you made, the grip of your body, the fluttering way you clenched around him.

He didn’t even register how many times you’d came already not until your voice snapped through the haze in his brain.

“Ah— fuck, Simon! Shit!”

He nearly stilled mid thrust. Hearing your voice breathless like that, laced with a hint of desperation made his head spin.

Because it was the words. The fucking words.

You cussed.

You, his soft, sweet girl. The one who apologized when she bumped into strangers on the street. The one who blushed if someone said “shit” too loud in public.

Was now the one saying it, filthy words falling from your pretty mouth in gasping moans while your eyes rolled back and your fingers dug into the sheets for support.

Simon had heard cussing in every tone you could think of. Heard Johnny spewing playful insults like it was his native language after five beers. Heard Price curse quietly under his breath while going through mission reports. Heard grown men yell bloody murder while bleeding out.

He wasn’t new to it. Hell, he cursed too. Sometimes under his breath when he stubbed his toe, sometimes in bed when you were giving him head so good it knocked thoughts straight out of his skull.

But hearing you say it? Like that? Because of him?

It was like discovering something forbidden. Something addictive.

So maybe that’s why after that night, he started overstimulating you more often. Drawing orgasm after orgasm out of your trembling body, not stopping when you started to whine, not when your thighs twitched or your voice cracked or your hand reached down to grab his wrist in a wordless plea.

He couldn’t help it.

Not when every moan, every sweet “fuck-fuck! Simon, please!” came out of your mouth sounding like music only he got to hear.

He knew all your tells. The way your body arched when he hit that perfect spot inside. The high pitched noise you made right before you came. The dazed look in your eyes after your second orgasm. The unfiltered curses that always spilled when he gave you a third. Or a fourth.

And you, his sweet bird unknowingly helped him discover a kink he never even knew he had.

The way you said his name when he had you pinned beneath him, cock buried deep inside of you, one hand on your hip and the other circling your clit with slow strokes.

Your cum was already coating his cock, sticky and white, dripping down your thighs, and he was still moving, still using you, still chasing another orgasm out of you, when you suddenly whimpered out a line that made him cum so fast it left his vision blurry.

“Fuck, Simon! You fuckin’ bastard!”

He groaned like the words alone made him finish, his release spilling deep inside you while you trembled underneath him.

Who would’ve guessed Simon Riley got off to being called a bastard?

Then again, it was you saying it.

How could he not?

put my WHOLE soul into this one fr fr

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freshbakedbreadstick · 2 days ago

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Advantages and Disadvantages - Smoke x F! POC Coded! Reader x Stack BLURB - SINNERS (2025)

Smoke & Stack x F! POC coded! Reader

Summary: Thank goodness you got stuck with those two.

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Reader uses she/her pronouns and is described to have a vagina. Reader's appearance is not mentioned, HOWEVER, I wrote this with women of color in mind!! NO SPOILERS! Mentions of vaginal fingering, dirty talk, probably out of character because I haven't seen the movie yet, dirty talk, reader is referenced to be a childhood friend of the twins, THREESOME, no incest between twins just sharing.

Word Count: 914 words (only a blurb sorryyy)

A/N: Wrote this while waiting for my delayed ass bus 😭 anyways it's unedited so I hope it's not so bad ! ! ! Anyways I need to watch this movie BADLY but I'm swamped in work rn 🙃 need the lord to throw me a bone and let me watch this movie ASAP I need it ! Enjoy !

Being childhood best friends to twins had its advantages and disadvantages, as all things do. But lately it seems like it's advantages were outweighing it's disadvantages...

It's disadvantages included always having two people teasing you whenever you knocked something over or fumbled your words when ranting about your day. It included being scared not once but twice in a day, the same familiar face yelling out "BOO!" as you rounded the corner, making your heart fall down to your toes. It also included having not one but two people to constantly worry for, including both in your nightly prayers and under your breath curses.

It's advantages included having four hands, two mouths, two dicks, and two very beautiful sights.

You don't know who to thank or praise for sending you these two, for borderline attaching them to you since you were a child, making you the three musketeers in every situation. Their names were synonymous with your own, constantly being seen as Smoke and Stack and You.

You were never alone, no, not since those two came into your life. It was hard to ignore them, you definitely tried in your teen years after vicious hormone infused arguments. It only ended with brown eyed gazes, soft touches, and gentle cooes being uttered, buttering you up until you couldn't ignore them any longer.

It was unbearable.

It was like, at this point, they knew everything about you and exactly what buttons to press to get you to do what they wanted. Like how to sweet talk you into giving them another dessert after helping make dinner with their mama, how to get you to avoid lecturing them after they came clean about something stupid they did, and how to make you cum the hardest.

You made a mental note to come back to this thought, whether them knowing you so well was an advantage or disadvantage, you could care less right now. All you could think about was how good it felt to have a large hand gripping both your wrists behind your back, the other hooked under your right leg, holding you up with firm arms. Another pair of hands was on you too, one hook under your left leg, holding you firmly against his body, as his other hand worked your pussy just right.

"Ohhhh fuckkkk," you garbled, eyes screwed shut and skin shiny under the light of the candles in the room. The feel of his thumb pressing right up against your clit, rubbing messy circles as his middle and index fingers plunged into your drooling cunt made your mind start to go blank.

"There she goes," Smoke cooed, voice rough with need as his hand worked you.

Stack groaned from behind you, rutting his hips gently into you, "I want a turn..."

Smoke bit his bottom lip, eyes moving from watching the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head down to where his hand moved between your shaking thighs.

"Not yet, brother," he purred, "Gotta make her cum at least one more time, then you can play with her all that you want..."

Stack chuckled, lips pressed against your ear, his hot breath making you shiver.

"Shit..." you hissed when Smoke's fingers curled at just the right spot.

"Ohhh," They said in unison, eyes widening, sporting matching grins.

Your hips bucked, chest heaving as you let your head fall back against Stack's shoulder. He cooed, pressing his lips against your skin. He bit you gently, sucking before pulling back to kitten lick an apology onto the growing mark.

"Shit baby," Smoke murmured, admiring your cunt, "This pussy squeezes my fingers so well..."

Forget replying, the words couldn't even find your tongue with how foggy your head was. The only thing keeping you grounded was the slick, wet noises echoing the room as Smoke's fingers worked you closer and closer to coming.

"Oh babydoll, you close?" Stack whispered into your ear, eye gazing down to where your cunt drooled over his twin's fingers.

"Mmm look good enough to eat..."

You couldn't even tell who said that at this point, too lost in the feeling of the swelling in your belly, the pleasure climbing to its peak.

"Wanna cum," you managed to slur out between gasps, sweet sweet oxygen barely making it into your lungs with every quick breath.

"Oh she wants to cum...?" Stack chuckled, "You hear that? She wants it so bad..."

His teasing tone made you buck your hips, feeling his hand splayed against your thigh grip a little harder. Smoke was quiet, focused as his brother whispered teases into your ear, your head lolling to the side.

"Need it bad, baby? Can't handle a couple more minutes? Wanna cum all over my brother's fingers? Gonna let me lick that pussy up after?" you hated how smug he sounded.

Your bleary eyes managed to open to see Smoke in front of you, brows furrowed and lips parted as his hand moved. His gaze slowly swept up over you, locking with your own. It made you gasp the way you saw his pupils blown so large, eyes dark as his own chest rose and fell quickly.

"Let go for me baby," he muttered, "Need to feel you cum for me, need to see you..."

Stack continued his whispers between chuckles and bites of your neck, taking the sensitive skin between his teeth to mark his spot.

Okay so there definitely was more advantages than disadvantages to this "friendship".

#smoke and stack #sinners #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #michael b jordan #smoke x reader #stack x reader #michael b jordan x reader #smoke and stack x reader #smoke & stack x reader #smoke & stack #elijah moore #elias moore #stack sinners #smoke sinners

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formulaonecrumbs · 3 days ago

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always hated the quiet

Lando Norris x university-student!reader

summary: both of them had a weird day and just needed each other.

warnings: just a kiss, swearing? ig. purely fluffy

A/N: i love soft domestic lando and i’ve been missing writing him (+ i’ve never been more motivated to write like this in my life so y’all get a lot today) enjoy!! i lovezzz uuzzz ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the silence had been too loud all day.

you’d tried music, then turned it off. tried switching rooms. even made a cup of tea you didn’t really want just to fill a few minutes. but nothing worked—not really. the stillness of the apartment without him in it made everything feel muted, like your thoughts were running underwater.

you were supposed to be studying. there was a test next week and a stack of notes highlighted in every color under the sun, but nothing was sticking. it wasn’t burnout. it wasn’t even the material. it was just… too quiet.

so when the door finally clicked open and lando walked in, the relief hit you like air after holding your breath.

he looked exhausted. didn’t say a word as he stepped inside, just let his bag drop and wandered into the living room, limbs loose and heavy like he’d barely made it through the day.

“hi,” you said softly, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

he didn’t answer right away, just sat down beside you, his body sinking into the couch like it had been calling to him all day. he leaned forward with a quiet groan, elbows on his knees, hands dragging down his face.

“everything went wrong today,” he mumbled.

you closed your laptop, letting it slide off your lap and onto the coffee table. “want to talk about it?”

lando shook his head, curls shifting with the motion. “not really. just… wanna be here.”

“okay,” you whispered. and that was enough.

he leaned back into the cushions, and slowly—so slowly—rested his head against your shoulder. your hand found his hair without thinking, fingers brushing gently through the soft strands. his body melted a little more, like just the touch of you was enough to loosen everything wound tight in his chest.

“couldn’t focus,” you murmured after a while. “not the same when you’re not home.”

lando hummed. “missed you too.”

you stayed like that for a long time, both of you wordless and still. the weight of the day unwinding in the quiet hum between you. but eventually, his stomach let out a low, mournful growl.

you laughed softly, tilting your head to look down at him. “someone needs dinner.”

“someone,” he echoed, eyes closed, “wants to keep lying here forever.”

“you’ll starve,” you teased.

“worth it.”

you nudged him gently, but he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles, warm and unhurried. “come on,” you said. “we’ll cook something together.”

lando groaned like the idea was physically painful, but followed you anyway, trailing into the kitchen like a sleepy puppy. the two of you moved in quiet sync—nothing fancy, just pasta and garlic bread and salad, but it was enough. you boiled water while he chopped vegetables, sneaking a few pieces into his mouth when he thought you weren’t looking.

“we should open a restaurant,” he said, bumping his hip into yours.

“we’d go bankrupt in a week,” you said, grinning.

“worth it,” he repeated, and leaned in to kiss you. it was soft, slower than usual. he tasted like basil and something warm, something familiar. your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, holding him there just a second longer before pulling away with a reluctant sigh.

“the sauce is burning,” you whispered against his lips.

lando blinked. “shit.”

you both scrambled to save it, laughing quietly as he stirred too fast and splattered some onto the counter. you threw him a towel, and he wiped it up with exaggerated flair. “chef norris to the rescue.”

“chef norris almost ruined dinner.”

“minor details.”

eventually, you both sat on the floor in the living room, dinner spread out on the coffee table like a makeshift picnic. it wasn’t fancy, but it was good. warm. easy. lando stretched his legs out, one of them draped over yours like he needed to keep touching you to stay grounded.

“feels better now,” he said after a while, poking at a piece of garlic bread. “being here. with you.”

you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “me too.”

after dinner, he helped you clean up—insisting on drying the dishes with a ridiculous amount of flair that made you giggle under your breath. and when the kitchen was back to normal, he followed you to the couch again, curling up beside you like he belonged there.

“okay,” he said, peeking at your laptop. “show me what you’re stuck on.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re tired.”

“i’ll live.” he reached over and tapped your screen. “besides, i kinda like hearing you talk about smart things.”

you laughed. “i don’t think you’ll be saying that in ten minutes.”

but he stayed beside you, head on your shoulder again, eyes on the screen as you read through your notes. he asked questions when you stumbled. helped you work through an explanation or two. and even though he wasn’t an expert, even though half of it probably went over his head, it helped.

because he was there.

and the quiet didn’t feel empty anymore.

THE END :>

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lgvalenzuela · 1 hour ago

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Now that this is making the rounds again I'm gonna spill something on the Veilguard companions because it's the only game in the series where I've been here since the begining and I've played this game so much I might as well be an expert

-Davrin is incredibly smart, he might say he wasn't a smart kid. But writing a book on your expertise because you have beef with a dead author? Straight up nerd behaviour, I haven't seen someone so mad about books since Dorian threw my library books out the balcony

I love his narrative, I love that he didn't become a Warden because he had to but because he wanted to (which like...I'm pretty sure is a first as far as Warden companions?) He wanted a propuse. But becoming a Warden was so ingrained in his brain when you meet him that he's so convinced he's gonna die young he's preparing for his death actively, he's preparing Assan to be able to take care of himself (also if anyone thinks his whole narrative is about Assan I'm gonna start throwing hands)

His narrative can be taken multiple places due to player choice. But personally I'm really into this self sacrificing hero that just... Finds a reason to live.

-Harding's narrative is literally about toxic positivity, Lucanis literally spells it out on the scene where they have coffee together. She's refusing herself very righteus feelings of anger for what's been done to her people, and to her specifically. She's grieving through the whole game and for multiple reasons and she's on the verge of breaking down the whole time. Both her endings need her to accept this part of herself, the part that's mourning and the part that's angry.

Also the dressing down she gives Solas at the end? Mwa! Poetry. Queen shit.

-I don't know how to explain Bellara without going into personal life? But like a grieving neurodivergent asexual woman, kinda feels like they were just writing me at some points.

Her narrative with Cyrian was the first (and not last) time I cried. I love how her and Davrin represent the past and the future of their people. How you sometimes have to look into the past to see a clearer future, how the sins of the past don't define you but it DOES feel too easy to just say: Oh but it wasn't me, and this is not Who my people are now.

Also in general I love their dynamic, I love when I can actually see relationships grow and chance in game. And I can see Davrin and Bellara forming a strong bond and Davrin being that anchor that Bellara needs. Not like Cyrian! But he cares for her! And she needs someone to care for her, to remind her that its okay, and that not everything is her fault.

-Neve is not an ice queen, she just uses ice magic. But take her with you anywhere and she's full of jokes. Damn she even approves of most of Rook's purple dialogues. She loves It when you're a silly goose.

Her entire character revolves around caring. She's there because she cares, because nobody seemed to care so she had to step up, she's willing to sacrifice so much just because she knows people need her. She's righfuly mad if Minrathous is ravaged by the dragon but it's...honestly not that hard to get on her good side again? She seems a little more mad than Lucanis, Lucanis seems more sad. But she honestly doesn't seem to personally blame Rook. None of them do. Because they're smart enough to know it was an imposible choice from the start. And she can see Rook put in the work (well I mean if you as the player care enough)

-Taash is not fucking immature or stupid. Taash has trouble communicating, I think we would all benefict from knowing the difference oh my God. Did we not learn this lesson with Sera? (Stupid question I know)

Honestly it's a thing I've always loved about this franchise and these characters. They all communicate differently, they do depending on their upbringing and just...some people have trouble communicating! It's fine! Just give them a second! Maybe let them write some things down!

-Emmrich🧡 (that's all, send post. I'm gonna have something else to say when I've already post this I can see it)

-My biggest surprise is Lucanis for sure. Fun fact? Wasn't on my radar when the first or second trailer or whatever else material dropped. But my Rook was born as a joke, he wasn't suppoused to even be Rook on the first place, he was meant as a secondary character and shipping him with Lucanis was also a joke.

I love him dude. I have such a thing for characters that have a kind heart, the more surprising that they have it the more I love it. I'm so glad he wasn't a Zevran type (and I LOVE Zevran, but for that we already have him!) He was just a weird little ace that had no fucking idea what was happening most of the time.

This is only when It comes to romantic love because he's really observant. He so quickly realizes what's wrong with every companion, he only really has THAT type of relationship with Davrin because he's matching his energy and honestly I think both of them think it's kind of funny at some point. He's good with people but in such a weird way where he doesnt know he is? He's just... Happy. I think he's truly happy for the first time because he has people that can rely on him and he can fully take care of. And in turn you can show him that he's worth those things too.

Things I never would have guessed from fandom osmosis before actually playing the Dragon Age games:

-Alistair is actually pretty smart, and has a lot of knoweledge to share about the topics he's interested about.

He's also not that shy, and flirts with a warden pretty smoothly, if a bit innocently for his lack of experience and general humorous persona.

And his primary motivator is revenge which is an interesting way to take a character like him.

-Zevran is the only character who actively searches for consent even in simple flirting like calling someone beautiful. If you tell him to stop he never makes a mention again.

He's also one of the most loyal and sentimental companions you can have. He cares a lot, want to admit it or not.

-Merrill is one of the most educated and smart characters on the series, she takes calculated risks based on her own studies and research, and the only reasons she fails is because nobody trusts her and refuses to treat her like an adult.

Part of it is also the game refusing to frame her as anything but a naive child when she's anything but.

-Isabela has the most emotional intelligence out of all the characters in DA2, she knows exactly what they're feeling and what they need to hear at all times. It's clear that she's wise and worldly, and just needs time to build confidence between her and the others because she's been hurt a lot and her respect is gained.

-Fenris has an amazing sense of humor and you can find him consistently laughing at both Hawke's and companions he likes silly jokes. He's just really deadpan when delivering his own jokes.

He's also considerably patient and doesn't lose his temper unless confronted with people who have actively abused him.

-Anders spent SEVEN YEARS protesting peacfully, and it took the risk of genocide on his people to reach the desperation of act 3.

-Dorian is incredibly reserved. He tries to avoid talking about his life with a veil of humor and sarcasm, but he's specially guarded around his sexuality and love life. He only comes out to the Inquisitor in a moment of fury to piss of his father and he may have not done so if not pressed.

If in a romance with Bull the only reason the others find out is because Bull exposes it in front of everyone (I wish they would have find out a better way to let the player find out than Bull ignoring Dorian's wishes of privacy)

If romanced by the Inquisitor he's in his first real relationship and it shows, he's lost most of the time but tries to hide it by acting cocky. It's really funny.

He's also a huge nerd, I wasn't expecting that but I was pleasantly surprised.

-The Iron Bull it's not just smart, he's so caring, he shows you around so you can meet the people, the ones nobody cares about, he introduces you to them.

-Sera also goes to the pile of characters who are really smart and nobody gives them credit for it. She says it herself, she's just really bad with words, but as long as you try to understand her she makes a lot of sense.

The game just gives you no other option than to treat her horribly, which I sense a pattern of framing the neurodivergent coded characters in a certain light with Merrill and Anders.

-Vivienne is the only one (with Dorian) that asks the Inquisitor if they're okay after Haven, and gives beautiful words of afirmation.

She's really affable if you bother to befriend her.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #lucanis dellamorte #neve gallus #lace harding #emmrich volkarin #bellara lutare #taash #davrin

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tojisteddy · 10 hours ago

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When you break up with John Price but you didn’t break up with his mom.

You’re still over Mary Price’s (yes that’s her name) house for noon day tea, right after mass and she always goes all out for you because you were the favorite daughter in law that got away. A tray full of Macaroons, biscuits, little cheese cakes, croissants and taking out the China set that probably cost a shit ton, passed down from her mother, just to have a good catch up with you.

You coupon together, review cookbooks together, dinner dates at your favorite restaurant. You’re even bundled up under the same blanket on the living room couch during your once a month movie night, whispering and giggling like little girls while her husband (Charles) shushes you two from the recliner for disturbing his favorite movie. You bring her youth back, and besides your break up with John, she loves you like her own.

Now, John already is a little irritated that you and his mom— hell— the whole damn family still likes you. John knows you still baby sit his nieces and nephews, still out partying with his cousin, still playing Mario cart with his older sister and older brother— everyone loved you. He tries so desperately to get you off his mind, he goes on dates, he goes out with his friends, works himself to the bone, but when he has to drop something off at his parents, coincidentally you’re getting out your car. Still gorgeous as ever, stray curls that were supposed to be in a high bun blowing in the wind, taking in that cold sea air. And you freeze once you see him on the front steps of his parents house, watching you with your own bag of groceries his parents asked for.

And he huffs, “Just come on then. Can’t stop you two from seein each other now, can I?”

Does John hate when he hears from his sister that you brought over a new man to meet his parents? Something in his brain ticks.

Well that just won’t do. You can’t go deciding you’d be with another man when you’ve spent half the year since you’d broken up galavanting with his own mother. You were a Price.

That’s final.

He waits till the family dinner on Friday, he knows you’ll attend, body growing more and more tense with irritation as he waits for you to enter through the front door right behind his older brother just as you always do.

“Let’s have a chat [+].” His voice tight, lips in a thin line. You gulp as John guide you upstairs to his old bedroom, his hand firm on your lower back. Locking you both in as soon as you get there. And you’re so sure this is when John wants you to break up with his mother. You were sweet to the woman, but you admittedly were pushed the boundaries farther than anyone who was genuinely trying to get over a breakup should. But before you could even stifle out some random scrambled words, Johns fucking railing his veiny cock into you poor cunt against his childhood desk.

“The audacity,” he breaths through his nose, hand pressing on your lower back, forcing an arch to get more of your greedy pussy onto him. “For you to bring another man here? As if you’d move on- Jesus- from me? Don’t think you were thinking sweetheart.”

“Jooooohn, w-we can’t- your parents!“ you’re a mewling mess, toes curling in their socks as you try to knock some sense into the bearded man.

“—what about them?” He’s ignoring you, letting his tip kiss your g-spot with every thrust. Admittedly, ignoring your concerns was part of the reason you two broke up. When John didn’t want to hear what her deemed as nonsensical chatter, he’d close his mind off from you.

“That fuckin muppet wouldn’t understand you swee’art, wouldn’t understand what we have. You ‘nd me-“

“—At least he listens!” You bite and there’s just enough behind it because John knows it’s true. Knows he isn’t the perfect man and he knows he’s fucked up along the way, fighting off demons constantly. But he’d do it ten times over just to get to you, to be with you, become the perfect man for you.

“You don’t think I listen?” He curses, slapping a hand over your mouth and pulling up for your back to meet his chest. John grunts, his other hand finding your perfect tit and groping it, getting a loud moan out of you.

“Shhhh, baby you have to listen too.”

It’s fucking heinous, the sounds you two are making together the squelching of your mixed fluids while John slowly drags himself out of you before ramming back in, the thunk, thunk, thunk of the desk meeting the wall with every thrust.

“Can’t help but need to listen to you baby. Haaa, is that what you want? A good husband that listens? Talk it it out? Tell you everything that’s on my mind? Then I’ll just have to be that man, huh?”

John curses, resting his hand on your shoulder and kissing it. So sweet, simply devine, his baby, his lover- his future spouse. Your ears are ringing when you cum, pretty cunt sucking the daylights out of his aching tip. The man whimpers, snatching your lips onto his, slipping his tongue in your agape mouth, pumping you full with every bit of cum that’s been stuck in his balls since your two broke up. Waiting to give it to you.

You two are a panting mess, John pulls out and quickly pulls your panties up. The idea of you being around his family while stuffed full makes his heart and his dick swell.

“John- this- I don’t want this to be a one off thing.” And you’re looking at him with those pretty brown eyes, bottom lip that was painted dark red trembling.

“Lovie, of course this isn’t a one time thing. I want to be back together with you. Always.” His words are stern but so soft, he’s handing you the gun. If he were to ever mess up again, you’d be the one to pull the trigger to his heart.

Till death till you part.

John doesn’t have to say another word, wrapping you in his arms. Oh, how you missed him. He almost can’t let you go, smothering your face in kisses, making you giggle, “John, your family!” You whisper yell, smacking at his back.

“Right, them. We should tell them later, okay? Not have them yelling and squealing all night.”

Mary grins as you two reemerge from upstairs, just as dinner hit the table, her hands clasped, and blushing — along with half of the other adults at the table.

“So,” she breaths, a knowing look on her face, “when will the wedding be?”

a/n: this has been sitting since forever. Cheers to you and John getting back together!!!

most recent masterlist

#toxic!john #i love john a little toxic #john price x y/n #captain price #captain john price #john price x reader #john x reader #John x y/n #price x y/n #price x reader #john price smut #john price cod #price x reader smut #john price x you #tojisteddy presents #teddy drabbles #john price #x black reader #black reader

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dykephan · 2 days ago

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phil is always pressing toys and random stuff to dan's face and dan either kisses it or bumps his head against it ughhh i know he gets little kisses all day long. whatever

#everyone keeps saying they're not a lovey dovey couple and i kinda get it. like obviously they're not saying mushy shit all the time #but they absolutely are kissing and holding hands and cuddling and you cant change my mind about that i'm afraid #the argument that they've been together so long they don't feel the need to do that anymore is sad to me #sorry to once again bring up my parents in relation to dan and phil but #they've been together more than 30 years and they still like to hold hands during movies and kiss when they pass by #its always been something i admire about them #i cant imagine being with the same person that long and still wanting to be near them all the time but apparently its possible lmao

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takostacos · 1 day ago

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It's two of my biggest pet peeves in people when I work with them:

Purposeful ignorance

And the glorification of purposeful ignorance.

The type of people that proclaim "cheating to get ahead is fine" that are then unsure of how to proceed in situations where they need to have some skill that they skipped over learning.

It happened at my old job. Someone else would fluff up their resume, talk a big game about their skills. But when shit hit the fan, they'd flounder. It was worse the longer I was in that career. It was soul crushing.

Using things like chat GPT to 'do it for you' is the same as asking someone else to do your job. You're only hurting yourself. You are stealing the learning opportunity from yourself. Whether it's leadership experience, necessary work experience, or something simple.

Teachers used to tell us "you won't always have a calculator in your pocket" and we do now. But I'm still grateful to have learned the benefits of memorizing how to do a bunch of that stuff.

The other side of it is also: things like chat GPT aren't 'intelligence', they're aggregators. they cram everything together and average it out. Get into a very niche field and you'll see how often people are wrong about things you're an expert in. Especially on the internet. Once you see it, you can't unsee it. Now understand that the aggregate combination of everything will have a good portion of wrong information, and the 'a.i.' not being truly intelligent, doesn't know the difference. Only that "it looks/sounds right". In some fields, that can be very dangerous.

It's not just Art, or creative writing, or film. Look at the awful tariff plan done by the Republicans in American government. If they're using chat GPT for that, what other uses are these 'geniuses' using it for?

#a bit of a rant #they say 10000 hours is how to become an expert at something #the reason you cant rush that is experience.

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mintyys-blog · 2 days ago

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Cutesy fluff scenario where mark variants (please include no goggles) s/o would like to bathe with them in a non sexual manner just to relax with them!

HEADCANON | variants with s/o in a bath

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2

MAIN MARK

You’d had a long day. Mark had an even longer one. After hours of flying across the planet to stop a landslide, a burning refinery collapse, and a hostage situation in Japan, he finally made it home—soot still streaked along his cheek, hair damp with sweat, and his hero suit halfway peeled off as he hovered outside the bathroom.

You looked up from the tub, bubbles high and warm, the soft scent of lavender drifting in the air.

“Hey,” you said, smiling. “Come join me?”

Mark blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… right now? In the bath? With you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, with me. No funny business. Just… wanna relax with you.”

He didn’t even hesitate after that. “Like hell I’d say no to that,” he muttered, stepping in and carefully lowering himself behind you. The water sloshed around you both as he sank into the warmth, groaning under his breath. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, his forehead coming to rest against the back of your shoulder. “God, this feels amazing.” You leaned back into him, nuzzling under his chin as he lazily trailed his fingers up and down your arms. “You smell like smoke.”

He laughed quietly. “You smell like peace.” The two of you stayed like that, letting the world fall away. No explosions. No aliens. No hovering generals or doomsday warnings. Just the sound of water, your heartbeats, and the gentle rhythm of him breathing beside your ear.

Eventually, you whispered, “Thanks for coming home.” He kissed your shoulder, a soft press of lips. “I’d never miss your bath invites. Best part of my day.”

You smiled, cheeks flushed from more than just the warmth of the water. “Next time, I’ll even bring wine.” Mark grinned. “And I’ll bring my aching back.” You both laughed—and that moment, that quiet, was yours.

SINISTER MARK

You brought it up softly while he was sitting on the edge of the bed, peeling bloodstained gloves from his hands after yet another brutal day. The sink was running faintly in the bathroom, and steam fogged the mirror. The bath was ready.

“Hey… I was thinking maybe you’d wanna join me tonight?” you offered, voice gentle, like you were asking a wolf not to bite.

Sinister Mark tilted his head, not even glancing at you. His jaw ticked. “In the tub?” he repeated, the words tasting foreign.

“Yeah,” you said, stepping closer. “Just to relax. No expectations. Just us.”

He snorted. “I don’t relax.”

You reached out, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. His muscles were coiled tight, like he was always half-ready to kill again.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just sit with me. Let the heat soothe your body. I just… I want to be close to you. Quietly.”

He turned his head, eyes like knives, lips curling into a humorless smirk. “You think sittin’ in a tub full of water’s gonna rinse off the shit I’ve done?”

You hesitated. “No. But maybe it’ll ease the weight. Even if just for a little while.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his red-rimmed eyes. Then, with a sigh, he stood. Not agreeing. Not resisting. Just… moving.

But instead of stepping into the bathroom, he brushed past you, muttering, “Go enjoy your little bubble bath, sweetheart.”

You blinked, watching his back as he walked down the hall.

“I’ll clean the mess off my hands my way.”

And yet, fifteen minutes later, when you were nestled into the tub with your knees pulled to your chest, you heard the door creak open. No words. No drama. He came in shirtless, jaw clenched. Sat on the toilet seat, arms crossed, boots still on.

Didn’t get in. Didn’t leave either. Just watched over you like a silent, violent guardian. His presence dark, brooding, steady. And in his world, that was close enough to affection.

MOHAWK MARK

The second you asked if he wanted to join you in the bath, Mohawk Mark was already stripping his shirt off, his grin wicked and full of teeth.

“Say less,” he muttered, tossing his gloves aside like they’d offended him. “You tryna get real cozy with me, huh?”

He followed you into the bathroom like a predator with a promise. His eyes gleamed with that sharp, unmistakable hunger, and his body language screamed I’m about to make this bath real steamy. He leaned against the doorway, watching you slide into the warm, bubbling water, steam curling around your figure like silk.

When you looked up and saw the gleam in his eyes, you rolled yours and patted the spot in front of you. “You can get in… but behave.”

He chuckled darkly. “No promises.”

He climbed in with you, muscles flexing, his mohawk already dampening from the rising steam. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into him with a grin like sin.

“Damn, you feel good already,” he murmured against your neck, his lips just about to brush your skin when— Plop.

You suddenly turned around and slapped a handful of bubbles right on his chin. “…What the hell?”

You stifled a giggle, sculpting a ridiculous beard and mustache out of the suds, shaping them like a nobleman’s. “There. Now you’re Bubble Emperor Mark.” You burst into laughter, almost slipping under the water, as he glared with mock offense. He stared at you, deadpan. “…You did not just—”

“I told you I wanted to relax,” you said between giggles, smoothing more suds on his chest like royal robes. “Not get ravished.” He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re lucky I like your crazy ass.”

Still, he let the beard stay. Even leaned back with you after, one arm draped lazily around your shoulders while you curled up against him. Despite the teasing, the warmth, the closeness—he never once tried again that night. He just soaked in your laughter and your skin against his, even if you made him look like a sudsy idiot. And deep down? He loved every second.

OMNI MARK

When you brought up the idea of sharing a bath, Mark didn’t even blink. “No.” That was it. One word. Flat, cold, and absolute.

You stood at the bathroom doorway in a silk robe, the warm light behind you casting your silhouette in a soft glow. Steam rolled out behind you, scented and inviting. But his tone didn’t waver, his eyes locked on a datapad, fingers still scrolling through reports of Earth’s status, the galaxy’s affairs.

You sighed. “Of course. Silly me to think you’d want to spend any downtime with your wife.” He didn’t respond. So you stepped closer, slower now, voice dipping into something softer. Something playful. “You know…” you murmured, trailing your hand down his shoulder, “it gets… lonely in there without you.” His eyes flicked up, just once. Calculating. Studying.

You smiled at him, shameless, sultry. “And it’s not like I’m asking for anything inappropriate. Just a bath. Just us. Maybe I lean on you a little. Maybe I moan once about how warm your chest is. Who knows what could happen.” His gaze finally lingered, not softening, but sharpening. That icy steel behind his eyes sparked—not with warmth, but interest.

“I’m not some mortal boy to be manipulated by flirtation,” he said, standing slowly. You shrugged. “Didn’t say you were. I just miss you.” That gave him pause. Not the tone. Not the flirtation. But the honesty behind it.

After a long silence, he finally let the datapad fall to the table. He unzipped his black uniform jacket with precision, stripping with clinical detachment—like this was just another mission to complete. “You get thirty minutes,” he said as he followed you into the bathroom. “Do not waste them.”

You didn’t grin. Didn’t tease. You just sank into the tub, and when he settled behind you—rigid at first, arms draped along the edge—you leaned back into his chest. It took a few minutes, but eventually, one hand shifted. Slid around your waist. No kiss. No whisper. Just that hand. A quiet confession, in his own way, that despite his coldness, his walls, his power… He wanted you close too.

NO GOGGLES MARK

You were careful when you asked him. No Goggles Mark wasn’t exactly the most… emotionally available variant. He was sadistic, cocky, and brutally self-assured. But you’d been together long enough to know how to speak to him without making it sound like a request.

“Bath’s ready,” you said casually, already in the tub, steam curling up around your skin. “Get in.”

He raised a brow from the doorway, arms crossed, blood still splattered on the side of his jaw from whatever poor soul crossed him that day. “The hell for?”

“Because you’re disgusting,” you said flatly, reaching out and flicking a handful of water toward him. “And because I want you in here. Not for sex. Just… quiet. You owe me that much.”

His eyes narrowed, that usual twisted smirk playing on his lips. “Owe you, huh? You gettin’ brave.”

But he peeled off his shirt anyway, let it hit the floor, then his pants, then finally slid into the tub across from you. The water was nearly too hot, and the muscle in his jaw twitched at the temperature—but he didn’t complain.

You expected him to go back to being smug and irritating. Instead, he just… leaned back. Arms draped across the edges of the tub. Watching you.

You scooted over and settled between his legs, laying your head on his chest. He didn’t touch you at first, just let the silence settle in—only the occasional sound of bubbles shifting, water lapping at the porcelain.

Eventually, his hand slid around your waist. “You know,” he muttered near your ear, “you’re lucky I like you.” You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“But if you try to put a bubble beard on me like last time,” he growled, lips brushing the side of your face, “I’ll drown you in this tub. Lovingly.”

You snorted. “Deal.” He smirked, tightening his grip, and for once—there was no killing. No screaming. No taunts.

Just you, him, the warmth of the bath, and a rare sliver of peace in the arms of a man the world feared. He didn’t say thank you. He never would. But staying in that tub with you until the water turned cold? That was his version of everything.

VILTRUMITE MARK

You didn’t expect him to be thrilled about it—Viltrumite Mark wasn’t exactly the type to indulge in “soft” moments. His time was spent training, patrolling, watching over you with that quietly intense gaze that said you’re mine more than any words ever could.

So when you slipped up behind him one evening, arms around his waist, and said, “Will you take a bath with me?” — you could already feel the hesitation in his body.

He turned slightly, looking down at you. “Is something wrong?” You shook your head, offering a small smile. “No… I just want to relax. With you. You’re always tense when you come home, and I get lonely waiting.”

That made him pause. Lonely. He’d never considered that. You always greeted him with food, with warmth, with your gentle touches and soft smile—he assumed you were fine. Content.

The idea that you missed him, even when he was just down the hall or across the house, made something flicker in his chest. He didn’t smile. He never really did. But his expression softened. Barely. “Alright,” he said simply. “I’ll join you.”

You were already in the tub when he came in, steam rolling over the edge. His broad frame took up nearly the entire other side, his long limbs folding in behind you as he slid into the water with practiced control.

You leaned back against his chest with a sigh of relief, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His arms came around your waist—not possessive this time, but secure. Protective.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was safe. “You should’ve told me sooner,” he said after a long while, voice deep and calm in your ear. “If you feel alone… say something.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly to nuzzle under his jaw. “You’d drop everything just to get in the bath with me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “But I’d carry the tub with you in it to wherever I was going.” You burst out laughing, and despite himself—despite the pride and Viltrumite blood—he let out the faintest, fondest breath of a laugh against your hair. He didn’t need baths. He showered instead. But for you? For this? He’d do it every night.

PRISONER MARK

The bath was almost too hot, but neither of you cared.

He was leaned back in the old clawfoot tub—half-drenched in soap bubbles, the steam rising around his scarred chest. His hair was damp and messy, falling into his eyes, his arms spread lazily along the edge of the tub while you straddled his lap, both of you still half submerged.

You were supposed to be relaxing. Supposed to just be bathing together.

But your lips were on his chest, soft kisses trailing up to his collarbone, then his neck, slow and affectionate. Your hands smoothed along the sides of his waist, fingers occasionally tracing the ridges of old wounds that stretched across his skin like faded ghosts.

He tilted his head to the side, letting you have your way—for now. A short, amused laugh rumbled from his throat, low and husky. “I thought you said you didn’t want to have sex?” he murmured. “Just relax? Where did that go, huh?”

You looked up at him, feigning innocence, your lips brushing against his pulse. “I am relaxing.” He smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar, crooked grin. “Right. Sure.”

But despite the teasing, he didn’t stop you. He let you keep kissing him—slow, warm, comforting. There was no rush, no pressure. Just you, him, the heat of the water, and the quiet, rare space where he didn’t have to be on edge.

“I missed you today,” you whispered.

His eyes closed for a second. His arms slowly moved to wrap around your back, holding you closer. Firmer. Like you might disappear. “I missed you too.”

No one would believe it if they saw him like this—the infamous escaped Viltrumite prisoner, war criminal, and wanted killer—melting under your touch in a tub filled with rose-scented bubbles. But in this moment, he was just yours. And he was happy to stay that way for as long as you’d let him.

MASKLESS MARK

The bathroom was quiet, filled with the sound of running water and soft steam curling through the air. You knelt by the tub, testing the temperature with your hand, dressed in nothing but one of his old shirts—oversized and slipping off your shoulder. The water shimmered, warm and inviting, laced with calming oils and soft bubbles.

Behind you, you heard the faintest footsteps. Mark stood in the doorway, silent. His crimson suit halfway unzipped, dried blood on his arms and jaw, his hair messy from a day of destruction. His eyes, sharp and always slightly hollow, followed your every move.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching him watching. A small, knowing smile played at your lips. “It’s almost ready,” you said softly. “Come join me?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just tilted his head, studying the curve of your back, the way your body moved. His eyes were darker than usual—less bloodlust, more curiosity. Something about you in his space, doing something so normal… it stirred something in him. Something that scared him a little.

He stepped forward, wordless, unzipping his suit the rest of the way and letting it fall with a heavy thud. He climbed in behind you, slow and deliberate, the warm water rippling as he settled in.

You eased in, facing him, and for a moment, he just stared at you. No killing. No chaos. Just you… smiling, soft, in his arms. You reached forward, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing just under the edge of his eye where a faint scar lived. “You look like you needed this.”

“I didn’t,” he said quietly.

But he didn’t pull away. You leaned into his chest, the water hugging both of you. He rested his hand on your waist, not possessive. Just… grounded. “No one’s ever asked me to do something like this before,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll keep asking.” He didn’t smile. Not really. But his grip on you tightened just a little—and he closed his eyes. He wasn’t used to peace. But maybe, just maybe, he could learn.

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