#when they move in together they get another one

[humanjarvis]

a closer look

synopsis: every time you try to take your relationship to the next level, you always shy away at the last second. lucky for you, dr. zayne has a solution!

tags: inexperienced reader & zayne, soft dom zayne, reader fears penetration at first, zayne sets up a surgical camera so she can watch him finger her, vaginal fingering (duh), “anatomy” “lesson,” praise, “good girl,” improper use of hospital assets  pairing: zayne x fem reader word count: 2.3k

a/n: this came to me in a dream. enjoy

“Have I given you reason to be afraid of me?” Zayne asks you softly, attentive gaze trailing down your stiff body.

“N-no!” you blurt, thrusting your hands out in mortification. “You haven’t, I swear you haven’t. This is just…new to me.”

“Me as well,” he retreats from above you, moving back on the sofa to give you breathing room.

Just moments ago, you’d been writhing under him needily, his tongue plunging into your eager mouth as you groped each other with abandon. Spurred on by your initial pleas, he’d dared to take it further this time—further than either of you had ever been. But as his hand had traveled down your body, dipping just the slightest bit inside your panties, you’d gone rigid. Zayne, ever aware of your reactions, had stopped his movements immediately, looking seekingly into your eyes for answers. Unfortunately for him, once that cautious hazel gaze had found yours, you’d squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment. 

“It’s nothing that you did, Zayne,” you sigh as you sit up, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I know you’d never hurt me. I’m just…scared.” 

“Of?” he asks softly, and the way his kind face is void of any judgment makes you want to extract your brain and beat it for denying you the chance to feel him. 

Another sigh escapes you as you gather your thoughts. “What if it hurts?” you wonder shyly, fiddling with your clammy hands. “I always imagined it’d hurt. And there’s never…been…anything there, outside of medical stuff. That’s the only thing I have to compare it to.”

Nodding along patiently, Zayne extends a hand to you, pulling you to him when you accept it gratefully. “I’m sorry that you’re frightened, but I understand your hesitation. I’m content to just hold you in my arms, if you’ll let me. As long as it takes, I’ll wait for you.”

“No, I-I want to. With you, soon. That’s the problem—I’ll think I’m ready, but then the second we get close, I freeze up. I just don’t know what to expect, and that scares me.” 

Humming contemplatively, Zayne laces your fingers together. “I think I can help with that.” 

The usually bustling corridors of Akso Hospital are eerily quiet at night. 

Hurrying through them as if a ghost will jump out at any second, you scour the door plaques for room 429. 

I’ll be finishing up early today. If you’re able, can you meet me at the hospital this evening? Room 429, Zayne had messaged you hours ago. And with no other plans and a lingering sense of guilt that you know he’d disapprove of, you’d agreed almost instantly.

Combating pangs of confusion—he never asked you here at night, outside of official events—you don’t realize you’ve scurried past the door until the room numbers grow too high. Backtracking briskly, you tap the wood with two soft knocks before a calm “Come in!” beckons you inside. 

Room 429 is a standard hospital room—a large examination table, a sink and cabinets, and two simple chairs. At the small table near the back of the room—much humbler than the sleek standing desk in his office, you note perplexedly—Zayne sits, pen in hand, leafing through an endless stack of paperwork. Why did he move his office here for the night? 

“Great, you’re here,” he says, setting his pen atop a thick packet. “Take a seat.” 

“Um, okay,” you mumble obediently, heading toward one of the navy guest chairs. 

“Not there,” he calls. 

Turning to face him, you catch the way his eyes shift to the examination table. “Is this some kind of impromptu appointment?” you ask, his secrecy filling you with stubbornness. 

Zayne rises from the rolling chair that’s too small for him, crossing the room in measured strides. “Not a sanctioned one.” 

Before you can ask what he means, his hands are wrapping around your waist, lifting you up to deposit you on the soft table padding. 

“Hey!” you squeak, surprised but not fighting him. “What is all this? I had my annual checkup a couple weeks ago, I’ll have you know. And I won’t be your guinea pig, either.”

Zayne tsks with amusement. As he presses a button, a large black mount lowers from the ceiling, its sturdy hooks securing a small silver device. Another button, and the device’s tiny red light flicks on. 

And suddenly, your reflection stares back at you from a monitor on the opposite wall. 

Anticipating your interrogation, Zayne speaks before you can. “This is a high-definition surgical instrument. It’s used to help us see the body during minor procedures.”

You blink at him quizzically. “So…a camera?” 

“Yes. A camera. Repurposed for…recreational matters,” he quips with a slight upturn of his lips.

“You should know your own body,” he continues gently. “Exploring yourself—whether with or without me—is your right. And after last night, I figured…perhaps being able to see my actions as they happen would assuage some of your fears.” 

“You…when did you have time to…?” you trail off, staring up at him in wonder. 

“I believe I told you I finished my work early today. This was the reason,” he reveals. Even with you perched on the examination table, Zayne’s imposing height exceeds yours. His assurance is a warm blanket as he stands beside you, resting a large palm on your bent knee. “I’d like to help you explore yourself now. Will you allow me to?”

With a heavy gulp—more from anticipation than nerves, you realize—you nod your consent meekly.

“I don’t know what that means, darling. Can you give me words?”

“Yes,” you exhale shakily. “Help me. Please.”

Smiling softly, pride flashing across his face, he leans in to kiss you sweetly. Then, reaching up to bring the camera closer, he angles it toward your lower body. On the far wall, the feed is dangerously close to revealing what lies beneath your skirt. 

“I’ll raise this,” he says, lifting the fabric with care. “And these…will need to come off,” he eyes you, gesturing to your thin cotton panties. 

For a moment, you debate removing them yourself. But if this was about overcoming fears….

“Can you do it, Dr. Zayne? I wouldn’t want to get in the way,” you whisper coyly. 

His eyes widen as he pauses. Then, collecting himself, he inches his hands forward to tug at the sides of your panties, sliding them down with precision. “Of course,” he says softly. “I’ll take care of you.” 

As he sets his eyes on your naked cunt for the first time, Zayne shows admirable restraint, looking away after only a few tense seconds. Some hypocritical, eager-to-please part of you would almost be offended, if not for his tells: his quickened blinks, heavy breaths, and fidgeting fingers. 

“I’ll get started now,” he exhales, voice husky with veiled desire. “You’re free to stop me at any time.”

And as you gaze at him with trust and only a little bit of fear, Zayne begins. 

“This is your pelvic bone,” he gestures slowly. “It supports your body weight.” 

The warmth of someone else’s hand on your bare hip is a foreign feeling. Foreign, but not bad, you decide, relaxing under his touch. 

“The mons pubis,” he continues, hands ghosting over the mound beneath your belly. 

“And this,” he murmurs, spreading your folds carefully, “is your pretty little pussy.” 

The word—in here, from him, in reference to you—is so scandalous it makes you gasp. You try desperately to avoid his gaze, eyes flitting across the room in panicked arousal, but you don’t find the reprieve you’re looking for. 

Because on that far wall, looking back at you tauntingly, is the velvety skin of your most private part, glistening with your growing desire. 

Snapping you out of your staring contest, Zayne taps the flesh of your thigh twice. “Open, please. Wider.” 

Swallowing thickly, you oblige.  

“Good,” he praises, tracing your exposed entrance with an elongated index finger. “This is where I’ll touch you. Is that alright?”

Through heavy drags of air, you forget his earlier instructions, nodding quickly as your answer. When all he does is lift a brow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips, you hazily remember his request. “Yes,” you whimper apologetically. “It’s alright.”

“Well, then. Suck,” he orders simply, holding his finger to your mouth. 

The command startles you at first. But as you look between the man beside you and the far wall, recalling how frustrated you’d been with your fears last night, you part your lips slightly. Just enough for him to enter. 

Timidly, you circle your tongue around him, coating his finger in your saliva. Once he deems it wet enough, he taps your thigh again, and you release him with a soft pop. 

With half-lidded eyes, Zayne hums his approval, pushing closer to you to angle the digit at your entrance. “Hold onto me if you need to,” he whispers, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder.

And then, his finger sinks inside you. 

It’s one thing to feel the tension. To clench as a light, unfamiliar pressure pushes firmly inside your heat, claiming the untraversed territory with every inch. 

But as the discomfort subsides and you open your eyes, seeing it unfold is something else entirely. 

On the large screen, Zayne’s slender finger pumps in and out of you slowly, impactfully. With every exit, your pulsing pink walls hug his retreating digit, begging him to stay. And when he grants their request, every thrust back inside has them clamping around his finger, as if barring him from leaving them lonely. 

Watching with rapt attention, Zayne splits his focus between the monitor and you, gauging your expression for signs of discomfort.

But as your body melts with newfound pleasure, you sigh softly along to the rhythm of his pumps, eyeing the way he breaches your wetness with wanton intrigue. 

The way he disappears inside you, giving his body to yours…you want to kiss him. You need to kiss him. But the moment you lift your gaze to his lips, licking your own as you lean in, Zayne moves his face just out of reach.

“No,” he murmurs his denial, stroking your walls with added vigor as he turns your face back toward the screen. “Don’t get distracted.”

Grumbling your disappointment, you allow his hypnotic movements to recapture your attention. But before long, you’re curling into his touch. “Can you…m-more?” you pant, risking a longing glance up at him. 

“More?” Zayne repeats, slowing his pace to a deep probe that makes you writhe in impatience. “Is that something you can handle?” 

“Yes,” you cry, clutching his pristine lab coat. “Can handle it, if it’s you.” 

He hums contentedly. And a split second later, another long finger joins the first. 

Eyes glued to the screen, you see the intrusion before you feel it: his thick, united digits headed straight for your core. As he prods at the small opening, advances met with quivering resistance, you almost think you’ve asked for more than you can take. But as slick dribbles out of your squelching hole to welcome him, the fluid dulls the stretching sensation, and your fluttering cunt sucks him in greedily.

A loud, lewd moan has you arching erratically, and Zayne wraps a strong arm around your lower back to support you. 

“How does it feel?” he murmurs between steady pumps. “Are you still frightened?” 

“No,” you mewl ardently. “It’s good. You’re good. But I…” you pause, racking your fuzzy brain for the right words. 

“You what, my love?” 

“I can’t…I don’t think I can…like this…” you trail off with an embarrassed whine, hoping he understands your babbling. 

“Mm,” he nods sympathetically. “It’s natural that you can’t come from this alone. What a good girl you are for telling me.” 

With his free hand, Zayne leans forward to adjust the camera, centering it over your glistening cunt. Once satisfied, he flexes his thumb to rest gently on the twitching bundle above your entrance. “You know what this is, don’t you, darling?”

“Clit,” you breathe, the word leaving you in a garbled gasp thanks to the shocks of his feather-light touch. 

“That’s right,” he praises, kissing your temple while his fingers scissor lazily inside you. “This is how you’ll finish.” 

As your voices fade, room filling with the wet sploshes of your tightening walls, the force of his thumb grows heavier on your clit. You almost squeal as the pressure increases, instinctively lifting your hips out of the camera frame—to which Zayne firmly pushes you back down. 

“Watch,” he commands sternly. “So you’ll know how to do the same when I’m away.” 

Curling his other fingers inside you, Zayne rolls his thumb in devastating circles, grinding so deeply against your nub that it greets you with spasmic, greedy twitches on the monitor. For a moment, his movements are mesmerizing, his thumb drawing patterns on your clit in time with his measured pumps. But as he slips out his index finger to pinch your aching bud, the gushing slick heralding your release is the last thing you see before your eyes screw shut from ecstasy. 

As you writhe against him with thankful sobs, Zayne’s movements slow before stopping altogether. “It’s alright,” he shushes you. “Let it take you. You look beautiful like this.” 

And in the comfort of his reassurance, those sobs turn into quiet, blissful moans. 

You’re not sure how he does it—the sink and paper towels are on the other side of the room—but when you open your eyes, Zayne’s hands are clean. 

“I’m very proud of you,” he says gently, wiping a stray tear from your eye. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” you mumble, nuzzling into his palm. “You were right. Seeing it, knowing what you were doing…it did help,” you finish shyly.

“I’m glad. And in that case,” he adds, tapping the camera appreciatively, “I’ll ask around about the cost of installation in my home office.”

[deakyjoe]

I Dream Of You Even When Awake

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Reynolds x Reader (fem)

Category: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, smut

Summary: Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.

Warnings: 18+, smut, Thunderbolts* spoilers, kissing, handjob, hurt/comfort, nightmares, reader has power of feeling other's emotions, friends to lovers, sexual innuendos, talk of sex, Bob is kind of a sub but not entirely, pet name (pretty boy)

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: Lewis Pullman, my love, you have charmed me with another character of yours named Bob. We knew this was coming.

One thing that the New Avengers had in common was nightmares. You all had them. It was worse for some than others. But it was terrible for you most of all. Being able to feel other people's emotions meant that the feelings everybody experienced during their nightmares would rocket through you as well.

This caused a lot of sleepless nights for you. Laying awake in bed, sweating from the shared anxiety that would travel through the other members of your team and land in you as their final destination. At least when you were awake you could find something to distract yourself from the emotion. It pained you to know that your friends went through it every night but when you managed to sleep through it, all it would do is influence your own nightmares. You'd find yourself dreaming up your own worst fears with the horrors of your friends' lives mixed in. 

It was a particularly bad night, all of them having bad dreams which only filled your body with sadness and anxiety. You stuck headphones over your ears, music turned up loud to blast through your head in an attempt to block out some of the feelings. It only helped a little. You stared at the wall opposite your bed, trying to think of better things and trying to latch onto any sort of feeling. You were getting nothing. Either everybody was having a bad night or no positive emotions were strong enough to reach you in the moment. It sucked.

A few hours went by, your eyes blurring with exhaustion as you continued to stare. The emotions weren't dying down, only going through fluctuations where everybody's sleep cycles would circle around. There was a tugging at the side of your head, like something else was trying to get in but you couldn't quite manage to get a latch on it. You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut, only opening them when the tugging got stronger.

You squinted at your door, trying to figure out whether it was your tired brain making you see things or whether there actually was a shadow moving underneath your door. Taking a deep breath in a bid to relax, you used your gift to reach out. Then you felt it. A different type of anxiety, it was more like a quiet concern rather than fear and nerves. 

You ripped the headphones from your head and sat up straighter, surprised when there was a tentative knock on your door. "Hello?"

"Hi." The voice was timid. "It's- it's Bob."

You let out a soft sigh of relief. It was only Bob. You clambered out of bed and padded towards your door, opening it with a tired smile. "Hey, Bob. What can I help you with?"

He blinked back at you, his hair mussed up and clothes crinkled from sleep. "Your light was on."

You frowned. "Uh, yes."

"It's the middle of the night." He added on, hands twisting together into the hem of his shirt.

You realised he was worried about you and wondering why you were awake in the middle of the night. "Yeah, uh, the team dream rather restlessly. And- and I can feel it."

"Oh." He nodded, suddenly remembering what your gift entailed. "That's horrible."

You shrugged. "I'm used to it. But thank you for checking on me. That's sweet of you."

The apples of his cheeks bloomed pink, blood rushing to his face. "No- no problem. Just wanted to see if you were okay."

It was then that you realised you suddenly felt better. Bob's concern was a nicer feeling than the nightmares everyone else was going through. And when he'd blushed you felt another emotion, a warmer emotion. 

"I appreciate that, Bob. Thank you." You smiled at him, pleased when he offered a small smile back. That also improved your mood. "You're making me feel a lot better actually."

"I am?" He seemed surprised, hands dropping to his sides.

"Yes, you're a lot calmer than everyone else right now and it feels good." You paused, looking him up and down. "Can you- could you maybe stay with me for a little while?"

"Oh! Yes. Yes, of course." He shifted from foot to foot, glancing over your shoulder at your room. "Um, why?"

"Because I'm tired of feeling anxious from everyone else. We can just sit for a few minutes and then you can go back to your room. If that's okay?"

He nodded and took a step towards you. "Sure, for as long as you want."

Bob really was sweet, his awkward demeanour only the surface of how lovely he really was. It was difficult to believe that he was technically the same guy who had killed half of New York only a couple of months ago. He really wasn't that person, and never had been. Since then, he'd quickly become one of your favourite people and you didn't see that changing any time soon. He was just the kind of person you wanted to keep around, so worthy of love and protection. 

You tilted your head backwards and opened your door slightly wider. "Come on in then. We can sit on my bed."

His blue eyes widened for a moment before shuffling towards you, bare feet sliding against the floor. You shut the door behind him, gesturing towards your bed to offer him a seat when he hesitated in the middle of your room.

"It won't bite." You snorted, stopping next to him. "You can just sit on the edge if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, it's not that. I just don't want to intrude into your space." He glanced at you from from the corner of his eye.

"I wouldn't have invited you in if you could do that." You replied, walking around the side of your bed to sit back down in the spot you had been before. You pointed at the space next to you. "I don't bite either."

A small smile graced his face as he went to the other side of the bed to sit next to you. Bob rested against the headboard, staring at the same wall you had been before he'd arrived.

"So... do we chat? Or something?" He asked, head flopping to look at you.

You resisted the urge to push his hair out of his face so you could see his sweet face in all of its glory. He really did make you feel better with his mere presence. You'd never experienced that with someone before.

"We can, if you want. Or we can just sit quietly."

He pushed his own hair out of his eyes, revealing the baby blues to you again. "What were you doing before I knocked?"

"I was listening to music. To try- to try and block it out."

"Was it working?"

"No." You shook your head. "But you're working."

He looked away from you and you panicked, scared that that had been too much. It often freaked people out when you reminded them you could feel all of their emotions. But then you felt it. Bob was happy.

You inched slightly closer to him. "Feels nice when you're happy. It's warm."

He looked back at you. "Warm?"

"And soft. Most people feel harsher when they're happy, in an excitable way. But not you. It's difficult to explain." You closed your eyes, a pleased smile on your lips. "I like the way it feels."

Bob's breathing grew heavier, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I'm glad."

You hummed lowly, your heart rate slowing the more you relaxed. You hadn't realised it had been thundering against your rib cage for the majority of the night. As you calmed down, you grew more and more fatigued. Bob's effect on you was quick and he could only watch as you started to fall asleep. He didn't want to disturb you, it was clear how exhausted you were. He'd seen the way you would move sluggishly on the days when you hadn't slept very well. It hadn't quite clicked in his head why you'd been like that but it was all adding up now. You had always been so kind to him that he hated to see you struggle. You didn't deserve that. So if all he could do to help was sit by your side so you could sleep peacefully, then he was all too happy to do that. 

When you awoke the next morning, you were startled by what greeted you when you opened your eyes. Bob was laying down beside you, mouth slightly agape and quiet snores leaving him. He really was rather lovely to look at. He had a delicate face, his features rather soft. And that was only increased by the peace that radiated off of him during his slumber.

The feeling that was trickling through you was new, and difficult to comprehend. You'd always been surrounded by people with big characters, their lives usually motivated by some sort of misery. You couldn't complain, you were the same. But it meant that the emotions that you received in response would be equally as agonising. They had their high moments, of course. Evenings the team spent together in the tower when you ate dinner, played games and watched movies were usually far more pleasant. But those were only fleeting moments. 

Bob was a breath of fresh air. He certainly wasn't the happiest person you'd ever known, especially when you first met. But because he was rather easy to please, the simplest of compliments making him practically glow, it meant that you often found yourself also feeling good around him. You tried not to take advantage of that but because he was also just kind of wonderful you found yourself enchanted by him. 

You watched him sleep, trying not to move so as not to disturb him. But he probably sensed your gaze in his slumber as it didn't take long before he stirred. He murmured something lowly as he opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through your windows, and stretched. When his eyes landed on you he offered a timid smile.

"Good morning." You whispered, propping your chin on your hand as you looked down at him.

"G'morning." His voice was gruff, even lower than it usually was.

"Did you stay all night?" You asked, suddenly realising that he was underneath the blankets. 

"Yeah, I hope that's okay." He turned on his side. "You fell asleep and I didn't want to disturb you if I left. Especially since everyone's emotions were getting to you."

You grinned at him. "You really are rather sweet, Bob."

He rolled away from you, groaning into the pillow beneath him. "Thank you."

You laughed and sat up as he did. "No, thank you. I appreciate this. It was nice of you."

"You don't need to thank me." He stood up and turned to look at you. "Do you want to go have breakfast? I hide the good cereal behind the pots and pans."

Affection spiralled through you, he was a great friend and you were so thankful to have him.

"Is that why I can never find it? You keep it hidden?" You started following him out of your room, grabbing your robe as you walked. 

"Yeah..." He let out a short giggle. "Alexei keeps finding it though so I have to keep changing the hiding spot."

You smiled at the back of his head as you followed him to the kitchen, ready to start your day feeling more well rested than you had in years. 

After a busy day spent with Bob doing chores around the tower and just hanging out, you were ready to go to bed. You were tired from the day's activities and needed some rest. But Bob could tell something was off. As each member of the team headed off to bed one by one, he watched as you slowly curled in on yourself where you were sat on the couch. It didn't take him long to realise what was wrong.

"Is it bad again?" He asked you, voice hushed to keep it between the two of you. He wasn't entirely sure how the super soldier serum worked on the three members of the team who had it, but if it was anything like what he'd experienced then he didn't want to risk their enhanced senses hearing him. 

"Mhmm." You nodded weakly, your head collapsing against the back of the couch.

Bob moved to sit next to you, debating whether his next offer would be too forward. But the pain on your face was unbearable for him to witness. You'd been so happy all day, the change around was horrible to see. "Would you like me to come to your room again?"

You looked up at him through your lashes, using the little energy you had to cling on to his emotions. "Yes, please."

"Okay." Bob nodded and stood up, angling his head in the direction of your room. "Let's go then."

It didn't take long for that to become the routine between you and Bob. Free days spent in the tower you'd stay by each other's sides and nights would consist of the two of you sharing your bed in order to sleep peacefully. Practically every second you spent in the tower would be with Bob. As well as being a soothing presence, he was also very funny and considerate. It took you about two days of hanging out one on one for you to decide that he was perfect in basically every way. You only hoped he enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his. If the emotions that radiated off of him were any indication, then he did like you. A lot. 

A new feeling had started pouring out of him, you'd noticed. One that made the back of your neck tingle and your brain feel fuzzy behind the eyes. You just couldn't quite figure out exactly what it was yet.

The rest of the team didn't fail to notice how you and Bob seemed closer. Stolen glances became a regular thing, the two of you acting as if you shared a secret. They could only watch on in somewhat confused amusement as Bob would look at you first whenever someone told a joke, to see if you were laughing, and how you had started singling out Bob by name whenever you offered to make anyone else a snack or a drink, like he was suddenly your priority. The two of you would also sit next to each other during every evening the team spent together.

They all assumed something had happened between the two of you. Just what, they didn't know. You weren't exactly acting like a couple, neither of you being flirty or touching the other anymore than usual. But the dynamic had certainly changed and was clearly developing more everyday. Whatever it was, it was clearly having a positive effect on you both. Bob seemed happier, smiling more often when you were around, and his emotions directly influenced yours, you were now a lot calmer and seemed less tense. So they just continued to observe in silence, curious to see where it would lead.

When Yelena had attempted to question Bob on it he had stuttered out that it was nothing, a clear give away that it was something. And when she'd asked you, all you had done was give her a coy smile accompanied by a shrug. She just decided to be happy for the two of you.

The thing between you and Bob was going steady for a few weeks, he'd started to open up to you more and more and you clung on to every word he decided to tell you. It was nice. But things quickly changed one night.

You'd been sleeping peacefully next to each other when you'd suddenly woken up. No clear negative emotion was travelling through you and Bob was still asleep so you assumed something else had woken you up. You listened out and heard nothing so sighed and closed your eyes in an attempt to go back to sleep. But you couldn't.

There was a tug at your lower stomach, a sudden ache further down. You shifted yourself, wondering if your position had you pressing on your organs strangely. But it didn't let up, and started getting more intense instead. And then you realised what it was. It was arousal. You were turned on. Puzzled, you flattened yourself on your back with a huff. What could possibly have you feeling like this? It was a normal night, sharing a bed with Bob with no disturbances other than the soft soundtrack of his breathing. Ever since you had started sharing a bed with him at night, you hadn't found yourself disrupted by the anxious feelings of the rest of your team. Bob's presence had been enough to soothe away the nerves and the fear and replaced it all with comfort and relaxation.

You glanced at Bob through the darkness, nothing seemed different with him. And then he made a noise. It was halfway between a content hum and a needy whimper. Your eyes widened in the dark as the pull in your tummy increased. It hit you all at once. Bob was having a sex dream and it was having an effect on you. 

You scrunched your eyes shut, willing it to go away. Not entirely sure why you were even bothering, it had never been possible to just push the feelings away, you took a shaky breath as Bob let out another sound. This one was louder, more of a whine than anything else. Your brain felt misty, you weren't convinced whether what you were feeling was all of Bob or if it was also a combination of your own arousal at the noises he was making. 

Bob was cute, you'd always thought it, but due to the circumstances through which you'd met you hadn't thought it appropriate to ever try to pursue anything. So the idea had died down and you hadn't even considered it in months. As the two of you had steadily gotten closer, you started to treasure him as a friend and nothing else. Bob was sweet, that was undeniable, and you had grown rather fond of him. And now here he was in your bed having a sex dream that was making you wet between your thighs. 

The final straw was the desperate moan that rumbled from Bob's chest and out of his mouth. You shot up in bed, switching the bedside lamp on and tapped him on the shoulder.

He didn't stir. You envied how deeply he slept.

You poked his arm, surprised when you hit solid bicep. "Bob."

He grumbled and turned his face into the pillow.

"Bob." You sighed, shaking him gently.

"Mm?" The sound was questioning but had an undertone to it that reminded you of the sounds he'd previously been making. 

"Bob, wake up." You said, louder than before. You were hoping that the feeling of being turned on would fade away as he came to but you were wrong.

As Bob's eyes slowly blinked open and landed on your face, the feeling in your core pulsed for a moment as his face turned a rosy shade of pink. 

He shuffled around until he managed to sit up next to you, looking around the room to see if there was some sort of problem. "Is something wrong?"

The sincerity in his eyes was infuriating. But only because it made your breathing go ragged as you took in his messy hair and sleepy eyes. His flushed complexion wasn't helping and you didn't fail to notice how he cautiously tugged the blanket over his lap.

You decided to be blunt with it, not being able to concentrate on anything else other than the ocean between your legs. You hadn't even known it was possible to experience the physical things the people around you were going through. You had only ever felt the emotions of others. The closest you had ever gotten to this was being able to tell when people were injured or sick - people had very distinct emotions when they were in pain. But this was a whole new thing.

"You were having a sex dream."

Bob looked away from you. "H-how... how do you know that? Did I- did I say something?"

He looked nervous, more nervous than you'd seen him in weeks, and you could feel it burning underneath the state of arousal he was still in. 

"No." You rasped, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. "I can feel it."

His head snapped in your direction, eyes going wide. "You what?"

Your chest was heaving. "I can feel it."

"What do you mean?"

You laughed lowly, unsure of how you could explain it. "I'm turned on right now because you are."

"Oh." The flush spread to his ears, his voice barely a squeak. "Sorry?"

There was a momentary ache in your chest at his apology, it was phrased like a question but his body language gave away how genuine it was. He was timid, that was for certain, and always feared he was going to do the wrong thing. Bob was scared of rejection and being abandoned. It was why he so often would tell people when he'd completed a chore or done something helpful like the laundry or the dishes. He felt the need to prove why you should all keep him around. He seemed unaware that you kept him around because you all loved him, and it wasn't conditional based on how useful he was.

You shifted towards him, hands reaching out for a second before awkwardly hovering in front of him. Maybe it wasn't the best time to be touching him. "No, no. You don't need to be sorry. At all. I just..."

Bob stared at you, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

"It's just an unusual situation. I've never felt this before."

He swallowed thickly. "You haven't? But I thought you felt everything other people felt."

You nodded. "I do. But emotions. Not physical things."

His eyes flickered up and down your body quickly. "So you're- you're more than feeling it?"

"I assume I'm experiencing the equivalent of whatever you are." You glanced at the tent in the blanket covering his lap. "Which is a physical reaction in the body."

"What you're saying is..." He didn't seem to know how to word it, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt.

"Yes, that's what I'm saying." You clenched your thighs together, being careful with your words since you didn't want to freak him out. "I woke you up so it wouldn't be awkward."

He seemed to deflate slightly, nodding in acceptance. "Awkward."

You smiled softly at him, dipping your head down to meet his eyes. "Not because of you. But because me being awake and horny next to you when you're asleep is... odd."

"No more odd than me having a sex dream in your bed." He mumbled, a small smile turning the corners of his mouth up.

A gentle giggle escaped you, glad he was easing up enough to joke. "It's not like you can choose when you have a sex dream. It's okay."

"I know. But I'm still sorry." He leaned towards you. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable."

"Bob, you could never." You mirrored him, leaning in. "I'm just wondering how we're going to solve this."

He blinked and sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"

You took a deep breath. "Well, considering I seem to be feeling whatever you are then there's a possibility that if you decide to go and... sort yourself out-" You sent a meaningful look towards his lap. "-then I will also feel it."

His eyes widened. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh." You repeated. "But I also don't want to leave either of us sexually frustrated. That's never fun. So..."

"So..." He seemed to think for a moment. "Are you suggesting that...?"

You shrugged. "Some variation."

"Variation?" Bob was full of questions, finding himself doing nothing but being confused. 

"If you don't want to actually do anything then mutual masturbation is always good."

Bob spluttered, taken aback by that answer.

"Or not." You added in, trying to determine what his real reaction was. His outward appearance seemed reluctant but your body throbbed at the prospect, which you knew reflected his feelings. That meant nothing though. If he said no then that was all that mattered. 

"No, it's-" He cut himself off, a quiet whine leaving his mouth.

You shifted, thighs clenching. "Bob, I beg of you not to make that noise."

"Sorry." He mumbled.

"If you're unsure then we can start with something slower." You suggested, easing into it.

"Like what?"

You shrugged. "Kissing."

He turned bright pink again. Affection blossomed through your chest, he was so sweet. As shy as he was, you could see the sudden sparkle in his eyes at the idea of kissing you. It made you curious about something, something you'd been suspecting since he had first woken up.

"Bob? Who were you dreaming about?" You asked and watched him grapple for an answer that seemed to evade him. "Was it about me?"

He paused his search for reasoning, turning to look at you slowly before nodding. "Yeah."

You smiled. "I'm flattered."

He rolled his eyes, almost self deprecatingly. "Yeah, okay."

You frowned. "If I wasn't flattered then I'd kick you out of this room for being a creep. But I'm not doing that, am I? No. I'm waiting for you to make a decision. Either you stay and we make out. Or you leave and I hump a pillow."

His jaw dropped open, drawing your eyes to his lips.

"Up to you, Bob." You scooted closer to him, dropping your voice down low. "I'm waiting."

Before he could respond, you flinched. Your body recoiled from the door and towards the headboard.

"What's wrong?" Bob sounded panicked.

"Someone's having a nightmare. A bad one." You groaned. "It's a weird sensation feeling their anxiety whilst also being turned on."

Bob only looked at you for a second. "Will I make it better?"

You smiled at him, thankful he'd finally seemed to have caught on to the fact that he was the only thing that managed to soothe you. "You always make me better."

He softened, whole body relaxing as his face turned red with a different emotion. That's when he seemed to make up his mind, shuffling down so he was laying down again next to you and patting the spot directly in front of him. "Turn the light off."

"You sure?" You asked, already reaching for the lamp.

He nodded, sucking in a sharp breath as you settled down in front of him. You were suddenly face to face, but only for a moment as the next second the light was off and you were plunged into darkness again.

"Bob?"

"Yeah?"

"You're cute when you blush." You eased out a hand, gently cupping his cheek.

His own hand inched towards you under the blankets, fingertips grazing the fabric of your shirt. "I think you're the only person who thinks that."

"I find that unlikely. But if so then I'm happy to keep telling you."

"You're only saying that because you're turned on." He chuckled breathlessly. "Trying to get into my pants."

"Do I have to try?"

"No." His nose nudged against yours, steadily get closer and closer but not quite closing the gap.

You realised you were going to have to take that step. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

Bob was breathless before your lips met his, so when the collision finally happened it felt as if all oxygen had left him. But that didn't matter. He didn't need oxygen. All he needed was you.

You were gentle at first, testing the waters. But it only took about two seconds before Bob whined, the sound pulsing through you, so your mouth opened up like you'd lost control and your tongue swiped across his lips, teasing him. Bob's hands knotted into the front of your shirt, pulling you closer to him. His tongue curled against yours, a whimper leaving him.

You smiled into the kiss, thumb swiping over his cheek to keep it soft. You were overcome with lust but wanted the same mood that had floated between you and Bob up until this point. It didn't need to turn aggressive in any way now that you were taking it a step further. 

The hem of your shirt cut into your back as Bob's grip on it tightened, his feet pressing into yours so the two of you started playing footsie as you kissed. Bob tasted sweet, you noted, probably about as sweet as he was in general. You suckled his bottom lip into your mouth, revelling in the moan he let out. You pushed yourself closer to him, nose cramming against his cheek as his hair tickled your forehead. 

You pulled away from him to catch your breath, planting a quick kiss on his lips as he chased you. "Hm, slow down. We have time."

"Wanted this for so long." He admitted in the haze of passion that was swimming around the two of you.

The confession surprised you. "Oh, yeah?"

He backed up a little to look at you in the darkness as he gave an affirmative hum. That's when you felt it. The tingle on the back of your neck and the fuzziness behind your eyes. 

"What is that?" You asked, moving your face closer to him to get a better feel for it.

"What's what?" He sounded genuinely confused, voice kind as he asked.

"This new thing you keep feeling? Like a tingle on the back of the neck and a fuzz behind the eyes. What is it? I've never felt it before." 

The intensity you were looking at him with was amusing to Bob, how you seemed so unaware when usually it would be the other way around with the two of you. He knew exactly what you were referring to.

So he only smiled as he told you. "It's the feeling I get when I'm close to you."

Your breath got caught in your throat, eyes searching his in the dark to see how genuine he was being. When you detected nothing but honesty in his face, you dove forward and kissed him again. Despite your initial desire to keep it as relaxed as possible, you couldn't help the sudden craving you had for him. It was raw and primal, a yearning feeling.

Bob's pelvis rutted into yours, a reminder of the thing that got you into this position to begin with. He was still painfully hard and, based on the way you were feeling, that wasn't going to change any time soon. Your teeth and tongues clashed over and over, Bob making happy little noises at every press of your lips. He was insatiable, chasing you every time you decided the two of you needed to breathe. But he didn't seem to have the confidence to touch you anymore, not going any further than the vise like grip he still had on your shirt.

So you decided to make the move again. "Can I touch you?"

He nodded rapidly, his voice desperate. "Please."

The mewl of his voice was intoxicating, giving you permission to let your hand drift down the front of his torso. His abdomen was solid underneath his shirt but, as tempting as it was, you had another destination in mind. When you hit the waistband of his pants you paused, fingers toying with the strings that kept them fastened.

"Are you sure?" You asked, double checking that he was positive he wanted to take it this far.

He barely pulled away from your lips to answer. "Yes, I'm sure."

That was all you needed. You pulled on the string, undoing it, and let your hand slide into the front of his pants. You didn't have the patience to start with any over the clothes touching. Bob's size was somewhat surprising, he was big, which meant that your hand met the velvety skin of his cock pretty much as soon as you'd breached the waistline of his pants. He whimpered into your mouth at the feeling of the silky skin of your palm. 

He was keen, his body reacting immediately with a buck of his hips into your fist. You started with a slow pace, moving your hand up and down carefully to get a rhythm going. His precum worked well as a natural lubricant, making both your skin and his slick. It was only a reminder of the wetness between your own legs. But that thought escaped you pretty quickly when Bob continued to make pretty little sounds into your mouth. He throbbed in your hand, pace of his thrusts increasing when you tightened your grip. 

You kept kissing him, shivering as the feeling of his arousal travelled through you as well. An overwhelming curiosity was plaguing you as you wondered whether you'd feel it when he eventually came. That became less important when Bob's hands finally untangled from your shirt and one of them crept up the plains of your torso to start groping your chest through your shirt. You moaned into his mouth, hand momentarily stilling in place. That didn't last long when he whined into your mouth, a mumble begging for more leaving him.

Your fist pumped his cock harder and faster, drawing him closer and closer to orgasm.

"Come on, pretty boy. I know you're close."

He whimpered at the name you'd given him, the fact that he liked praise was something you quickly noted in your head. Bob kissed you harder, the desperation for closeness evident.

It didn't take much longer before he started twitching in your hand, hot ropes of cum spurting out of him and landing on the sheets between you. You pumped him a few more times, milking him for everything he was worth. A train of whimpers and moans tumbled out of mouth, filling the space between you, as his eyes scrunched shut with pleasure. You kissed him through it, wanting to keep him close as you were feeling his orgasm yourself. The feeling rocketed through you, a sense of ecstasy as it poured out of Bob and into you. Your prediction was right, you did indeed feel it when he did. This was a new development to your gift that had you curious. 

Once he'd calmed down from the high, Bob's eyes blinked open again as he looked at you. "I'm- I'm sorry."

You frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I- and you didn't-" He cut himself off, distressed. "I thought we were going to-"

You eyed the mess on the sheets between you. "Believe me, what just happened is not an issue."

"Are you still... feeling it?"

"Kind of. Less so now that you've come. But I'm still horny. Especially after that." You sighed. "Can we keep kissing?"

Bob wasn't sure why you'd even asked. It wasn't like there was any scenario where he'd say no to that. So he nodded at you, assuming that your eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see him. He was right. You manoeuvred yourself over the mess on the sheets and hovered yourself over him.

He looked up at you, the sparkle from before twinkling in his eyes. He finally allowed himself to touch you, not realising that he'd groped you in the heat of the moment before, and placed his hands on your hips before letting them skate up your waist, then your rib cage, before going over your shoulders and letting them land on either side of your face. Then he pulled you down to kiss him. 

You weren't sure how long that went on for exactly, only really aware of anything other than Bob existing when he'd asked whether you wanted to change your bed sheets. You'd only told him it could wait until the morning and that the two of you would just have to stick to his side of the bed. At some point his hands had drifted below your waistline, drawing your own orgasm from you. It surprised you how adept he was at it, but you figured he had a past long before you'd even met him. 

What surprised you both was Bob had moaned as you did, blinking in shock as you came.

"I felt that." He stated, mouth hanging open.

"What do you mean?" You asked, still breathless from the orgasm. 

"I felt that." He repeated.

A frown wrinkled your brows. "You mean... like how I feel things?"

"I think so."

That was another thing that had never happened until Bob.

"I didn't know that was possible." You thought about it for a second before shrugging. "Another thing for tomorrow."

And then you kept kissing him. That went on for a while until the two of you grew sleepy, eventually drifting off in each other's arms.

When you woke up the next morning you found yourself intertwined with Bob, limbs tangled together. You hummed happily and snuggled closer to him. 

"G'morning." He grumbled into your ear.

You smiled at the sound of his voice and turned your head to look at him. "Good morning. You're awake before me."

"Shocking, I know." He huffed, hand stroking up and down the length of your arm.

"What's the time?"

"A little after nine."

Your eyes widened and you shot out of bed, scrambling to find your robe. "Shit, it's late."

Bob followed you out of bed, feeling bad that he'd let you sleep in. But you had just looked so peaceful. "Sorry, I should've woken you."

"No, don't apologise." You beamed at him. "Shouldn't apologise for the way I slept."

He watched you slide a pair of socks on. "How'd you sleep?"

"Good." You grinned. "The best. You?"

"Good too."

You huffed. "You always sleep good."

There was a moment of silence before Bob seemed to decide what he was going to say.

"Do you want to know why I sleep so easily?"

You nodded, always just figuring the amnesia that came with what happened to him meant that he just didn't have bad dreams. 

"Because I dream about you." He confessed quietly. "Even when I'm not having sex dreams."

Your shoulders hunched as your skin prickled with the burn of self-consciousness. There was no way he was telling the truth. "Really?"

"I spend my days thinking about you and my nights dreaming about you." He chuckled shakily. "Even though we spend every second of every day together, I can think of nothing but you. It consumes me. You consume me."

Tears welled in your eyes. "For how long?"

"For as long as I've known you pretty much." He shrugged. "It's been very difficult sleeping next to you for these past few weeks and not telling you."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you needed me to sleep. And I was scared that you didn't feel the same way so you'd- you'd push me away and go back to restless nights." His hands started wringing together, a telltale sign of his nerves.

You choked out a teary laugh. "How could you ever think I didn't feel the same? Why do you think I spend so much time with you? Why I can't sleep unless I'm next to you?"

"My emotions calm you."

You shook your head. "You make me calm. There's something about you. There always has been. You make me feel things that nobody else ever has. I've experienced new emotions with you. As well as more feelings."

He smiled at the reference to what the two of you had done the night before. "So, what now?"

"What now?" You chortled as you repeated his words back to him. "Now you kiss me and we never stop."

Bob didn't need to be told twice.

The team noticed the moment the switch in yours and Bob's relationship flipped. All it took was one simple gesture. The group of you had been in the kitchen together, chatting about nothing in particular and Bob had been looking at you with a gooey look in his eyes as usual. But then you'd reached up, brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes. 

They all knew then that you'd finally taken the step towards being officially more than friends. None of them pointed it out, exchanging nothing but pleased looks with each other and enjoying the fact that neither you nor Bob seemed to be aware that the rest of them now all knew about the two of you. They weren't entirely sure that either of you cared if they knew.

And when later that evening you rested your head on Bob's shoulder during movie night, and he not very subtly grabbed your hand, they realised that the two of you definitely didn't care if they knew. You only seemed to care about each other in that moment.

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The forest was silent. Too silent. Xavier felt it in his bones before the emergency signal even reached his com-device. His muscles tensed, lowering his sword as the vibration against his wrist sent ice through his veins.

He abandoned the trail immediately, feet pounding against the earth as he raced back to the location informed about the injured hunters. His knuckles whitened as they dug into the skin of his palm until it almost bled. Despite never doubting your abilities for a moment, he was consumed by a desperate wish that he had been there to prevent this from happening.

When he finally reached the hospital, the fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across his face. The sight of you, broken and bloodied on the stretcher, caused something to fracture inside him. He stood paralyzed in the doorway, watching as medics rushed around your unconscious form, their voices fading to white noise.

“Hunter down, multiple lacerations, possible internal bleeding...”

One step. Two. He was beside your bed now, his hand hovering inches from yours, afraid that his touch might somehow hurt you more. A nurse tried to usher him away, but the look in his eyes made her step back. He was trying so hard to pull himself together, but the facade was crumbling.

“I’m staying,” he said simply, the words leaving no room for argument.

Days passed in a sterile blur. Xavier didn’t move from the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. He didn’t eat. There was a day when he slept like he was dead, with your hand clutched tight in his to feel your pulse. He’d just watched your chest rise and fall, as if his vigilance alone could keep you tethered to this world.

When your squad members came to visit, they brought news—the mission area had been mysteriously cleared out. No Wanderers remained. Not one. The cleanup had been thorough, leaving no traces behind. Nobody had seen who did it.

One of your colleagues shifted uncomfortably under Xavier’s gaze. “Strangest thing. Like they vanished overnight. Even the nest we couldn’t breach was empty.”

Xavier simply nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

When the doctor suggested he get some rest, Xavier simply shook his head, eyes never leaving your face. He wouldn’t leave your side until he was completely assured that you were going to be okay.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, the words meant only for you despite your unconscious state. “I’ll always be here.”

Only when you stirred slightly, days later, did something change in his expression—a softening around the eyes, the faintest tremor in his steady hands. He leaned forward, close enough that only you could hear the whisper.

“I will always find you. Always.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The operating room doors burst open as another trauma case rolled in. Zayne was mid-consultation when his pager buzzed with the emergency code. Standard procedure—until he glimpsed your face beneath the oxygen mask. Despite his professional exterior, panic was building inside him like a storm, threatening to break through his carefully maintained composure.

His clipboard clattered to the floor. “Get Doctor Dean,” he ordered sharply, already moving toward the gurney. “I know this patient.”

“Sir, protocol states—” the resident began.

“Get. Doctor. Dean.” His voice cut like a scalpel. The young doctor scrambled away as Zayne reached for your hand, his practiced fingers automatically finding your pulse.

“BP dropping, multiple trauma, suspected hemorrhage,” the paramedic rattled off. “Combat injury, ambush scenario.”

Zayne’s mind raced. As a former combat medic who’d seen countless injuries, he’d treated soldiers under artillery fire, but this—this was different. This was personal. Seeing your blood soaking through the bandages twisted his insides in ways combat never had.

“Doctor Zayne, you need to step back,” Doctor Dean said firmly, already moving to intercept him. “You know protocol.”

“I’m her physician,” Zayne countered, his voice tight as he tried to get closer.

Doctor Dean blocked his path. “Your emotions will compromise your judgment. We’ve got her.”

Zayne’s fists clenched at his sides as they wheeled you toward the operating room. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to take control, to fix you himself. Instead, he was forced to watch through the observation window, a spectator to your fight for survival, his mind a whirlwind of unbridled fear.

Hours passed like years. His colleagues offered coffee, suggested he rest. He didn’t respond. His eyes never left the monitors displaying your vital signs, gripping the observation window’s edge so tightly his knuckles turned white.

In your recovery room, Zayne sat perfectly still, your hand clasped between both of his. His thumbs pressed against your wrist, monitoring your pulse as if the machines couldn’t be trusted. Others who passed by the room hardly recognized the distinguished cardiac surgeon in the haggard man who refused to leave your side.

Yvonne entered to adjust your IV, giving Zayne a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Doctor Zayne, you should get some rest.”

“I’ll sleep when she wakes up,” he replied without looking up, his professional demeanor completely abandoned.

When your eyelids finally fluttered open, his composure cracked just enough for you to see the storm that had been raging beneath.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered hoarsely, “ever scare me like that again.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The gallery was packed for Rafayel’s showcase, champagne flowing as critics and collectors mingled among his latest masterpieces. Thomas beamed at the turnout, already calculating the evening’s profits.

Then Rafayel’s phone rang.

The transformation was instant. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by an expression Thomas had never seen before—horror and fear combined. All thoughts of the gallery, the collectors, his artwork—everything disappeared in an instant.

The champagne flute shattered on the marble floor. Rafayel was already moving, shoving through the crowd without a word of explanation.

“Rafayel! Where are you—the collector from Rome is waiting to meet you!” Thomas called after him, but Rafayel was already gone, racing down the steps two at a time, car keys in hand.

The sports car’s tires screeched against the asphalt as he tore through traffic lights, honking frantically at slower vehicles, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. When another driver cut him off, Rafayel slammed his fist against the horn, a string of curses falling from his lips. His hands shook violently on the steering wheel, heart racing faster than the car.

“Move!” he screamed, swerving dangerously into the next lane. “Get out of my way!”

The hospital parking lot wasn’t meant for the kind of turn he attempted. The car scraped against a concrete pillar, but Rafayel didn’t spare it a second glance as he abandoned it half in a disabled spot, keys still in the ignition..

At the reception desk, his hands trembled so violently he could barely hold your ID card. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice cracking. “Please, I need to see her now.”

When they finally led him to your room, Rafayel froze in the doorway. Tubes and wires connected you to machines that beeped rhythmically, monitoring the life still flickering within you. Your skin was ashen, eyes closed, chest barely rising with each shallow breath.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, approaching slowly as if afraid you might shatter. He sank into the chair beside your bed, taking your limp hand between his. “Cutie, please. Can you hear me?”

A nurse offered him a blanket as night fell, but Rafayel shook his head. Hours passed. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. There would be no painting, no eating, no sleeping—nothing until you were stable.

When his phone rang—Thomas, undoubtedly—he silenced it without looking.

As dawn broke, a doctor found him still awake, your hand pressed to his lips, whispering promises only you could hear.

“She’s stabilizing,” the doctor said gently. “But recovery will take time.”

Rafayel simply nodded, eyes never leaving your face. “Time is all I have to give.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The notification from Mephisto came during a crucial meeting with the N109 Zone’s security council. The mechanical crow landed urgently on his shoulder, displaying the screen that showed what had just happened. Usually, Mephisto watched over your missions, keeping Sylus informed, but this time—something had gone terribly wrong.

He stopped speaking so abruptly that everyone at the table turned to stare. The blood drained from his face as the footage streamed directly to his personal display—you, surrounded and overwhelmed, fighting until you couldn’t anymore.

“Boss?” one of them ventured. “Should we continue with—”

“Meeting adjourned,” Sylus declared, already on his feet. “Indefinitely.”

No further explanation. No delegation of responsibilities. The council exchanged bewildered glances as the leader strode from the room, his coat billowing behind him, a storm of fury and fear brewing beneath his composed exterior.

Minutes later, the distinctive roar of his motorcycle echoed through the compound as he tore toward Linkon City, weaving through traffic at speeds that turned the world around him into a blur. The only clear thought in his mind was reaching you.

When he arrived at the emergency ward you were in, no one dared question why this person with an imposing, dangerous aura was storming through their halls.

The doctor who approached him looked nervous when Sylus started to ask questions, not bothering to mention who he was. “Mister, she’s lost a significant amount of blood. We’ve managed to stabilize her, but—”

“Show me,” Sylus commanded.

Your room was silent save for the mechanical beeping of monitors. Sylus stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of you lying motionless, bandages covering much of your visible skin, an oxygen mask obscuring half your face.

Without a word, he pulled a chair to your bedside and sat, taking your hand in his.

“I need the names,” he said to the empty room, calling either Luke or Kieran. “Everyone involved. Every detail. Now.” Whether it was Wanderers or some shady people who did this, he would eliminate them all, leaving no traces behind.

As night fell, he remained at your side, one hand holding yours while the other tapped commands into his device, as he kept tapping his feet from either impatience or anxiousness. He wouldn’t let himself breathe peacefully until he knew you were okay.

Only when you stirred slightly, a small sound of pain escaping your lips, did his facade crack. He leaned forward, brushing hair from your forehead with such gentleness.

“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll handle everything else.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

Caleb’s comm device blared the emergency alert in his office—a sound it was programmed to make for only one person’s vitals. The color drained from his face as he stared at the readout, the severity of your condition displayed in harsh red numbers.

Nothing else mattered. Not Skyhaven, not his duties, not anything except reaching you.

The hangar technicians scrambled as he approached, his expression sending them into immediate action. “Prepare my craft for immediate departure,” he ordered, already climbing into the cockpit.

“Sir, the preflight checks—”

“Now!” The word echoed through the hangar, silencing all objections.

The journey that should have taken hours was compressed into a white-knuckled descent that violated at least six safety protocols. As the craft touched down on the hospital’s landing pad, security personnel rushed forward, only to stop short when they recognized the Colonel’s insignia.

“Where is she?” he demanded of the first orderly he encountered inside, frantically searching for you.

His uniform opened doors that would have remained closed to others. When he reached the ICU, the attending physician intercepted him, datapad in hand.

“Colonel, she’s sustained significant trauma. We’ve induced a coma to manage the—”

“Take me to her.” It wasn’t a request.

The sight of you connected to life support sent a visible tremor through his body. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever imagined.

“I should have been there,” he whispered, sinking into the chair beside you. His fingers brushed against yours, then curled around your hand. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

His mind was already calculating retribution. Whoever had done this—be it Wanderers or other enemies—they will pay for this.

Days passed. Nurses came and went. Messages from Skyhaven accumulated, unanswered. Caleb remained unmoved, his thumb tracing circles on your palm as if trying to coax you back to consciousness through touch alone. 

“Colonel, you should rest,” she suggested gently.

“I’m fine,” he responded, voice hoarse from disuse.

When you finally began to stir days later, Caleb was there, his face the first thing you saw as consciousness returned. Relief washed over his features as he pressed his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking with silent relief.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Behind his smile, the knowledge that those responsible had already answered for their actions. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, you were awake, and nothing else mattered.

Another draft out. Also based on this request.

[ruinix]

Thinking about dad!quinn who’s perfect not only with the newborn baby, but also with mama and he looks smoking hot walking out the hospital-💕

Hey there, lovely. Little confession, sometimes I just stare at my ceiling and think of Quinn and his future kiddos. He'll be such a great dad. I know it. I am a 100% believer of him being the best dad in the future. Do note that I have no idea how delivery rooms are...I've never been pregnant (thank goodness, i am not ready). This one ended up having a little bonus in your POV. As usual, you can skip it if you don't wanna read it... :> I hope you'll like this. 🥺🧎🏻‍♀️

His Little Princess

TW/CW: None, Fluff, a bit suggestive tones. Pregnancy and birthing (Pregnant!reader; mentions of cravings, pain during labor, epidural), Quinn being a fussy partner and dad

Count: 3889 words (+ 942) | Masterlist

You press a kiss on Quinn’s cheek, making him instantly turn towards you, his hands wrapping around you, so he can kiss you fully on the lips. Not so subtly, he runs his hands over the swell of your belly. His heart flutters in his chest.

“40 weeks, my Love,” he giddily reminds you, rubbing his nose against yours.

“Any time now,” you replied with a giggle. “Just going to sit on my ball.”

Without a word, Quinn escorts you to your yoga ball, his head filling up with worry at the sight of your waddle. He’s always concerned with how your center of gravity has shifted, with how your legs are probably aching, but he won’t dare try to touch you if you’re going to sit on it. You made it perfectly clear that you need your space when you’re doing that, especially when you caught him basically drooling over how you ass looked.

“You want something?” Quinn asks while you settle. “Apples?”

“Yes, please.” You nod happily. “No skin?”

“Anything for you, my Love.” He kisses your head before he turns to prepare apples.

Taking one from the fridge, from the fruit drawer that was brimming with Honey crisp apples, the one you have craved constantly throughout the pregnancy, which are perfectly red with splotches of yellow and green, he easily skins it. He never really knew how to do that before. He would always get huge chunks of apple flesh with the skin, but now, he can remove the skin in a continuous spiral.

“Can you give me a few slices with a bit of skin, Quinny?” you ask loudly as you turn on the TV to watch your show.

“How many?” He asks, finishing the first apple, slicing it into six.

“Just a few.”

Your vague answers don’t faze Quinn anymore. They never do. Before and during this pregnancy. But the way your ass moves right now though, it makes him gulp, secretly praying that you might ask him to help you get the baby out faster. That help meaning you and him gently fucking you, but you’re not. He can only sigh and swallow his horny thoughts.

It only leads to him getting worried and jittery. The baby might come any moment now. The problem is Quinn has always been so jittery all throughout your pregnancy. He tried—still trying—to appear so put together and calm. He must or else he will lose it in a frenzy of nerves. You don’t deserve him crashing out ever. Not when you’ve done so much carrying your—and his—child.

Catching you smoothen your hands over your tummy, he finishes up with your apples. He quickly places it on the table near you, then he softly runs a hand over your stomach, his cheeks burning when you press your hand over his, his soul lurching when the baby kicked right against his palm, his alarm ringing when he sees your wince after another kick.

“She says, hi,” you say in a tight voice.

“Are you okay?” He asks, kneeling on the floor, holding himself back from taking his hand away because you are clenching his fingers tightly. He watches you take deep breaths.

“It was a strong kick,” you sigh. “I’m fine.”

He cannot be contained. He is panicking. The baby kicking so hard had made you sore so many times, yet he cannot get used to it. He hates seeing you in pain.

 Slowly he leans down, pressing a kiss right where he felt the kick. He says, “Take it easy on mommy, Princess.” He kisses again, feeling a softer push just below. “That’s it. Gentle, sweetie.”

“She always listens to you,” you softly say, your eyes shining with tears. “Oh, Quinn, I wanna see her already.”

He reaches up, swiping the tears that fell with his thumbs, then he kisses your cheeks, over the tear tracks, on your lips. He already knows that you’re worrying about your little one “getting stuck” or past due, about pushing her out, about little fingers or toes missing because it’s possible. Anything’s possible and that worries you. It also worries Quinn. So much.

“Me too, my Love. She’s going to be fine,” he eases you. “She’ll be pretty and perfect.”

“What if—”

Quinn cuts you off with a small peck on the lips. “It will be okay. No matter what. She’ll be perfect.”

“Promise?” You stare at him with wide eyes.

“Yes. I promise.” He nods, offering you a slice of apple. The worry in your eyes dissipates as you accept it. “Scoot over so I can watch too.”

You grin, expertly maneuvering yourself, while he settles on the couch. He tries to watch the show, but nerves are bubbling up his throat. Something just feels off. Still, as usual, he settles, reminding himself that it would be okay. He keeps looking at you to ground himself. You look so peaceful while you watch the show and munch on your apple, taking little sips of your well-decorated water bottle.

Right now, you can easily get spooked, so Quinn keeps his worries to himself. Although, all he wants to do is hover over you, make sure you’re all safe and comfortable like he always did throughout the pregnancy. 

He does his best, because it’s what you deserve. Every craving you ask for—no matter how late you suddenly craved it, no matter how tired he was—is provided. The only thing he asked for was to press his ears and hands against your belly, to feel the little baby inside, even when she was still so small. When he was on the road, he would use Uber to get them for you or bribe your friends and his to deliver exactly what you wanted.

He wonders now if you need a massage. He loved doing that. Your feet. Your ankles. Your legs. Your back. Even your breasts. They’re always so tender. He makes sure to press kisses on your skin, right where you’re aching, muttering his apologies, and praises and compliments about how strong and amazing you are. Because you are.

His eyes follow your feet that are planted on the floor. You’re wearing the grippy socks that you bought online with cute bears on them. The sight of them makes him feel giddy. You have quite the selection of socks now. He always inspects them when he kneels and helps you into your shoes, doing your laces or straps. Sometimes he will mentally curse at the shoehorn that you purchased—technically it’s for both of you but he rarely uses it—while he also thanks its existence because it helps you whenever he’s not home.

The number of times you two went out shopping. He can still feel his excitement from those sprees. He took it upon himself to listen and be attentive to the quality of everything. Durability. Longevity. Comfort. He had taken out his phone as soon as the shop clerk finished explaining the features to look up reviews on YouTube or TikTok. Thank fuck for those apps. Nothing had hopefully escaped him. He would be so critical until you told him what you wanted with the reason being “just because”. Quinn gladly agreed—still will today—and bought whatever it is.

When it comes to clothes, he still feels mushy at the memory of the little pajamas, dresses, onesies, mittens, socks, bibs, and beanies. They’re all so fucking cute. Plus, the way you smiled while you were looking at them got him falling for you again and again. You just looked so at ease, so excited, so happy. He is happy too.

When you two shopped for maternity clothes, all the help he could do was to hold everything you chose and wait while you fit them all. Everything is so amazing on you. For every outfit, he felt his knees grew so fucking weak that he had to sit down, gazing at you with hearts for eyes, his chest squeezing at the mere sight of your beauty and at the sight of your tummy being showcased by the clothes. Every time you two came home, he would be severely attached to you. He cried his eyes out while he hugged you so tightly. He can’t help himself. He just loves you so much and you are carrying his child. Even now, you are wearing leggings and a flowery shirt that cinches under your breasts and flares like a dress. You are so effortlessly beautiful and hot.

When you stand up to get something from the kitchen, his eyes follow you. He wants to come up behind you and take all your weight with his big hands securely lifting your belly. He’s done it so many times after he saw it in TikTok and he will do it again. However, he just ends up staring at you from the couch, truly mesmerized. He always is.

Back to that app, it really helped him a lot. There are lots of mothers there that shared their experiences—in addition to the help he received from his Mom—which helped him prepare the hospital bags for you and the baby. Those bags are already in the car, waiting for the big day. On top of all that, he also finished stocking the nursery just a week ago.

Quinn is proud that he did his diligent research. Maybe, a tad too diligent, because when he offered you his servitude for your perineal massage—which he had heard about after he went into deep, deep scrolling through natural birth—he confused you so much. It was understandable because what the fuck is a perineal, right?

You thought Quinn was being fucking horny—which he is always. But then, after a lengthy doctor’s appointment, it was explained and suggested since you were in your 34th week. He wasn’t blind that you got embarrassed for not believing him and clearly you were expecting him to gloat. He didn’t. Why would he? It would’ve hurt you and him. So he said the same words he had said before when he was still suggesting it, “I will help you.”

The waterworks that day were long. He didn’t let go of you until your tears were dried, until you two fell asleep instead of starting the massage. You spent the whole next day trying to do the massage without you laughing at Quinn’s look of focus.

“I need to pee,” your voice breaks him out of his daydreaming.

“Do you need help?” He’s already standing when you shake your head. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. You laugh, making your cheeks flush. “You are so silly, Quinn.”

He watches you disappear in the hallway. His hands start to shake from the nerves. He needs a clear view of you. The need to stand outside the bathroom and wait for you is making him jumpy. He tries to settle himself, rubbing a hand over his chest, sitting down then standing back up again. He starts to pace. It really, really, really feels like something is off.

Minutes pass.

The feeling just expands and expands, festering the longer he doesn’t see you.

He needs—

Then he hears you call his name.

Quinn never ran so fast.

“What? What is it?” Quinn asks, opening the door so quickly. He finds you sitting on the toilet. Your eyes are so wide. Your calmness is the only thing that’s keeping him from losing it because for some reason, he knows. “What is it?”

“I thought I peed myself…but my water broke.” You carefully stand. “I want to change first.”

“Okay,” he nods.

He quickly supports you. He’s trying his best not to panic, but his hands are shaking as he helps you out of your clothes, into a new dress, into sandals. He’s dissociating. Everything is blurring and the only thing keeping him afloat is the feel of your hands gripping his. He can barely function as he does your seatbelt. He tries to calm down, but he is fraying, panting as he falls to his knees with his eyesight blurring.

“The stuff.” He grips your hand. “I need to get our—”

“Quinn,” you firmly say. Your other hand finding his cheek, urging him to look at you. He does. “You’ve prepared this car weeks ago. The bags are in the trunk. Get it together, Q.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out. He finally gets the strength to stand. “We need to hurry.”

He rounds the car, only to realize he doesn’t have his fucking key. He nearly bolts until your hand rests on his shoulder.

Softly and unhurriedly, you give him the car keys. “We have precious cargo, Q. Please drive safely,” you say, giving him a nod.

“I will.”

The car ride to the hospital is quick. Quinn takes that time to calm down, to ground himself. He manages that, not losing his head when your contractions started halfway through the ride. He didn’t spiral then. He has collected and tucked his frayed edges. He manages to get you safe in the hospital and now both of you are in a labor room with the bags stored on the couch.

He’s on you, gripping your hands when you let out a pained groan. He listens to the labor nurses, gulping down the panic that still tries to come up, because he will not stress you over him again. You are going through so much. You need him whole. And he is.

He attentively watches the doctor check the baby through an ultrasound, sighing in relief that the little princess is still in prime position and your cervix is slowly dilating. No C-section is needed. Just like what you wanted, but the contractions are truly getting to you. Every groan and moan of pain, every squeeze of his hand, every sob is getting to him. His heart squeezes in a painful way. Even more so, when your labor progresses, which means the interval of contractions is more frequent.

"It hurts, Quinn. Hurts,” you cry out, breaking his heart. "I need something. I can't. Make it stop."

You don’t need to tell him twice. He shouts for a nurse to get the forms. He understands that you’re asking for an epidural and you’ll get it. Whatever you need he’ll give it to you. As the nurse explains the consent forms, you grip his arms tightly, sitting up. He helps you change your position, on your knees and the headboard. The nurse sets up a bar for you to grip. 

“You’ll be okay, mama,” the nurse eases, tucking the forms into her arms, stepping out.

Quinn almost yells for them to hurry the fuck up, but the anesthesiologist appears to administer it. The yelp coming from you makes him twitch. He almost punches the specialist who explains it will work in ten-to-twenty minutes. Why the fuck not immediately? He wants to demand that. He just needs you not be in pain.

“I’m here, my Love,” he whispers, kissing your temples as you sag against him. He wipes your sweat with a soft towel. “You are doing amazing.”

“How are you so calm? You were panicking an hour ago,” you hiss, groaning as another contraction run through you.

Quinn isn’t calm now. He’s losing his shit. He worries about you. He worries about the little one. An hour. It has been an hour. He doesn’t know if that’s normal. He wants to search it up, but he doesn’t want you to see him fucking fumble with his phone when you’re doubling in pain. He wants to ask the nurse, but he doesn’t want to leave you. He wants to call his parents who are on their way to Vancouver and his brothers who are still in New Jersey.

He may have tucked away his frayed edges, but they are still unravelling. He is unravelling. Inwardly. He can’t tell you about it. So, he presses soft kisses on your shoulders when you shift to lay down.

“No words, Q?” You sigh in relief, your grip on him loosening. “It’s working. I think.”

“Yeah?” he asks. You nod, blinking at him. He knows you’re still waiting for his answer while he wipes away your sweat. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I don’t want more kids in the future?” You blurt out just as a nurse walks in. The nurse clears her throat, doing her business of checking your status. Your attention burns into his soul. “Q?”

“I’ll get a vasectomy,” he says in a low tone, clearly aware of another person’s attention. The nurse is a bit…nosy. Why is she not going away? What the fuck.

“What?” you ask, looking so confused.

“I mean it. You hated your birth control so you will not be going back to that.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “If you don’t want more kids, then I don’t too.”

Ever since he met you, whatever makes you happy makes him happy. Genuinely. He is so attuned to you. Everything he does is for you. He needs you to be happy and be you. That’s all he wants. All he needs. Because you breathe life into him now. His heart beats inside yours. You’ve taken it from him since before you married, since before you accepted him as your boyfriend, since before you met each other.

Quinn doesn’t want to take his heart back.

It will be yours.

Forever.

Until you two grow old.

Until you two find each other in the next life.

“I mean it. Just tell me what you want. I’ll make it happen.” Quinn grips your hand. He leans for a kiss but stops when the nurse stands up.

“You two are so sweet, but you’re crowning now, mama,” the nurse announces.

Maybe Quinn spoke too soon. He is spiraling. The obstetrician and labor nurses come in. He’s helped into a hospital gown and a hair cap over his head. His ears are ringing as he holds your hand. He can’t focus on what’s happening. He’s just there. His lips are moving and whispering encouragement into your ear, but he’s gone.

Gone until loud cries break him out of the haze.

The little princess—his and yours—is so small as they bring her to your chest. Quinn’s heart tumbles at the sight of you cooing and welcoming her. Such a little one who is still wet yet so incredibly red, crying her eyes out, showing off her strong lungs. His eyes fill up with tears because she is so beautiful like you.

“You’re amazing,” Quinn sobs, kissing your head, kissing a soft peck on your lips. “I love you so much, my Love. You did it. You are so strong.”

“Oh, Quinn,” you sniffle. “She got all her fingers and toes.”

She does. Now you don’t need to worry. He doesn’t need to worry.

“Look at her ears. They’re so hairy.”

“Hairy? Just a bit fuzzy,” he thinks, gazing at his daughter’s ears. He can’t help but look between you and the baby. He can’t even hear the doctor announcing that you will be delivering your placenta next. He’s cataloging your shared features. “Nose. Definitely your nose. Your lips.”

While she also has your smile? Quinn hopes she does. You have the prettiest smile.

“She got a little birthmark behind her ear,” he says out loud. You and one of the nurses look. It’s the slightest birthmark. Just two shades darker than the baby’s complexion. It’s almost like…

“It’s like a little heart,” the nurse remarks.

Quinn nods. His heart almost melts when his little one finally stops crying, getting more at ease with the world. He quickly starts snapping some photos, smiling when you grin so proudly. You should be proud.

He almost jumps when it’s his turn for a skin-to-skin contact. He nearly vibrates as he made to sit down after you deliver your placenta and the baby is brought against this chest.

It finally clicks in his head how small his baby is. He can cover her whole back with his hand. When he reaches for the curled-up fist, he chokes at how little her fingers are.

Then those fingers just open and clasp around his pinky.

Immediately, he looks towards you. His tears fall in heaps. He can barely see you as he feels the soft steady breaths of the baby, her heart beating quite fast. Is it supposed to be this fast? He doesn’t fucking know. Maybe it’s just his heart? No. It’s not. His little baby’s heart. Oh, so precious.

He blinks hard, keeping the tears away, looking around to see if someone is panicking, but no one is. He hears snippets of words.

“She’s healthy baby.”

“Needs to get cleaned up.”

“You did well, mama. No tears.”

“Thank goodness. Quinn, did you heart that? The massages worked,” you say in a soft yet exhausted voice. That has him in full alert, watching you so intently. You still look pretty, but you are blinking so slowly. A smile is on your face as you reach for him. He stands, holding his daughter securely, giving her to you when your hand runs over her back. “Just want to sleep a bit.”

“Is that normal?” He asks the doctor and nurses who clearly see his distress as you fucking pass out. “My wife—”

“Is fine, Mr. Hughes,” a nurse says, giving him a reassuring nod. “It’s normal to be exhausted after you gave birth. She’s fine. No excessive bleeding. We will clean up and we’ll take your little one in a few.”

He nods, not knowing what else to do, so he leans closer to you, brushing your hair away, brushing his knuckles gently over the baby’s cheek. Oh, so soft. His heart melts when she tries to open her eyes. He gasps when she somehow manages. Just a quick flutter that exposes her eyes are the color of his. His. His baby girl has his eyes.

He starts crying again, sobbing into your hair.

He can’t help it.

He’s feeling so much love, and it comes out as tears.

At some point, he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but someone is helping him to calm down as his unnamed baby is taken away for necessary checkups. He knows she’s in good hands, so he stays with you, not even stepping out of the room so the forms are being brought to him. He feels guilty for being such a fucking diva for that, but he can’t leave you. He doesn’t think he can even step out of the room without crashing out.

Then he makes his calls, going through the list of his contacts, telling everyone about his perfect baby girl in whispered yet prideful tone. His hand is wrapped around yours.

“She got her nose and her lips, Mom. Got the fuzziest ears,” he sniffles. “So perfect.”

He finishes his last call. Gazing at you, he feels his emotions overflowing once more. For the last time before you wake up, he cries.

A promise forms in his heart, carving itself deeper that he will carry it every day of his life.

He promises to protect his little one and live for her.

He’ll love her as he loves you.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

When it’s time to be discharged, you stare at Quinn who carefully helps you into a wheelchair. He has been fussing over you for the whole stay. His cheeks are still flushed when he notes your dress—as if he didn’t buy it with you—after his arrival from a quick trip to the car and the reception area for your discharge papers. He’s so cute. Always so gentle. Even more so now when he greets your daughter, calling her his princess, before he lifts her up from the hospital bassinet.

You heard and saw him cry so much. Your Quinn has been on an emotional roller-coaster as you have. He looks at you with so much warmth and affection, so much pride for you and your baby, so much love and adoration, so much want that you can’t even think about how different your body is now. You told him that you might not want another child, and he replied something about a vasectomy. He’s always putting you first. And it’s clear he will be putting your daughter first too.

You can already see her getting so spoiled but also keeping her well-behaved. Quinn has that air of being the perfect dad.

You just know it and you’ll be right next to him in caring for the little one.

Honestly, you don’t even know if you want another child or not. That’s okay. Never once in your life did Quinn rush you to a decision. Always so patient and kind. But the way he’s staring at you, you might be leaning on the former. He looks so hot in his white linen shirt and khaki shorts. If he doesn’t stop dressing like that, it will be a quick decision.

But you won’t say that just yet.

You just gave birth.

Again, there’s no use to rush.

“Here she is, my Love. All bundled up.” Quinn grins as he presents his baby girl.

“You swaddled her up so well, Quinny,” you chuckle, holding her securely, softly and lightly caressing the little mark behind her fuzzy ear.

It’s still so amusing to you how hard Quinn insisted that her ears are just fuzzy and not hairy. You don’t think that he knows that it will be gone in a few weeks. It’s always so refreshing knot that he doesn’t know everything, because this man had researched quite a lot. Sometimes it amazes you. Sometimes it annoys you. Because, seriously, how can someone—a first time dad—know so much more than you? Still, it’s what makes Quinn the best.

“All settled?” he asks, kissing your cheek, his three-day-old scruff feels so rough and nice.

“Yes. I wanna go home now. Our parents are waiting,” you remind him. You see the way he pursed his lip in a tight line, his eyebrows frowning, so you scold him, “You can’t monopolize our princess, Quinn.”

Luckily, all of your parents are understanding that you two prefer them not to visit in the hospital, that you two just needed the calm to settle your little one, but the three-day stay has you already wanting to show off your daughter. Quinn looks like he just wants to keep you and his baby to himself. Like a mighty dragon hoarding his golden treasures. Gosh, he’s so silly, hoarding you to himself after he gloated so much over the phone calls and video calls.

“Quinny,” you whine, pouting that has him immediately melting.

“Fine,” he sighs, booping your daughter’s nose which got her cooing. You two go still at the how delicate she moves which is barely since she is still sleeping. “They need to be quiet.”

“Quinn, you already told them that.” You chuckle as he grumbles while pushing the wheelchair.

He told everyone that they need to be quiet. He’s already getting too protective over the little one. He’s firm with the no-kisses rule, hand washing, and facemasks. You try to tell him that the masks can go, but he won’t have it. You saw how his hackles were rising and the panic in his eyes were doubling, so you agreed. You ended up consoling him for ten minutes, telling him that your and his parents agreed.

“Maybe they should stay at a hotel.” Quinn hovers over you as you stand up and place the little princess in her baby seat.

“We got lots of room, Quinny.” You let him secure the seatbelt, seeing the way he blinks his tears away. “She’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay?” He steps into your space, his arm going around you. “I don’t want them to overwhelm you. You need to rest.”

Oh, he’s worrying about you.

You reach up, your heart beating harder in your chest when he leans his head into your touch. “I’ll be fine. They’re also excited to meet our baby. I want them to see how she looks like you and did you hear? They’re preparing dinner for us. Our moms told me they got some tricks to show me.”

You can see his brain going into a full overload. He’s overthinking again, so you rest your forehead against his. You feel his shuddering sigh as you give him a small kiss.

“Just tell me if you get uncomfortable with anything.”

“Okay,” you say. It’s clearly not enough so you add, “I promise.”

A beautiful smile spreads on his face. He’s so handsome. Your stomach is filling up with butterflies. You swoon as he opens your door for you and do your seatbelt. You silently watch him round the car and enter. You can’t help but think that he’s so perfect and that you are so lucky.

[everythingspokenfor]

All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI.

Bakugou sometimes get overwhelmed with the love he has for you, his feelings seem borderline obsessive occasionally, especially considering you weren't even dating, just best friends with benefits, he knows you, thoroughly, but every once in a while he finds new thinks to go crazy over.

It's one of those days, when you opt for a hotel room instead of travelling back to your shared apartment, sometimes too exhausted to drive, other times too pent up to wait.

Today, however was slightly different, the mission in Tokyo ended earlier than expected, allowing you both to rest in your hotel room.

Bags of essentials scattered in the hotel room floor, Bakugou was still in bed, tried from all the activities, waiting for you to finish skin care before sliding in next to him.

The room still smelled like sex, a little bit of you and slightly more of him, the sheets too, but alas you both showered and intended to head to bed soon. Hopefully. But with the way Bakugou's gaze lingered on your back made it seem otherwise.

"We have early flight back tomorrow, and it's past 1 in the morning." You chastise, eyeing him through the mirror, watching as a cheeky grin spread on his face.

"And you have tons of freckles on you back." He moved closer slowly, dragging the thin blanket along with him. His touch is light, it tickles your skin, the tips of his fingers dragging from one birthmark to another. "I haven't really gotten to admire these."

"Didn't know Dynamight did admiring, I thought you were a fucked and tucked kinda guy." You teased, tongue jutting into your cheek as you watched his eyebrows raise in amusement.

His hand sneaks around your side, calloused fingers coming to pinch at your nipples, before tugging it, "Ask your pussy if I do admiring, at least those lips won't lie."

"Eh, cringe alert." You quip out, hand clasping around his to pull him away from your bud, he doesn't relent though, fingers pinching harder at your teasing, you let out a hiss, thighs rubbing together as he rubs away the pain, "asshole."

He ignores your curse, instead presses kisses against your back, lips tracing the constellation he just discovered. "You have a mole down there too," He recounts.

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Yeah, I see it everytime I spread her open, little embellishment decorating your skin." He sounds lost, like the vision of your spread pussy is playing behind his eyes.

"You know," You murmur, leaning back slightly, pressing against his chest, "it's a theory that birthmarks are where you soulmate kissed you in your past life."

"Good to know, she was taken care of in your last life too." He jokes, hand leaving your breast to cup your bare pussy.

You let out a snort, head lolling back to rest on his shoulder, "Aren't you jealous?" You chimed, tilting your head slightly to look at him.

"Jealous of what?"

"The guy that left all these kisses."

"Why would I be jealous of myself, petal?"

"So confident for someone that didn't even know about the ones on my back."

He smiles, leaning back again, "I have moles too, you know." He mumbles, voice as soft as the sheets around you both.

"And I know every one of them." You gleam, squeezing a decent amount of hand cream, before turning around to face him.

"I didn't know, it was a competition."

"Everything was supposed to be a competition to you, Dynamight."

He snorts, pulling you closer, "You are getting too full of yourself." He presses his lips, against the corner of your mouth, delight filling his chest as he feels your lips stretch into a smile. He pulls you in further, wrapping his limbs around you, snuggling in tight.

"I thought you were going to flip me over and prove me wrong."

"I have all the lifetimes left for that." He grumbles, breathing in your smell, before humming peaceful as he nudges his face into the crook of your neck.

Dividers by: @/thecutestgrotto

[ang3ltine]

˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— "𝖠𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇" - Bob Reynolds x freader x platonic thunderbolts

Golden Retriever x Black Cat trope

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

a.n - This is a short scenario that got me all giddy while writing this, so I hope you Bob fans enjoy this as much as I did!

Warnings - minor spoilers! trauma, nightmares, making out, hickeys & yearning Bob! Lots of fluff too

A few months had passed since the 'incident' on the streets of Newyork where almost half the city was engulfed in complete darkness.

You mostly blamed this on Valentina since she pushed her ideals of the sentry project onto Bob. Now you, along with the others tried your best to make him feel welcome and wanted, despite his 'minor' flaws.

Now that you all moved into the newly refurbished Avengers tower, you had to adjust to your new life. This was never part of your agenda but you're one to complain.

Especially since you got the chance to dote on a certain brunette, who you undeniably cannot ignore since he's always trailing after you wherever you went.

Yelena had introduced you to Bob properly after the whole incident and he's been glued to your side since then. You were more on the nonchalant and cool girl type while he was the polar opposite.

But he still admired you nonetheless. Not to mention, you also get endlessly teased by Yelena and the others.

More so than usual when she noticed that Bob tends to follow you around more than her now. Not that she cares, she was more than happy that he was trying to get closer with someone else other than her.

Yelena had joined you in the main kitchen after training together. You reached into the refrigerator to bring out your bottle of water when she asked an unexpected question.

"Do you like Bob?" She asks straight up, catching you offguard in the process.

"As friends? Yeah ofcourse." You muttered underneath your breath then took a chug of your water.

"Pshh friends? Friends don't eyefuck eachother across the room." She mused while leaning against the refrigerator door with an amusing smirk.

You choked a couple of times while Yelena pats your back before adding another comment. "It's okay! No need to feel ashamed."

"What're you talking about??"

"Okay maybe not, but you two would still make a cute couple." She mused while flashing you her iconic smirk.

"Oh...I don't know about that 'lena. He's just someone I care about alot you know?"

Before you could carry on the conversation, your eyes shift past Yelena's shoulders. Sure enough, Bob was awkwardly standing in the hallway.

"I uh - I didn't hear anything."

Yelena steps back to let Bob in before mouthing a quick 'goodluck' to you. God that girl was going to be the death of you.

The only times he wasn't with you was when you went on missions, which is when he'd spend most of his time in the tower with Alpine.

After a gruelling and unbearably long mission, all you wanted to do was to take a shower, eat dinner then go to bed.

"Ugh...Ava, what time is it?" You groaned while rubbing your temples to somehow lessen your headache.

Ava, along with you and John were on the quinjet, which was preparing its landing sequence on the helipad of the tower.

She glances at the time on her watch before answering with a yawn. "It's a little past midnight."

"You think anyone's awake right now?" John joins in on the rather dull conversation. The ship was on autopilot and had finally landed when he finished his sentence.

"Mhm I highly doubt it," you replied with a strained voice as you stretched your limbs. Almost every inch of your body ached, and your muscles were extremely sore.

As soon as the hatch opened, you dragged your tired body through the hanger. The endless corridors of the living quarters almost made you lose your mind, but you breathed a sigh of relief when you finally made it to your room.

You hesitated for a moment, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Figuring it was just you being paranoid, you swiftly flung the door open, only to find a familiar set of eyes blinking back at you.

Bob stood almost a feet away from you with a pillow in hand, the poor man had flinched at your sudden appearance. Almost immediately, he let out a string of '"sorry's'' since he invited himself in without your permission.

"Hey-- Bob, it's ok. You can stay in my room as long as you like." You say in a hushed tone while placing your hands on his shoulders, rubbing them gently so he'd calm down.

He found it hard to focus on your face as his eyes shift downwards in shame. "I just... I wanted to talk to you as soon as you came back."

"We can talk-" you intercept almost immediately. "But would you mind if I took a shower first? Then we can talk afterwards ok?"

Bob finally lifts his eyes off the ground to look at you before nodding. "Uhh yeah... yeah, I can wait."

You reached up to ruffle his slightly messy hair before retreating to where your walk-in closet was. Bob took the leisure of sitting back on your comfy bed as his eyes followed your every move.

"Ah, this will do," you muttered to yourself while fishing out your sleep shirt and a pair of shorts. Except, it looked bigger than usual?

"Oh right uhm, I think that's mine..." Bob mumbles hesitantly when you notice that it was, in fact, not yours.

Bob had the tendency to leave his belongings scattered in your room, including his large sweatshirts. He'd vist you almost every night since he'd constantly have nightmares, and you would comfort him whenever you could.

"You wouldn't mind if I wore this would you?" You turned around with the sleep shirt pressed against your chest to show it off. It was a deep blue navy colour, simple, yet comfortable.

"Uh yeah! Go ahead." Bob replies with open arms and his usual widespread grin. You returned the smile before grabbing your towel and headed into the washroom.

You quickly scrambled out of your suit and chucked it into the laundry basket to wash later. Bob could hear the sound of falling water through the doors of the washroom as he looked around.

That's when he realised he made quite a mess while waiting for you. So he took his time going around and picking things up from the floor to put them back to the right spots.

After half an hour or so, you stepped out with the towel around your neck after wringing out excess water from your hair. You had the power to control the wind, so it was easier to dry your hair, which was awfully convenient.

"Bob? You here?" You called out after noticing that he was nowhere in sight. The lack of response concerned you as you frantically searched your room for the man.

You finally found him in the far corner of the room, huddled with one of your plushies and was fast asleep. The racing of your heart only quickened once you hear him mumbling your name in his sleep.

"Oh Bob..." you shook your head amusingly as you bent down to his height to lightly shake him awake. It only took a few seconds before he stirred, you felt bad for doing so but you didn't want him to sleep on the floor.

"Do you wanna sleep here tonight?" You asked quietly since he was still half asleep, trying to process what you were saying. He nods his head after a while, placing the plush toy back where it was in the pile before reaching his arms out for you to grab.

You do just that and lead him towards your massive king sized bed. Just earlier on today, you had changed the sheets to satin ones, so it was even more comfortable than usual.

The lights were dimmed but not completely off since you learned the hard way that Bob hated the dark. So you switched on a nightlight by your bedside for extra light just in case.

Bob settled into the crispy sheets that had been untouched since your arrival. He scoots over a bit while you slipped in next to him.

Although, you two were in quite an awkward position after a while. Since you had to prepare a schedule for the next day, he was pretty much beneath you. You were struggling not to crush him while he only made things worse. His arms were wrapped around your waist to pull you closer to him so he could soak in your warmth while you worked.

"Sorry Bob, just give me a few more minutes." You sighed while typing away on your phone. Bob only hummed in response while burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"By the way...do you want to talk about the nightmare that you had?"

"Mm...yeah." Bob replied with a muffled voice as the vibrations tickled your skin, making you squirm slightly. "Alright, tell me what happened."

That's exactly what he did. You listened carefully as he mentioned all the bad things that he had seen in the nightmare.

That's one of the reasons why Bob admired you. You were straightforward with him but caring.

Many would think that sort of activity was only reserved for relationships. Which was partially true, you in fact, did harbour feelings for him. But you chose to keep them to yourself.

What Bob needed was someone who was patient and not pushy. For now, you were content with just being 'friends.' Even though it was far more than that.

It was around 7am in the morning by the time you awoke. The soft golden rays of sunlight shone through the blinds of your room, giving your room a soft glow.

Little did you know that a blonde haired assassin had come to your room during the night to ask you something, only to find you with your limbs entangled with Bob's.

Yelena being Yelena, took the opportunity to snap a few pictures on her phone before leaving. Already planning on using them for blackmail or to tease you whenever she pleased.

Speaking of Bob, he was fast asleep as you peer down at him. You became quite flustered since his face was fully pressed against your chest. He probably thought that it was his pillow, yet you were too afraid to move him. Instead, you opted to run your fingers through his dark chocolate locks.

They were soft, as usual, but still, you tried to detangle his hair gently since there were a few knots. It wasn't long before he started to stir, causing you to freeze in the process. You move away from him slightly to give him some space as he slowly processes where he is.

"Morning sunshine... did you sleep well?" You whispered gently as he peers up at you through his lashes, his eyes still heavy with sleep. His voice was hoarse while he spoke,

"G'morning...yeah I slept well, and you?"

"Ahh, me too..." You responded while brushing stray hair away from his face, it had gotten slightly longer than before. Which gave you the idea of maybe trimming the front bangs later on, with his consent, of course.

Your fingers lingered on his cheek for a brief moment, before retracting your hand. Bob was disappointed to say the least when he felt the warmth of your hand no longer present against his skin.

"Let's get freshen up and head down for breakfast. How does that sound...?"

Bob nods in agreement after rubbing the sleep from his eyes while you slowly got up.

He found himself practically swooning over you while he observed the way you stretched, letting your hair fall across your shoulders. Sure it was messy since you had just woken up, but to him, you looked heavenly.

You felt him staring but you chose not to think much of it. Bob's cheeks had a slight hue of red when you did manage to look back down at him, bringing a small smile to your face at his bashfullness.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Bob immediately shook his head before you positioned yourself above him. You reached down to place one hand on his cheek to feel the light stubble against your skin.

This time he doesn't let you retreat that easily as he tugs you down gently. A bold move indeed, especially for you.

At first you weren't sure how to respond, the air around you suddenly felt awfully scarce as you were beginning to find it hard to breathe.

Even though he was the one who had instigated the sudden act of intimacy, he too grew a sense of shyness.

To test the waters, he lean in closer, bumping your nose against his and letting your lips hover over his. Your eyes flickered from his lips back up to meet his. If anything, you were more than happy to back away if he felt uncomfortable.

But Bob did want this, so he took the initiative to press his lips against yours. You let out a surprised sound before melting into the kiss.

His lips were slightly chapped, but that didn't bother you. You smiled against his lips as he was struggling slightly, honestly you didn't blame him. He probably hasn't kissed anyone for a while.

But eventually he got the hang of it. He picked up the pace while you struggled to keep up. Turned out he's a quick learner since he copied the way your lips moved against his.

You wasted no time reaching to the back of his neck and slipped your fingers into his dark hair pulling him in impossibly closer.

Soft whimpers escaped his mouth in between each kiss while you soaked in every one, pushing him to kiss you deeper. Sighs and moans of content or pleaure are passed between both your lips and his. The two had to fight to not entirely lose yourselves completely within pure bliss.

You nipped his bottom lip slightly before leaving a soft trail of kisses from his mouth down to the side of his jaw.

"Hm? What're you doing?" He drawled while your lips leaves his briefly, almost bringing out another whine as he feels you lightly kiss the juncture of his neck.

"Mhm, just need you - ," you hummed against his supple skin. You left open-mouthed kisses against a specific area on his neck before gently taking his skin between your teeth to leave a mark.

The feeling was too overwhelming for him yet he found himself bringing you in impossibly closer while you worked. After leaving a significantly dark hickey on the side of his neck, you move back towards his lips.

Which he happily accepts. Head tilting the side, his hot breath mingling with yours, he kisses you with much fever.

Yet keeps it sweet and gentle at the same time. Lightly sucking on your bottom lip while running his thumb against your cheek.

The kiss was filled with raw emotions, all the times that he wanted to tell you of his true feelings were poured into it. You too shared the same amount of passion when you deepened the kiss even further.

Sadly, the need to breathe was apparent after what seemed like forever. You flutters your eyes open before pulling away to take in Bob's appearance. He looked so effortlessly pretty.

His cheeks were rosy and wet from his tears and hair was disheveled, but he still managed to look perfect to you. Before you could say a word, some unexpected words leaves his lips.

"I...I love you," he whispers while you processed what he just said. A small rush of warmth filled you at the sound of those meaningful words as you fought back the urge to kiss him again.

"I love you too..." you whispered before dipping your head low to pepper his face with kisses, making him laugh in the process.

"C'mon sleepy head, let's wash up." Bob reluctantly accepts the offer and tugs the end of your shirt while following you into the washroom.

He was still trying to recover from the small makeout session as his legs almost felt like jelly as he walked. Which was new for him.

An array of skincare products lined up before him as you reached into one your drawers to bring something out. You had given him one of your waterproof headbands to wear so that his hair wouldn't get in his face in the process.

One of the reasons why you did a skincare routine specifically for him was because he enjoyed the feeling of being pampered by you.

So it was no surprise when he leans into your touch with excitement while you applied the cleansing foam on his face. A satisfied grin played on his lips while you rubbed the product into his skin, making you feel all giddy inside.

After the two of you washed up and got dressed, you then made your way to the kitchen to have breakfast.

Not even a second went by when Ava gave you one of her snarky remarks as soon as you walked in with Bob in tow.

"Ahh the couple's here to join us." You rolled your eyes playfully at the sarcastic comment as you turn to face the women in question.

Little did she know that she was, in fact, telling the truth. But you weren't going to give her that satisfaction.

"Oh shush, you're just jealous that I'm not giving the same attention to you." You retorted with the same amount of sass.

"Wow, Touche." She responds while sipping her coffee.

"Bob? Do you want pancakes?" You turned your attention back to the brunette who was patiently waiting for you.

"Yes please," he replies with a tight-lipped smile, already feeling shy from Ava's comment of referring to you both as a couple.

"Pancakes it is then."

Taglist: @doodlebob-mp3 @perdidosbucky-yyo @marianastudiesart @ordelixx @starktonyx @hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly @starstruckfirecat @adventure-awaits13 @milkbean69 @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf

[stevenose]

night moves (18+)

inspired by that slutty slutty shoot joe did for coup de main (that pic of him in the chair… you know the one)

contains: steve x reader; reader with a vagina and breasts; reader is referred to as ‘good girl’ etc several times through this fic; teasing!!!; oral (m receiving); cock worship; some scent kink; silly but also stern steve trying to teach u a little lesson about patience. also robin gets laid 🤍

steve looks good. this isn’t an unusual occurrence - he always looks good - but tonight’s outfit has you reeling.

he never wears black levis, but he’s shown up with a pair on tonight. tight enough to see his goddamn cock through, the curve of his ass emphasized. you’re dizzy over them, but the terracotta button-down that he’s wearing makes your thighs clench together. it’s unbuttoned enough to truly be considered slutty, and the sleeves are rolled up, pretty veins and hands on display. and he’s wearing a goddamn leather jacket, too. you didn’t even know he owned one of those.

“what’s this all about?” you ask, tugging at the soft leather.

“family heirloom,” he explains hesitantly. “why? is it weird?”

“no,” you say quickly. “you look incredible tonight.”

steve leans in a little, his sunglasses sliding down the straight slope of his nose. you can see his eyes, going from milk chocolate to dark chocolate. “you really think so?”

“know so,” you breathe, taking a step back, because you might kiss him stupid - or faint - if you don’t.

and it must be obvious that you’re reeling. steve’s arm cradles your waist tightly, keeping you close to him all night. this whole thing is new - being in public with him for the first time as a couple. you’re sweating, face perpetually hot, the scent of his fig cologne sticking to your skin.

and every time he faces you, you feel more and more ridiculous. his cock is practically shouting at you. all you want is to be out of this stupid bar, on your knees for him, his thick length stuffed into the back of your throat.

you take a deep breath to steady yourself and sip on your cocktail, to give the impression that you’re a normal person and not ridiculously horny.

“something wrong?” he asks, lips tickling your ear. you can hear the smug smile in his voice.

“you drive me crazy,” you say softly, voice just above a whisper.

you’re sure he can’t hear you over the loud music of the bar, but he must be a lip reader, because he smiles wide.

“you look good tonight too, y’know,” he says, his hand moving from your lower back to the back of your neck. he slides a finger under your sleeve, and fiddles with your bra strap. his breath in your ear makes you shiver. “can’t wait to get you alone.”

you turn to look at his pretty face now, his hair all tousled, his cheeks pink.

“we’ve been here long enough, don’t you think?” you murmur.

steve tuts. “eddie’s gonna think you’re rude if we miss his set.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “there’s a bathroom.”

he shakes his head, beaming, finishing the last of his drink. “uh-uh. you’re a good girl. you can be patient for me, can’t you?”

you want to punch him. he does it to tease you, because he knows how much you like it when he talks to you like that. a little condescending, a little mean. you glare instead, now biting your tongue, irritated.

“i love it when you look at me like that,” he says, taking your empty glass and heading to the counter to get you another.

you can finally breathe, though you’re still suffocating. eddie’s band hasn’t even set up yet. and you don’t get why steve wants to stay to listen to music he doesn’t like for a guy he only quasi gets along with. robin’s here somewhere - and with jealousy, you realize she’s probably finger-banging her girlfriend in the restroom right now.

steve’s back at your side, still grinning, handing you another drink.

“got you the sweet kind,” he says, then leans in. “not sure if you should be drinking, though. afraid you’re gonna try to fuck me right here if you get drunk enough.”

his jawline is incredibly defined as his head leans back, another jack and coke at his lips. if you were stronger, you’d drag him outside, or at least into the men’s bathroom.

“keep it up and you won’t get fucked.”

steve scoffs, wraps his free hand around your waist and pulls you into his chest. “then what’ll you do, huh?” he asks quietly, his nose almost touching yours. “gonna touch yourself in my bathroom all alone?”

“maybe i won’t spend the night,” you say, voice wavering. you’re very unconvincing. “maybe i’ll go home and use a toy.”

he grins again. “you gonna suck your dildo before you ride it?”

your eyes widen at the debauchery. steve’s got a mouth on him, but he doesn’t typically use it outside of the bedroom.

“yeah,” he says, shit eating grin widening. “you’re droolin’, baby. wanna taste my cock so bad, yeah? wore these just for you. know how much you like seeing it.”

he grinds himself into your hip bone. you almost drop your goddamn glass.

“you think i don’t want to take you to my car and make your brain melt?” he continues. “i do, baby, but i’m patient. you gotta learn.”

your mouth is dry.

at your lack of response, steve’s shoulders drop. “too much?”

you shake your head quickly. “no,” you insist, “i like this version of you.”

he relaxes a bit more, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “good girls get rewards,” he murmurs.

there’s a sudden bang! behind you. you whip around to see the drummer beginning to set up on the stage.

“we gotta stay after, too, y’know,” steve says, lips ghosting over your neck. “say congrats and all. maybe get some food.”

your head whips back around so you can glare harshly at him. “we are not going to dinner after this.”

he can’t stop grinning, his teeth gleaming in the low light. “don’t be selfish, honey, we don’t all have something to eat later.”

you sort of wonder what he would do if you fought back. would he chase you if you said you were leaving? would he give in?

you don’t have time to contemplate, as robin finally emerges, chugging a water with a red face. her girlfriend’s all blissed out, leaning on robin for support.

“gross,” steve says, stepping away from you. his body parting from yours makes you feel cold.

robin grins widely, cocking her head at him. “oh, so you hate gay people?”

they argue - steve can’t take a joke sometimes - but you block them out. you sip absentmindedly on your drink, watching as eddie finally emerges on stage to set up the amps and pedals.

“third stall in the girl’s bathroom,” robin’s partner says, nodding and giving you a thumbs up. “pretty cushy in there, if you guys need a space.”

“thanks,” you say weakly.

you’re tense when eddie’s band starts to play, finally, and the drinks aren’t helping. you’d like to relax like steve is now, a third drink in his hand.

what’s really infuriating is that steve has the audacity to nod his big head along to the music and act like he really cares about it, when you know his vibe is the eagles and queen, not this.

he finally looks at you, still smug. “not polite to stare.”

“not polite to tease.”

he scoffs again, throwing a hand out to gesture towards the stage. “what are you talkin’ about? i’m havin’ a great time.”

your eyes follow his strong biceps and you want to sink your teeth into the flesh and muscle desperately.

he opens his mouth to make a comment about it, but you reach into his glass to fish out the cherry that came with it. you stare him down as you bring it to your lips, your teeth sinking into the cherry instead of him.

he watches you, eyes darkening, hooded, his fingers flexing around the glass. tart juice spills down your chin and you make no attempts to clean it up.

“want the stem?” you ask, holding it up.

steve leans forward to wipe the sweetness with his thumb, then sucks it into his mouth.

you’re blown away. outperformed.

“you’re gonna get it,” he says lowly.

you force a smile, heart beating fast. “what i want?”

he laughs and leans back, eyes moving to the stage again. “you’ll see.”

there’s another half an hour after the performance where everyone shoots the shit in the ally behind the bar. you’re squirming the entire time while steve’s arm stays wrapped around your waist, holding you into him, trying to make you stop.

and when eddie asks if anyone is coming to the diner with the band, you brace yourself for steve to say yes.

instead, he yawns loudly and shakes his head. “we’re too tired, sorry.”

“you just hate me,” eddie says, waving him off.

“how’d you know?” steve says, then guides you to turn around, moving towards his car. “we’ll see you soon — vickie, drive safe, please.”

she gives him another big thumbs up and you try to remember her name for the next time you see her. you have bigger priorities right now, though, as steve walks silently beside you. your clit pulses between your thighs, the short walk nearly excruciating.

he gets the door for you - a gentleman, of course - and for a brief moment, as you sit, you’re at eye level with his dick.

steve doesn’t linger, though. he shuts the door and moves to his side. you stare at him, a little nervous to be alone after all that was said earlier.

“you,” he says, pointing a finger at you after turning the key, his eyes equally playful and serious, “have a lot to make up for tonight.”

steve spreads his legs wide, still clothed (with that jacket), hair tousled. he’s spread out in a chair at his place, the room lit dimly by a lamp in the corner. it makes you sleepy but you’re convinced his bulge has hypnotized you.

he looks at you like he’s disappointed. it’s all a rouse, of course. he’s doing all of this because he saw how hot it made you earlier, and he had told you as much before sitting down.

“strip,” he finally says.

you don’t hesitate, of course. you’ve been waiting to get your damn clothes off all night. like a palette cleanser, one of these nights plays softly in the background, spinning on the record player.

“underwear too?” you ask.

he hums. “keep ‘em on.”

you do as you’re told.

steve stares at you for what feels like forever, sort of squinting. “give me a spin, baby,” he says, spinning his finger.

you do, nice and slow, letting him look. look at what he’s missed out on all night, what he could have had in the bathroom or the ally or his car all night. when you’re back to facing him, he beckons you over.

“come here.”

you like him like this. you like him when he’s goofy and soft, too, but this is new and exciting.

you stand between his thighs and he moves his hands to your ass, gently cupping it. he’s gorgeous below you. his hands roam, hands squeezing almost a little too roughly, but never making you wince. you’re giddy about it, his eagerness showing through with every handful he takes of you.

“on your knees.”

you drop down so quickly it hurts, your knees throbbing, but you don’t complain.

steve leans forward to cup your cheek. “gotta teach you a thing or two about patience, don’t i?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face and landing on your lips.

“mhm,” you agree.

“i’d tell you not to act like that again, but i really liked it,” he admits, smiling softly at you. “like knowing how much you need me.”

“i really do,” you breathe.

“i know.” he kisses your forehand gently. “so here’s the deal. i’ll let you have what you want, but there are two stipulations: you can’t touch yourself, and i’m going to draw this out as long as possible. how’s that sound?”

you try to be cute. “am i going to cum tonight, stevie?”

he hums. “no way, baby. this is all about patience, remember?”

you know how much he’s obsessed with pussy, so you don’t take his threat very seriously.

“no cheating,” he instructs. “no clenching your thighs or anything.”

you bite your lip. you’re still trying to be cutesy. “and what if i do?”

he grins and leans down to touch the tip of his nose against yours. “if you want my cock so bad, baby, you’d better play by the rules.”

he finally kisses you, soft and slow. it’s not heated like it usually is when you’re with him. it clicks that he’s taking his time, and you really wish he wouldn’t. not just because of your eagerness - it’s also two in the morning and your head hurts from all the heavy metal.

he pulls away from you slowly and leans back in his chair. “go ahead,” he says, a finger tapping his belt buckle. “slow.”

it takes three minutes to get his tight jeans down his thick thighs at a pace that he likes. you leave the briefs on. you‘ve already mapped out what you’re going to do.

there’s a sizeable stain of precum where the tip of his cock rests. you’d like to make a comment about it but you abstain, knowing he’d drag this out for longer.

“wait,” he says.

so you do.

one of his hands sneaks down to palm at his erection. his head falls back and he lets out a breathy moan as he touches himself. you don’t know where to look - his big hand on his cock, or his pretty face twisting softly with pleasure.

“maybe i should just jerk myself off, huh?” he rambles. “make you wait even more.”

you almost whimper.

“‘s okay,” he assures, “i’m not that mean.”

but he does keep touching himself while you stare at the stain of precum grow. you spread your legs far apart but you’re definitely still cheating, your cunt clenching and unclenching.

you’re just about ready to beg when he finally stops, moving his hand back to the armrests.

“slow,” he repeats, like you’re a dog, and you really don’t mind.

your hand replaces his. he’s hot to the touch, even through the cotton. your thumb swipes against his head and he groans softly above you. his pre transfers to your thumb and, just as he had done with the cherry juice, you suck it into your mouth.

“copy cat,” he breathes, pupils blown.

you smile up at him, then lean forward. you maintain eye contact with him until your lips reach his cock, and you mouth at him through his briefs.

“jesus,” he groans, hands gripping the chair.

you take your time with it like he told you to. kissing him through the fabric, getting a taste of him — really him. his musk is intoxicating, and you make him gasp like a prude when you inhale deeply.

“wanna worship it?” he breathes, hips bucking, his cock grinding into your cheek. “this what you wanted all night?”

you nod, mouthing at him more.

steve shakes his head, perhaps in disbelief. you haven’t been quite so needy before.

your spit mixes with his precum, the fabric sticking to his cock. he finally relents, gently ordering you to pull his underwear down.

his cock springs up, almost hitting his stomach. you pause, feeling hypnotized again, before pulling them down to meet with his jeans at his ankles.

his cock’s so pretty. pink at the tip, a pronounced vein running down the underside, and big enough to make your jaw ache.

you’re not thinking as you lean forward. steve’s hand stops you, his palm pressing against your forehead.

“thought you were learning.”

“i am,” you whisper.

he holds his palm out. “spit.”

he makes you watch as he jerks himself off, your spit helping his hand slide up and down the shaft. your thighs twitch towards each other as you stare at him, brows furrowed.

you want him so badly. want to climb up into his lap and kiss his pretty face stupid. he bites his lip, moans breathily sneaking out as he keeps stroking himself slowly. he concentrates on you, a strand of hair falling into his dark, hooded eyes.

you bite your tongue so hard it almost bleeds. your pussy works like it has a mind of its own, helplessly clenching, your clit aching horribly. you’re certain you’ll scream, one queuing up in your throat. he has about ten seconds before you throw a tantrum like a baby. he’s so beautiful that it makes you forget yourself.

“go on,” he says eventually, leaning back again.

you’re relieved, almost to the point of tears. you move a little closer and press soft kisses to the inside of his sensitive thighs. his cock kicks near your forehead as you move nearer and nearer. you let your tongue flick out against his skin, smiling when he sighs.

if you weren’t so impatient, you’d make him wait for it.

you move up, up, up, but not to where steve’s expecting you. instead, your lips place a gentle kiss to his sack.

he sort of sits up, brows furrowing hard. so you continue, your tongue laving over his balls gently.

“oh my god?”

it isn’t a protest, so you continue. you mouth at them, too, licking and sucking gently. one of his hands tangles itself in your hair and he moans loudly above you. it goes straight to your clit, of course, and at this point you’re once again near tears at the ache.

you lick your way up his balls and to the base of his shaft. you place a chaste kiss there before continuing upwards, licking a long stripe up to the head. you make sure to run your tongue along the aforementioned vein and he shivers.

his voice cuts the silence. “worship, baby.”

you kiss the head of his cock, the salt of his precum laying heavy on your tongue. you make out with it, using your tongue, doubling down every time steve groans. his hand stays in your hair and he gently moves you down to kiss the rest of him.

steve’s free hand grips the base of his cock and he pumps gently as your tongue flicks against him. after a long moment, he pulls you back, crowding your space again.

“can i say something?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

you watch his throat bob as he swallows hard. “i want to use your mouth.”

you gasp breathlessly, happily. “please, steve.”

so he stands, kicking off his jeans, keeping his grip tight in your hair. he pumps himself still, keeps you at eye level - again - with his leaking tip.

“hands on my thighs,” he says softly. “pinch me if you need me to stop, alright?”

you nod, hands resting where he’s instructed.

“i’ll go slow,” he promises. “still need to finish our lesson, right?”

you nod again.

he gently kicks your thighs apart with his feet. you hadn���t noticed how close they’d gotten to pulling together.

“my pretty girl,” he coos, leaning down, pulling your head up. he kisses you much more fervently this time, but shorter. “i’ll give you just what you want.”

[randominchident]

rain delay kisses

a max verstappen x reader imagine

The first drop hits your cheek just as the national anthem fades. One, then another. Within seconds the sky gives in. Rain descends upon the track before the drivers can even walk off their marks. Officials scramble, teams drag equipment under tarps, and the inevitable announcement echoes over the speakers:

“Start delayed due to weather conditions. Expected minimum 30 minute delay.”

You're standing just outside the garage, barely under the overhang. The rain is relentless now, soaking the pit lane—ricocheting droplets bouncing off the tarmac like steam. But you don't move. You’re waiting. Looking for him. Waiting for him. You know in moments like this, race weekends where time together is sparse and sacred, he will coming looking for you.

You hear him before you see him. Distinctive voice dancing in the air somewhere to the left of you. He’s talking to someone. GP probably—about new tire tactics. You don’t turn around, he’ll see you soon enough.

Finally, once some agreement has been made, he steps towards the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, race suit unzipped to his waist. He spots you instantly, a flicker of something soft crossing his features.

Without a word, he walks over, tugging a team umbrella you didn’t notice before open. It’s barely big enough for two, but he angles it anyway, pulling you close by the wrist.

“You didn’t wait inside?” he asks, his voice quieter than the rain, but warmer with a tender love that has encompassed your past few months with him. Max has a way of making every moment together feel warm.

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to miss you.”

That gets the smile—the real one. Not the PR smile he slaps on. The one he only ever gives you when the world isn’t watching. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair off your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His fingertips linger there, brushing against your face so softly you can barely feel them.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The chaos blends into the background like white noise. Nothing exists but the two of you, just for this moment.

Then he leans in, slow and certain. His lips meet yours in a kiss that tastes like rain and adrenaline. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just right. Like he needs this—you—more than he needs the race right now. Faint drops of rain patter on your cheek.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“I think I like rain delays,” he whispers, a hint of a grin in his voice.

You laugh softly, your hands still tangled in the front of his race suit. “I think I do too.”

His hand is still on your wrist. Warm and constant

“C’mon, it’s cold,” he says, arm moving to wrap around your waist and tracing circles into the dip there, “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

I imagine this in the ‘slim pickins’ world post them being together for a little bit…

[lazy-ahh]

YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE GOES GOOD WITH GAMING?

pairing mark grayson x male reader

you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

mark’s been gone for weeks—some off-world mission, because apparently, the universe can’t handle itself without him. not that you’d admit it, but you missed him. more than you should. more than you’d ever let him know. you caught yourself staring at your window too often, half-expecting to see his silhouette against the glass, that infuriatingly patient tap-tap-tap before you’d let him in. as if he didn’t know you left the damn thing unlocked for him every night. typical.

everything reminded you of him, which was unacceptable. so you buried yourself in distractions—school, homework, then straight to your pc, booting up marvel rivals before you could even think about how quiet the room felt without him. the game had been his idea, of course. he’d all but shoved it at you, that stupid, eager grin on his face as he said, "just try it. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up again. but you won’t." as if he hadn’t already known you’d love it.

at first, he was the one explaining everything—mechanics, lore, all that useless trivia he’d absorbed like some kind of nerd-shaped sponge. "see, magik’s portals work like this—" or "no, don’t engage yet, strange’s cooldown is—" annoying. endearing. you’d never admit either out loud. but then you got better. faster. soon, you were the one calling shots, dragging his sorry ass through ranked matches while he laughed in your ear, loud and unguarded, every time you pulled off some insane play. "holy shit—did you just parry that ult?! that’s illegal. you’re actually cracked. YOU JUST SAVED MY LIFE OH BABY I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU-"

he never complained, even when you outclassed him. just watched you with that quiet, proud look, like he’d somehow won just by getting you to play. sometimes, when you were both too tired for another match but not tired enough to log off, he’d let his character idle beside yours in the lobby, humming some off-key tune while you fiddled with skins. "you’re keeping me up," you’d grumble. "then kick me out," he’d shoot back, knowing full well you wouldn’t.

now, with him gone, solo queue was a nightmare. you tried comms, but it was a coin toss—either decent teammates or the kind of toxic dps mains who threw matches the second things went south. you added a few tolerable players, grinding comp at set times, but most of your matches were still solo. and you’d climbed. platinum, after weeks of stubborn, teeth-gritted effort. you could already picture mark’s reaction—that mix of irritation (probably pretend) and admiration he got whenever you outdid him. not that you’d gloat. much.

the real problem would be playing together once you hit diamond. he was still stuck in gold, and you refused to smurf. so for now, you were stuck in elo hell—platinum I to diamond III, then back down again, in a cycle that felt like the universe mocking you. but you’d figure it out. you always did. and when he got back, you’d make sure he knew exactly how much ground he had to cover to keep up.

you were half-heartedly proofreading your essay, the queue timer ticking away in the corner of your screen, when your hand moved before your brain could stop it—grabbing your phone, unlocking it, immediately swiping to mark’s messages like muscle memory. it was a bad habit at this point. every idle moment, every second of downtime, your fingers betrayed you, pulling up his chat like some pathetic reflex. and there they were, still staring back at you: his last messages from weeks ago, before comms cut out and space swallowed him whole.

your thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the timestamp like you could will it to change. then—there. that stupid, stupid one-liner he’d sent right before losing signal: ‘try not to miss me too much!’ as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. as if you weren’t already doing exactly that.

a quiet, involuntary laugh escaped you, sharp and fond all at once. "idiot," you muttered, but the word came out too soft, too warm, and you hated how easily he could drag that out of you. like you were some sappy romance protagonist instead of yourself. you tossed your phone back onto the desk, maybe a little harder than necessary, and forced your eyes back to your essay.

it didn’t work. the words blurred together, your focus already frayed, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. stupid. stupid markus sebastian grayson, turning you into this—some lovesick fool who couldn’t even function right without him around. worst of all? you knew he’d be grinning if he saw you like this. that smug, infuriating look he got when he realized he’d gotten under your skin.

you gritted your teeth and stabbed at your keyboard, queue be damned. you had an essay to finish. and not think about him.

and then—as if the universe itself was mocking you—tap-tap-tap.

your head snapped up so fast your neck protested. for a second, you wondered if you’d finally lost it, conjuring him up out of sheer, pathetic longing. but no. there he was, floating outside your window like some overgrown, dirt-streaked moth, his stupid grin brighter than the goddamn moon behind him.

mark looked wrecked—hair a mess, suit scuffed, one of his lenses cracked—but his smile was the same as always: crooked, too-wide, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his stupid dimples pop. like he’d been waiting for this moment, like seeing you was the best part of his damn day.

and then—because you were a fool—you scrambled for the window like some desperate rom-com lead, fumbling with the latch like you hadn’t left it unlocked for him on purpose. your face burned. disgraceful.

mark’s expression flickered—confusion, then worry, his smile dropping as he darted forward. "baby? is everything alright?"

before you could even attempt to salvage your dignity, he was inside, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile. his palms were rough, still warm from flight, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched for injuries. "you okay? you look—" he paused, studying your flushed face, the way you were very pointedly not meeting his eyes. then, slowly, his lips twitched. "…oh."

oh. like he’d just figured you out. like he knew.

you wanted to die. "shut up," you muttered, but it lacked any real bite—not when your traitorous heart was pounding loud enough for both of you to hear.

mark’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "missed me that much, huh?"

"no," you lied, immediately.

he laughed, quiet and warm, and you hated how it made your chest ache. "liar."

and then—because he was the worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, like he was savoring the way you squirmed. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

and then—because he was the absolute worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, lingering just to feel the way you tensed under his touch. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin like he was savoring every second of your embarrassment. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

just as you opened your mouth to snap something—anything—to wipe that smug look off his face, your pc chimed. the two of you turned in unison, and there it was, flashing bright and mocking on your screen: match found.

"shit," you hissed, scrambling back toward your desk. "i forgot to fucking cancel queue—"

mark barked out a laugh, loud and delighted. "no way. you’ve been grinding rivals this whole time?" he was already following you, leaning over your shoulder with that infuriating grin. "aw, baby. did you miss me or the game more?"

you elbowed him hard enough to make him oof, but he didn’t budge, just hooked his chin over your shoulder as you frantically clicked to lock in your character. "shut up. i was bored."

"uh-huh," he drawled, eyes scanning the screen. then—"holy shit." his fingers dug into your shoulders. "you’re one game from diamond?!"

you could feel the grin in his voice before you even saw it—that stupid, contagious excitement thrumming through him like a live wire. it was unbearable. worse, it was working, that familiar warmth pooling in your chest despite your best efforts to stomp it out. pathetic. since when did you let him sway you so easily?

"took you long enough to notice," you muttered, aiming for derision but landing somewhere dangerously close to fond. your chest tightened traitorously when he let out that low, impressed whistle—the same one he used when you pulled off something reckless in the field. like you’d impressed him.

"damn. guess i’ve gotta step up my game." his lips brushed your temple, lingering just long enough to make your fingers twitch on the keyboard. you jerked your shoulder up to shove him off, but he just laughed, the vibration of it rattling through your ribs. "carry me when i’m back in gold, yeah?"

"in your fucking dreams," you snarled, but the bite dissolved the second his laugh vibrated through your shoulder—warm and familiar and alive, filling up the hollow spaces his absence had carved into your room for weeks. your traitorous heartbeat steadied against your ribs, and you didn’t shove him off when his chin dug into your shoulder. pathetic.

you’d never admit it out loud—would rather chew glass than acknowledge how much you’d missed this—but his presence at your back, solid and warm and breathing, made your fingers stutter over the character select screen.

then mark, the insufferable bastard, decided words weren’t enough.

his lips found the hinge of your jaw first—soft, teasing—then the corner of your mouth when you tilted your head automatically. "distracting me on purpose?" you muttered, but the protest cracked when his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

"is it working?" he murmured against your mouth, all smugness, and you hated how easily your body betrayed you, leaning towards him with a scoff that turned into a sharp inhale when his tongue swept over yours.

his hands cradled your face like you were something precious, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you slow and deep, the way he knew unraveled you. your fingers curled around his wrist—anchoring, needing—while your other hand slid up to cup his jaw.

when you finally pulled back to breathe (because unlike him, you were human, damn it), mark didn’t go far. his forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips swollen and curved into that stupid, satisfied smile, his breaths just as uneven as yours. his eyes were half-lidded, dark with something unbearably fond as they traced your face—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your fingers still clung to him like you’d die if he let go.

"missed you," he whispered, like it was a secret.

you swallowed the i missed you more threatening to spill out. "shut up. i’m trying to rank up." you shoved at his chest, but your fingers curled into his suit instead of pushing him away—another pathetic betrayal your body refused to stop committing.

mark’s grin turned wicked, eyes flashing with that infuriating knowing look as he chased your lips before you could even think to turn back to the screen. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier. his tongue swept against yours, slow and teasing, then insistent when you made a noise embarrassingly close to a whimper.

you could feel his smirk against your mouth, the way his free hand gripped your thigh to pull you closer, his body pressing yours back into the chair until you were arching up into him without thought. his teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip, and when you gasped, he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

your hands were everywhere—one fisted in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder, nails digging in when he nipped at your tongue. his breath hitched, and the sound went straight to your already-fogged head. you could feel his heartbeat where your thumb brushed his pulse point, wild and alive, and it made something possessive curl in your chest.

then—

the sudden blare of the match-starting music ripped through the haze.

you jerked back, breath ragged, lips swollen and wet, just in time to see your character standing idle on-screen, the round start timer already counting down.

"fuck," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers scrambling across the keyboard with desperate precision. mark blinked, dumbfounded as he processed your sudden panic before chuckling, that infuriatingly warm puff of air hitting your pulse point. "seriously?" his arms tightened around your shoulders in protest, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck like some overgrown cat refusing to move from its favorite spot.

"you're really playing right now?" he murmured, lips forming the words against your skin in a way that made your fingers stutter on the WASD keys. the amusement in his voice was unbearable, especially when you could feel his smirk pressed into your shoulder.

"one game away from diamond," you muttered, the words coming out flatter than you intended. the forced casualness did nothing to mask the frustrated and disappointed edge underneath. "if i leave now, i lose twenty fucking points."

mark sighed dramatically, the full weight of his disappointment radiating through his entire body before he finally—reluctantly—peeled himself away. the sudden absence of his warmth against your back felt criminal, and it took every ounce of your pitiful self-control not to spin your chair around and drag him back by his sinfully narrow waist. "fine, fine," he conceded, stretching with exaggerated resignation. "I'll go shower. but you owe me," he added, pausing just long enough to press one last kiss to the top of your head—chaste but loaded with promise—before sauntering toward the bathroom with that infuriatingly perfect sway to his hips.

you waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before allowing yourself one single, shaky exhale, your fingers finally steadying on the mouse as you looked at your character. the screen blurred for just a second before you violently blinked it back into focus. damn this stupid game. damn mark for being so distracting. and damn you most of all for caring about either.

the match loads in with that familiar chime, and suddenly the world narrows to the glow of your monitor—every neuron firing, every muscle coiled tight with precision. your fingers dance across the keyboard in practiced patterns, movements sharp and lethal despite the phantom heat still burning where mark's lips had been moments ago. focus. you need to focus.

the numbers don't lie—48% ult charge, one teammate already flaming in chat, the enemy hawkeye picking your supports like fucking target practice. your teeth grind together hard enough to hurt. stupid. you never should've filled as support. if you'd locked in iron fist from the start, this match would've been over already.

when the third round starts with another pathetic stagger, you snap. "swap with me," you speak into voice chat, voice steady and determined, already selecting iron fist before the whiny psylocke main can protest. the second the lock-in confirmation pings, your shoulders drop half an inch—better. this you can work with. this you can carry.

your crosshair finds the enemy healer's skull just as—

warm fingers skate up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate. mark's palm presses flush against your leg, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your sweats.

your entire body jerks so hard your knee slams into the desk—mark's suddenly between your legs like some fucking phantom, all sharp teeth and wicked gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you. "what the fuck," you snarl, but he just presses a single finger to his lips, the bastard, like this is some goddamn library and not your room.

"don't let me distract you," he murmurs, voice dripping with false innocence—and then his clever fingers are sliding your sweats down with agonizing slowness. you should shove him off. you should. but your hands stay frozen over the keyboard even as your pulse jackrabbits in your throat.

then his mouth—fuck—his mouth is on you, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his tongue dragging up your cock in one long, filthy lick, from base to tip, slow enough to make your thighs tremble. he lingers at the head, swirling the flat of his tongue over the slit just to hear the choked noise it punches from your throat. bastard.

he does it again—slower this time, savoring the way your hips jerk up, your fingers flexing like you can’t decide whether to shove him off or pull him closer. but mark just hums, amused, and pins you down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm enough to keep you in place but gentle enough that you could break free if you really wanted to. (you don’t.)

then he sinks down, taking you into his mouth inch by inch, his lips stretched tight around you, his tongue pressing up against the underside in a way that makes your vision blur. he pulls off just as slow, dragging his teeth just shy of too much, before diving back down like he’s got all the time in the world. like he wants to ruin you.

and the worst part? he’s watching you the whole time—eyes dark, lashes low, his gaze locked onto your face like he’s memorizing every twitch of your expression, every bitten-off curse. like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

it’s unbearable.

your character dodges a stun on pure muscle memory because christ—the way mark hollows his cheeks, lips stretched obscenely around you, the wet slick sounds filling the room every time he pulls up just to plunge back down. his eyelashes flutter against flushed skin when your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head, and your mouse creaks under your death grip, sweat rolling down your temples as you choke back a moan that's been building in your throat for minutes.

"m-mark—" you hiss through clenched teeth, but he just hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. your foot kicks out involuntarily, knocking against a wall as he picks up the pace, lips red and slick with spit, watching you unravel above him. the match is chaos—your team screams comms in voice chat, frantic calls to focus the enemy tank, but all you hear is the filthy slide of his mouth and your own ragged breathing.

you're so fucked.

mark's tongue drags along the underside of your cock with practiced precision, swirling around the head before sinking down until your hips twitch against the chair. his throat works around you, warm and tight, and you barely register the kill feed flashing on-screen as your healer dies, leaving you alone on point with the overtime bar bleeding out. for one delirious second, you think there goes my rank-up game—but your hands move anyway, your body reacting on pure instinct as you somehow, somehow clutch the round.

"p-please—" the word tears out of you like a surrender, raw and desperate in a way that would’ve had you recoiling if your brain wasn’t reduced to static. your fingers twist in mark’s hair—pulling? pushing?—as your hips stutter helplessly. "mark, please, go—ah—go easy—" it’s pathetic, how your voice cracks on the last syllable, how your thighs tremble under his palms like you’re some inexperienced kid instead of—

mark listens, but not the way you wanted. he pulls off with a filthy, wet pop, your cock twitching against your stomach, flushed and glistening under the low light. the bastard has the audacity to grin, lips slick and swollen, breath coming in quick puffs against your overheated skin. "that good, huh?" he rasps, dragging his tongue along your length in one torturously slow stripe, savoring the way your abs clench violently.

you barely have time to gasp before he’s mouthing at the head, pressing wet, open kisses along the vein underneath—teasing, always teasing—his breath scorching where you’re oversensitive and throbbing. then—just as the enemy team respawns, just as your team’s frantic pings flood the screen—he swallows you back down in one smooth slide, deep, until his nose brushes your stomach and he stays, throat working around you in slow, deliberate pulses.

your hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, but mark just digs his fingers into your thighs, pinning you to the chair with infuriating ease. the contrast is maddening—the game’s frantic audio in your headphones, your team’s character voice lines of getting hurt, the enemy pushing point—while mark’s mouth is nothing but molten stillness, his tongue pressing just there every time you twitch. sweat drips down your temple. your knuckles whiten on the mouse. you can’t tell if the choked noise that escapes you is from the hawkeye headshot that just wiped your backline or the way mark breathes through his nose, content to let you unravel in his grip.

his eyes flick up to yours through his lashes—dark, amused, the bastard—lips stretched obscenely around you as he watches your screen with detached interest. like this is just another game to him. like he knows you’re two seconds from either throwing the match or throwing your dignity out the window to fuck into his throat.

somehow—through the haze of sweat and mark’s fucking teeth grazing you on an upstroke, through the way your thighs tremble around his shoulders—you clutch. iron fist’s ult meter hits 100% with a deafening chime. your muscles coil, every fiber taut with tension, and mark’s grip tightens on your hips in warning, nails biting into skin. but you launch yourself into the backline anyway, the kill feed exploding in a burst of color. triple. quad. your team’s hysterical screaming in voice chat drowns out the wet, obscene sound of mark finally moving, sucking you down to the root just as "victory" flashes across the screen in blinding gold.

your team continues to scream—cheering, cracking jokes, their earlier hostility forgotten in the adrenaline rush. you would've thought this was a beautiful moment if you weren't currently being sucked off by your boyfriend. you mutter a breathless "gg" into the mic, lips twitching at the chorus of "holy shit, w fucking iron fist!" before you’re cutting them off with a sharp click of your mouse. the headset hits the desk with a clatter.

you don’t even get to savor the win. mark’s hands are on your hips now, dragging you to the edge of the chair with a roughness that makes your stomach flip. his nose presses into your stomach, lips sealed tight as he swallows around you with a filthy, shuddering groan—like he’s been waiting this whole fucking match to ruin you properly. your back arches off the chair, fingers tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt, but he just moans around you, eyes fluttering shut like this is exactly where he wants to be. like he’d happily die here, between your thighs.

"f-fuck—mark—" you whimper, but it’s too late. he’s not stopping this time.

his tongue drags along the underside of your cock in a slow, filthy stripe before he takes you deep again, one hand sliding up your chest to thumb at your nipple through your shirt. the dual sensation punches a ragged noise from your throat, your hips jerking involuntarily. mark hums in approval, the vibration rippling through you like a live wire. his free hand slips under your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder to press you even closer, until you can feel every hitched breath he takes through your skin.

he pulls off just to mouth at the head, tongue circling the slit with agonizing precision, and you whine, high and desperate. his eyes flick up to yours, dark with something unbearably fond even as his lips glisten with spit. "love you like this," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. "all mine. fucking perfect. i missed you so much baby, you don't even know the half of it—"

then he’s sinking down again, taking you until his throat flutters around the tip, and you’re gone—fingers tightening in his hair as you spill down his throat with a broken cry. mark swallows every drop, lips staying locked around you until you’re twitching from oversensitivity, until your grip on his hair loosens to cradle his face instead.

when he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. he rests his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, reverent. like you’re something sacred.

"welcome home," you mutter, voice hoarse.

mark's grin is worth every goddamn second of the wait—all bright-eyed and breathless, his lips kiss-swollen from where you'd bitten them. you're still coming down from your high, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the keyboard where you'd gripped it too tight. you should shove him off. you would shove him off. any second now.

"baby," mark murmurs, and fuck, the way your stupid traitorous heart lurches at that tone—all soft and reverent, like you're something precious instead of a mess of sweat and frustration and arousal. his fingers trail down your stomach, feather-light, and you hate how your body arches into the touch before your brain catches up.

"don't—" you start, but it comes out hoarse, ruined. mark just smiles, that dorky, infuriating smile that makes your chest ache, and presses a kiss to your shoulder while his other hand navigates your mouse with infuriating ease.

"c'mon, diamond boy," he teases, clicking queue with one hand while the other slips lower, fingers tracing your rim in slow, maddening circles. "wouldn't want you to lose your hard-earned rank, would we?"

you choke on air when his fingers slide past your lips—calloused and tasting faintly of salt—pressing down on your tongue with deliberate pressure. "suck," mark murmurs, and your traitorous mouth obeys before your pride can protest, hollowing your cheeks as you work his fingers wet. his breath hitches when your teeth graze his knuckles, his other hand fisting his own cock through his pants at the sight of you—lips stretched, lashes fluttering, teary-eyed, that fucked-out daze already clouding your expression just from this.

then those slick fingers are dragging down your stomach, pushing past your thighs, and—"fuck—" your hips jerk when one curls inside you, crooking just right. "you're insufferable," you spit, but it loses all bite when your hands scramble uselessly between the desk and his wrist, torn between shoving him away and grinding down onto his hand.

mark laughs against your pulse point, the vibration rattling through your ribs as he adds a second finger with that same unbearable patience, stretching you slow. "keep playing," he breathes into your ear, twisting his wrist to drag a broken noise from your throat. "i wanna see you try to focus when i'm fucking you full of my cock."

the match loads in with that obnoxiously bright chime, but the sound barely registers—not when mark’s fingers crook just right, scissoring deep and dragging a broken moan from your throat. your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking uselessly against his hand as he adds a third finger, stretching you with that infuriating, practiced ease.

"fuck, you’re tight," mark murmurs against the shell of your ear, his free hand sliding up to palm your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple. "when was the last time you touched yourself, baby?"

you choke on a gasp when his fingers press deeper, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble. "few—fuck—few weeks ago," you manage, voice ragged. "didn’t— didn’t do shit. couldn’t—"

his teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and teasing. "couldn’t what?"

you hate how breathless you sound. "couldn’t reach deep enough. wasn’t—hnng—wasn’t you."

mark groans, low and filthy, his fingers stilling inside you just to feel how you clench around them. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he mutters, but he’s grinning when he nips at your jaw. "lucky for you, i’m real good at reaching where you need me, huh?"

you scoff, the immersion breaking for a second as you look at him unimpressed, "did you really just say that—ahh—" and then he curls his fingers just so, and you’re pretty sure the entire universe short-circuits.

mark withdraws his fingers with a slick sound, and the emptiness is agony. your head drops forward, teary eyes staring down at yourself—flushed, trembling, needy—and you hate how pathetic you look. how wrecked he’s made you already. his cock twitches in his pants at the sight, and the groan he lets out is filthy. "look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "all desperate for me."

before you can snap something defensive, his hands are on your hips, hauling you up with that stupid superhuman strength of his. you stumble, legs shaky, but he steadies you effortlessly—then drops into your chair, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion. the heat of him sears through his clothes, and you feel him, hard and eager beneath his boxers, the fabric damp where he’s been leaking for you.

"there," mark murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your legs apart wider. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, "better view, yeah?" his fingers make quick work of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—already hard and leaking against your back. "still gotta pick, baby," he teases, nipping at your earlobe when you hesitate on the character select screen. "unless you wanna dodge? though, i don't think you can dodge in this game."

you scoff, locking in iron fist with more force than necessary. "shut up."

the game loads in a blur of colors and sound, but all you can focus on is mark's teeth sinking into your shoulder as you guide your character toward the point. his hands roam your chest, pinching and teasing until you're squirming in your seat. "f-focus on the fucking game," you mutter, even as your hips push back against him.

mark just laughs, low and dark, before licking a stripe up your neck. "giving yourself pep-talk? how cute."

"i swear to god, markus sebastian grayson, if you say one more cheesy thing i will throw you out of my room."

when the enemy team finally pushes in, bullets and abilities flying across your screen, mark chooses that exact moment to shove two fingers past your lips. "suck," he orders, and you do—tongue swirling around his digits, moaning when he curls them just right. he pulls them out slick with your spit, trailing them down your stomach before reaching between your legs.

"f-fuck—" you choke out as his spit-slick fingers circle your rim, teasing before one pushes in to the second knuckle. your back arches off the chair, thighs spreading wider despite the game still raging onscreen. "mark—!"

"that’s it," he growls, his free hand groping your chest as he works you open again—first one finger, then two, scissoring slow until you’re panting, your neglected cock dripping onto your stomach. his own erection grinds against your lower back, leaking precome onto your skin. "still gonna carry, or am i too distracting?" he taunts, curling his fingers just so until you see white.

you barely register the starlord that flanks your team from behind you, killing your punisher as mark withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. "look at you," he murmurs, lining up his cock—thick and flushed and yours—against your hole. "already fucking yourself back on my fingers like you’re starving for it." he pushes in slow, just the tip at first, and the stretch burns so good your toes curl. "shit—" he groans, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "still so tight, even after i loosened you up. fucking perfect."

he pulls out until just the head remains, those shallow, teasing thrusts making your nails scrape against the keyboard. "more—" you demand, voice cracking, but mark just laughs—bright and smug—keeping the pace agonizingly slow.

"beg prettier," he murmurs against your ear, and you’re going to fucking murder him later.

the thought evaporates when your character dies on screen, a sharp "fuck!" tearing from your throat as your head thuds back against his shoulder. mark’s chuckle vibrates through your spine. "distracted, baby?"

"shut the fuck up," you groan, but your hips twitch back against him instinctively, seeking friction. his hands tighten around your waist, holding you still.

"uh-uh. you wanted to play." his teeth graze your earlobe. "so play."

then your character respawns, and you barely have time to register the 30 SECONDS OF OVERTIME warning before mark slams up into you in one brutal thrust, filling you completely. your back arches as you come with a choked gasp, vision whiting out around the edges—

"that’s it, sweetheart," mark praises, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise before soothing it with his tongue. his arms cage you against the desk, his cock twitching inside you as he murmurs nonsense into your skin: "so good for me, taking me so well—fuck, look at you."

you’re trembling, oversensitive, but the game’s still going. with a shaky breath, you force your hands back onto the keyboard, your movements sluggish as you try to focus past the haze. mark hums approvingly, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch the screen, his cock still buried deep. every slight shift of his hips—every lazy pulse inside you—has your fingers stuttering on the keys.

"c'mon, baby," mark murmurs against your jaw, his breath warm as his fingers trail higher up your thigh. "carry us." his other hand slips around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest—solid and familiar and home after weeks of empty space and staticky comms. "missed watching you play," he admits quietly, lips brushing your earlobe. "missed watching you win."

you're going to strangle him. after you win.

his nose nuzzles into the space behind your ear, inhaling deeply like he's memorizing your scent. "god, missed you," he continues, voice going rough around the edges. "mission was hell without your voice in my ear. kept thinking about how you'd chew me out for taking stupid risks." a soft laugh vibrates through his chest and into yours. "missed that too."

your fingers hesitate on the keyboard for half a second before you tilt your head just enough to press a grudging kiss to his jaw—the closest part of him you can reach without twisting your entire body. "i missed you too, beloved," you mutter, the endearment slipping out despite yourself. "but right now, i'm trying to focus."

mark makes a wounded noise at the nickname, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "say that again," he demands against your throat, lips dragging wet and insistent over your pulse. "c’mon, sweetheart, just once more—" his hips shift minutely, and fuck, you feel it—the way his cock twitches inside you, already so hard it makes your breath stutter. your grip on the mouse tightens reflexively, knuckles going white around it as you try to focus on the flickering screen instead of the heat of him buried to the hilt.

"later," you rasp, securing a kill and kicking away through sheer muscle memory. "if you can fucking behave."

mark groans like you’ve wounded him, but he mostly stills—except for the way his fingers keep tracing absent, possessive circles low on your stomach, except for the way his lips keep finding patches of skin to suck bruises into between ragged breaths. "better win fast then," he murmurs, teeth scraping your shoulder in warning. "cause i missed all of you, [y/n]."

your eyes flick down instinctively—and there, just below your navel, the faintest swell where the tip of him presses up inside you. the sight punches a shaky noise from your throat, your body clenching around him before you can stop yourself.

"f-fuck—" mark’s whimper is wrecked, his forehead dropping heavily between your shoulder blades as his hips jerk involuntarily. you can feel him throbbing, the slick drag of him as he accidentally pushes deeper. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he grits out, fingers trembling where they splay across your stomach like he’s mapping the bulge.

you swallow hard, throat bobbing against the thick press of him inside you, forcing your attention back to the screen even as your thighs tremble on top of mark's. "then fucking stop moving," you snap, but your voice fractures halfway through, turning the command into something embarrassingly close to a plea. the kill feed lights up with your username in bold strokes but the victory does nothing to hide how wrecked you already sound, how your walls flutter around him when he chuckles darkly against your neck.

"you're doing so good, baby," mark murmurs, lips dragging along your pulse point as his hands slide up your chest. his thumbs brush over your nipples through your shirt, teasing just enough to make you jolt but not enough to truly distract—not when you're finally gaining ground, finally winning. "carrying this match and taking me so well..."

you bite back a whimper, fingers flying across the keyboard as you cap the point. eight minutes. eight agonizing minutes of mark's cock seated deep inside you, his hips making tiny, barely-there rolls whenever you did something particularly impressive—a well-timed ult, a perfect parry—until you were dripping around him, your sweat-slicked back sticking to his chest. you don't even remember when you (or mark) had taken your shirt off. the start had been a disaster, but after forcing that useless jeff to swap, after taking matters into your own hands, your team steamrolled through the enemy like they were nothing. just like you knew they would.

the victory screen flashes gold, the triumphant DING of your rank-up swallowed whole by the filthy, wet sound of mark’s cock driving into you—deep, too deep, the angle so brutal your vision whites out for a second. his hands lock around your waist, flipping you before you can even process it, and suddenly you’re straddling him, knees digging into your chair as he yanks you down onto him with a groan that rattles your bones.

"fuck, look at you," mark gasps, voice shredded. his fingers scramble over your hips, your stomach, your chest—like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he’s starving for all of you at once. his hips snap up, relentless, the thick drag of him punching a broken noise from your throat. "all mine. perfect for me."

his praise is molten, spilling between feverish kisses, between the slick clash of tongues as he licks into your mouth. you can taste your name on his lips, sweet and desperate. his cock brushes that spot inside you with every thrust, just right, and your back arches on instinct, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"knew you could do it," he growls, hands fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to his teeth. "knew you’d win. my brilliant, beautiful boy—"

his voice cracks on the last word, and god, the way he’s looking at you—eyes black with want, lips swollen from kissing you stupid, his usual awkward confidence unraveled into something raw and needy—it’s worse than the pleasure, worse than the way his cock stretches you open. because this? this is mark grayson coming apart beneath you, for you, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his grip on your hips turns possessive.

you’re both a wreck—skin gleaming with sweat, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips, the filthy, wet sound of him sliding into you over and over until your vision whites out at the edges. his grip on your hips is brutal, thumbs pressing into the bone hard enough to bruise, holding you down as he grinds up with a snap of his hips that punches a sob from your throat. "mark—!" his name comes out broken, slurred between panting breaths, and he’s no better, his voice ragged as he chokes out, "that’s it, baby, take it—fuck, just like that—" like he’s unraveling, like he’s worshipping you.

you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, stealing the groan right from his lips as you take control, your fingers tangling in his hair to yank his head back. "shut up," you mutter, but it’s fond, "you’re so fucking loud." his hands scramble at your back, blunt nails dragging red lines down your skin as you ride him with ruthless precision, chasing your own pleasure just as much as his, the whimpers and groans coming from his lips not stopping. the chair creaks dangerously beneath you, your forgotten headset hitting the floor with a clatter, but you don’t care—not when mark’s thrusts are growing erratic, his rhythm faltering under your relentless pace.

you lean in, teeth scraping his cheekbone before you kiss him, messy and biting, swallowing his gasp as you nip at his bottom lip. "gonna come already?" you taunt, voice rough, "thought you had more stamina than that."

mark growls—low and feral, the sound rumbling through your chest like thunder—and suddenly the world tilts. his arm snakes around your waist, hauling you back flush against him with a brutal yank that makes your gaming chair screech in protest. your chest meets his, sweat-slick and heaving, as he manhandles you like you weigh nothing.

one hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your throat while the other grabs both your wrists, pinning them behind you with crushing ease. "stay still," he groans against your ear, voice ragged with want, and then he’s moving—snapping his hips up hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, each thrust deeper, meaner, the angle punching ragged moans from your throat.

you’re burning. tears streak down your face, hot and humiliating, but you can’t—fuck, you can’t stop the way your body arches into him, the way your thighs tremble as he fucks up into you with punishing precision. his hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into flesh as he holds you at that perfect, devastating angle, every drag of his cock lighting your nerves on fire.

"that’s it," mark pants, his breath scalding against your shoulder. "take it. fucking take it." his pace turns brutal, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the game’s distant lobby music. you don’t care. can’t care. not when he’s ruining you like this, not when every snap of his hips has you sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked but needing more—

"fuck, look at you," he pants against your ear, voice wrecked as he watches his cock disappear into you with every snap of his hips. "taking me so fucking good—god, you feel perfect—" his words dissolve into a whimper when you clench around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

you can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed against yours, the bite of his fingers on your wrists, the relentless stretch as he bottoms out again and again. "gonna—fuck—" mark's warning is barely coherent, his whole body tensing as he pulses inside you, his release hot and overwhelming. but he doesn't stop—can't stop, not when you're still clenching around him, not when your own orgasm is so close.

his hand slips between you, calloused fingers wrapping around your neglected cock, and it only takes three rough strokes before you're coming with a broken cry, painting both your stomachs in streaks of white. mark groans as you tighten around him, his hips stuttering through the aftershocks as he mouths at your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach—like he still can't get enough even now.

mark gathers you against his chest as you both come down, his lips pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he can reach—the sweat-damp curve of your temple, the corner of your swollen mouth, the frantic rabbit-quick jump of your pulse. "so good," he mumbles against your throat, voice wrecked and raw. "so fucking perfect for me. missed you—god, missed you so much, baby." his arms lock around you like steel bands, all that stupid superhuman strength trembling with the effort of not crushing you.

you feel him shift—his softening cock dragging slow and filthy out of you, the obscene wet sound making your thighs twitch—then pause. his breath hitches when he sees it: his cum starting to leak from your used hole, glistening in the dim light. a rough noise tears from his throat, and before you can even process it, he's pushing back in with one sharp roll of his hips, the thick head of his cock scooping up the spill and stuffing it back inside you where it belongs. "mine," he growls, biting at your shoulder as he seats himself to the hilt again, making sure not a single drop escapes.

you should shove him off. should snap something scathing about his disgusting possessiveness, his pathetic need to keep you full of him. but your traitorous hands fist in his hair instead, dragging his mouth to yours in a biting kiss as your legs lock around his hips. his groan vibrates through your chest when you arch up, taking him deeper—like you couldn't bear to let him pull away either. pathetic. you're both so fucking pathetic.

so. this was supposed to be a quick little 3-4k one-shot. supposed to be. but then reader and mark decided to have feelings (gross) and now here we are at 7.7k words of competitive gaming, unresolved tension, and mark being absolutely insufferable (affectionate). whoops? anyway, hope you enjoyed this self-indulgent mess as much as i enjoyed writing it—because honestly, i have no regrets.

[loucifersbitch]

when the levee breaks bucktommy | G | 1.5k | warnings: MCD

It hits him out of nowhere on a random Wednesday in June.

Bobby is gone. He's really gone forever. Buck is never going to see him again. Never talk to him, never share another meal, never hug him. Nothing ever again.

Buck is walking home from the grocery store on a random Wednesday in June when his knees buckle and he nearly goes down. He braces his forearm on the facade of the nearest store, eventually pulling himself into an alley before any of the pedestrians near him feel the urge to call 9-1-1. It's not an ideal place to have a breakdown, but it's what he's got right now.

Setting down his bags of groceries - carefully because he bought eggs - he leans his full bodyweight against the sturdy wall, trying to hold back the tears prickling behind his eyes. This couldn't happen when he was home by himself? Breaking down in public is not exactly what he had in mind for his day off.

He clutches at his chest, grasping his shirt with one hand while his other goes for his phone. Who's he even supposed to call though? Maddie and Chim are busy surviving the newborn stage, Hen and Karen have taken their kids on a roadtrip through California, Eddie is at the beach with Chris. He's not calling Athena, that's for damn sure. He gasps as a sob tries to work its way out. He needs to get out of here. He has to get home somehow and quickly. He needs -

"Evan?"

At the gentle tone, Buck takes a shuddery breath, looking toward the entrance of the alley to see Tommy. He's clearly trying to make himself smaller and unassuming. Buck knows the breadth and width of him intimately.

"Are you okay?"

He's not. Not even a little. But that's not Tommy's problem. Buck is always too much, too loud, too impulsive, too clingy, too…Buck. Tommy shouldn't have to deal with that.

"I -" his voice cracks.

A sob breaks through. Then another and another, and soon he's fully crying, breaking down like he hasn't since the night Bobby died. The night Bobby told him he loved him, that he'd be okay, that the team were going to need him.

Except they didn't. They didn't need him. They don't need him. And he's not okay. Nothing is okay, and it never will be again because Bobby fucking died. Bobby left him here to just…what? Go on with life? Keep going every day like there's not a giant Bobby-shaped hole everywhere he looks? Somehow keep living even when everything feels like it's falling apart, like he's failing everyone he loves?

"I know. I know," Tommy is saying. Had Buck said some of that out loud? "I'm so sorry, Evan. I know. It's not fair. None of it is fair. I'm sorry."

At some point, they had sunk to the ground, Tommy holding him tightly. Buck's breathing starts to even out as Tommy keeps talking, keeps holding him, holds him together at all the places he feels like he's about to break apart.

When Buck is able to breathe mostly normally again, he lifts his head from Tommy's shoulder, sniffling as he wipes at the tears left on Tommy's henley.

"Sorry about that," Buck says, embarrassed for many reasons. "I don't know why -"

"Hey," Tommy cuts in, kind but firm, "you have nothing to apologize for. I miss him, too, and I didn't think of him as a father."

"I know, I just feel silly breaking down like that on you. I should be over this by now. Not feeling so many things."

"Evan, you have the right to feel everything. Losing a parent - even someone who was a father figure - is a big deal. Especially when you're as close as you were with Bobby. Okay? You never have to be sorry for missing someone you loved."

Tommy starts to move his arms like he's going to let go, but Buck catches his hands, placing them back where they were.

"Not yet," Buck says, half joking, half serious. "Need you to hold me together a little longer."

"I can do that," Tommy smiles softly. They sit for a moment holding each other quietly before Tommy says, "You know, grief isn't linear. You don't go from one stage to the next boom, boom, boom. It's not simple or easy, and you'll probably repeat stages a few times. And that emptiness you feel? It never really goes away. That person was a part of you, and that will never change. But all the other people you love who also loved him can fill in the gaps. You'll see bits and pieces of him in other people, and sometimes that helps, sometimes it makes it worse. But the people we lose are never really gone as long as we keep them right here," Tommy finishes, pointing at Buck's chest where his heart is thumping quickly.

"Wow," Buck says after a moment, sniffling again as he tries to hold back a fresh wave of emotion, "when did you get so smart about grief?"

Tommy barks a laugh and says, "It comes free when you lose your mom as a kid and then sign up for active duty as soon as you're of legal age."

"Ah," Buck nods. "Makes sense." This is not the right time, and he knows that, but he can't help asking, "Will you come over?"

He realizes too late how that sounds when Tommy raises an eyebrow and smirks at him.

"Not like that," Buck amends. "I just want your company. And maybe we can talk?"

Tommy's face softens.

"Okay. That sounds nice actually."

They finally get up, releasing their hold on each other long enough to dust themselves off and collect Buck's groceries. Tommy grabs his hand before they exit the alley. When Buck looks down, Tommy shrugs.

"In case you still need the support," he says.

As they walk the last few blocks to Buck's house, he asks, "What are you doing on this side of town anyway?"

Tommy's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but Buck notices before he can come up with an excuse.

"Tommy, were you hoping to run into me?"

"No, I just - um - I like the kombucha at that froofy health store you always go to. Running into you is just a bonus."

"Uh-huh, and how often do you buy kombucha?"

Buck knows he's got him when Tommy winces.

"Two, maybe three times a week. Sometimes four."

"Tommy," Buck laughs, "you could've just called."

"It wasn't the right time," he says, squeezing Buck's hand. "It didn't feel right to ask about us when you were going through something life-changing."

"Mm, you have a point." Buck squints in the afternoon sunlight, but looks at Tommy seriously when he says, "But I had already decided I want to be with you before Bobby died. That hasn't changed."

He isn't expecting Tommy to stop in his tracks, or to turn toward him and kiss him, surprising him like he did the first time they kissed. It's just as soft and sweet as that first time, but now it's familiar too.

"What was that for?" he asks when they pull apart.

Tommy starts walking again, dragging Buck along.

"I love you," Tommy says, nonchalant, like he didn't just empty Buck's brain and then make him trip over his own feet.

"I - I'm sorry. What?"

"I said, 'I love you,'" he repeats, eyes sparkling mischievously when he looks back. "I figure there's no point in not saying it. You should know. Even though I think you already do." He looks at Buck pointedly, and Buck nods because he does. He does know. "So I thought I should say it."

They continue walking, and Buck's house comes into view.

"I love you, too," he says. "You should know I love you, too."

"I do," he squeezes Buck's hand again.

"Is there anything you don't know?" Buck laughs.

"Hm," Tommy hums, thinking. They reach the front door, and while Buck grabs for his keys, Tommy says, "I guess there's one thing I don't know yet."

"Oh? What's that?" Buck asks as he opens the door, stepping through.

The house is a little messy. Buck knows he needs to pull himself out of his funk and do some laundry and sweep soon, but that can wait for a moment.

Tommy hangs back, not crossing the threshold.

"Tommy?" Buck prompts. "What don't you know?"

Seeming to steel himself, Tommy huffs.

"What I don't know is, do you want me to stay just for some company? Or do you want me to stay…longer?"

He looks nervous, and it's understandable. Buck doesn't let him stew for long. He reaches out a hand, hoping Tommy will take it and step through the doorway. There's a moment when Buck feels a pit open in his stomach.

Then Tommy takes his hand and steps inside, steps into the mess with Buck.

"I want you to stay forever."

[stxxrlights]

𝐄𝐗-𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

ex-husband!toji who was devastated when you asked for a divorce but knew it was gonna end up that way. the way he acted like he never cared, always acting sassy towards you even on the days he knew there was something wrong with you on that day. he didn't know that all that would lead up to you eventually wanting a divorce. he denied at first but after thinking it through, he knew it was for the best.

ex-husband!toji who cried himself to sleep the first few months after you had left. the house never felt so empty and quiet. the bed was so warm and everything looked so dull. he missed your warm touch, your weird but cute laugh, the stupid jokes you would tell him when you were getting too sleepy. and now all of that was gone. all because of his ignorance, his negligence. he had finally found happiness with you and he fucked it up. his heart aching whenever he though of you.

ex-husband!toji who resorted to drinking to full all the emotions he was feeling. wasting all of his money on alcohol, but it still didn't help. because even in his drunken state, he still acknowledge you as the love of his life. the one who was able to fix him. him getting a little sober when he comes back to his place calling your name and then remembering that you're gone.

ex-husband!toji who got a little too exited when you called him telling him that you left some important things. his heart is beating rapidly in his chest, a wide smile etched on his face as he hopes you don't get a hint of it either. as much as he wants you back, he does not want to appear too desperate.

ex-husband!toji who's hand was shaking when you rang the doorbell. he opened the door to see you looking as stunning as possible, while he felt like shit. he had heavy bags under his eyes, his beard disheveled and his eyes slightly red form the alcohol in his system and from crying.

ex-husband!toji who persuaded you to stay a little longer and have a chat. and was shocked that you agreed. it was kind of awkward at first, but the years of knowing each other didn't go to waste. you talked about the new place you got, and how you felt during your marriage, getting to understand your side and realizing what an asshole he was to you. but at least now he doesn't feel so lonely. at least today he can go to bed knowing that he got to have you close to him, even if it was only for about an hour.

ex-husband!toji who you agreed to stay friends with because you still cared about him. there were many memories of the both of you happy and in love, acting like complete fools, memories that still put a smile on your face. he was quite the experience, but circumstances made you let go. it was better for the both of you. but of course staying friends is not a big deal.

ex-husband!toji who slowly started getting his life back on track. shaving his stubble regularly, keeping the house clean, arranging his wardrobe and drinking way less that he was as well as working extra hard on his job so he can earn a lot of money and buy himself or you something nice. because at least he didn't fuck up that bad, right...?

ex-husband!toji who became a better person in general, to maintain your relationship. in hopes of trying to get you back. slowly, it was a process. getting you to trust him, just like the first time and making you realize that you miss him and being with him just as much as he does and eventually confessing your feelings to him like the first time. it was genius, really.

ex-husband!toji who gets heart broken when he finds out you've moved on. moved on to a guy more handsome, younger, richer and clearly treats you better than he ever did. he's stunned when you introduce them to one another, not knowing what to say. a fake wobbly smile is plastered on his face as he shakes hands with your new man. he congratulates you. what else is there to say? but he realizes now that he's lost you. there was no chance you were ever going to be together again. nome at all...

comments and reblogs are appreciated

[kiskivmiske]

This. Exactly that.

I also begged mom time and time again to please PLEASE buy me boy clothes. I had handmedowns from my dad when he was a kid and they weren't half as comfortable as girls clothes.

But mom was pretty conservative at the time and would be afraid to buy boys/unisex clothes. She was scared I'll be perceived as a lesbian/transgender and asked me on multiple occasions if I like girls. I had to wear stupidly thin tees with dumbass lettering like "I'm allowed to do it, I'm a girl" (translated from Russian, "мне можно, я девочка", a popular phrase implying that women are forgiven weaknesses because they are a weak gender) "little angel" "baby". Aha, little angel baby 170 cm 75 kg beating grown up pedos, lmao.

I was never morbidly obese, but I was 5-20 kg overweight on different stages of life. (Except for the time I tried to lose weight to make a boy like me, and it turned out he was just hanging out with me because I was a pushover and did things for him like homework or art, he ended up with a chubby girl, I ruined my health and it's all for nothing) Never, even when I was starving myself and lost 25 kg in three months, NEVER did I have my clothes sitting comfortably.

I am fat not because I play CS or LoL 24/7 in my gaming chair (advertisement goes here), I just have a messed up eating schedule where I go all day w/o food and eat in the evening. I spend most of my free time walking around the woods, gathering berries, shrooms, herbs, rafting, swimming, rock hounding, etc. And I demand good quality and fit from my clothes. And girls clothes never allowed to move freely. Winter coat wraps around my legs so I can't make a big step to climb a small rock or get over a fallen tree. I don't even feel safe, because, if I need to run, my legs are half tied.

Pants with ridiculously thin rubber make marks on my belly, I can't lift my arms without my shirt creeping up my torso all the way to my teets. Every single time in gym I had to stop and adjust it so my belly isn't constantly exposed. I had to buy new shirts every two months because they were so thin, normal exercises overstretched them. You don't need infinity stones to snap them out of existence.

I accumulated some lunch money and secretly went to buy a new shirt. In men's section. It was the most comfortable shirt I had since I've grown out of dad's. My boobas are quite large, but still it fit me perfecly (probably because designed for broader chest) It served me for two years at school and four more as a hiking shirt (because it had a few stains but still held itself together).

Mom didn't notice anything and I continued to buy men's shirts, then pants. One time my mom came to me and this interaction happened.

"Where did you buy this shirt" (shows her shirt to compare) "I need something for work that isn't so thin. You can even see my bra through it. Look how thick this (on my shirt) fabric is, I need one."

"In (the market)"

"I've been there recently and didn't see one"

I pause "It's uh in men's section"

Mom, without a pause: "You go past (the market) every day, can you get me one?"

Mom also noticed that my shirts take MUCH longer to rip, stretch or wear down and since then didn't say a word about me buying clothes that aren't my gender. The only clothes for women I wear is a swimsuit, panties and a fedora.

(I do realize that maybe there are good women's shirts, that don't go in landfill after few months, but I never has access to them because of my income and location)

I also had permanent scars from wearing rubber boots and had trouble explaining my family I wasn't stuck in a bear trap. But that's another story.

Women's clothing sucks. And I now firmly believe that one of the reason women are more obsessed about their weight is because of clothing. Growing up I mostly wore mens/boys clothing and I never had to think about size, waist, etc. The clothes won't hug my thighs in the sense that would make me conscious of them while moving. If the waist was too big id grab a belt. Plus the design of pants and tshirts was pretty standard.

Now during my late teens, early twenties i started going towards more women's clothing. Because i felt I had to look more feminine. And HOLY SHIT. It sucked. BAD. First the material. Its so bad and thin and cost more than guys clothes. No standard Tshirt fit, everything has a different shoulder to chest ratio. The pants are either too tight, hug your ass and thighs too much or are too baggy to be comfortable. And the waist. Holy shit. Ive been underweight till I was 23 (medical reasons). And I didnt have a lot of problem with the waist thing then (see where this is going) but the moment I kicked my illness and gained weight and got into normal weight range, dude the waist thing became a big issue. FIRST of all. For guys the waist end at waist, the hip bone area. Not for women. Most clothes go above the hip bones, some even over the belly button. If the thing feels right standing up, youll suffocate sitting down. And even if its elastic waistband, its sitting on your stomach, it does not have a bone to support it and it feels uncomfortable. (Maybe I have some sensory issue, I don't know about yall but I dont like being conscious of clothes sticking to my body). And now to the main point. I never had any issue with waist being uncomfortable when I was underweight or when I wear boys pants (really pants made for boys get more humanly consideration than women) and the moment i got into normal range, the womens pants saying they are my waist size fit pretty snug and tight around my waist, ass and thighs. But still till this day I never face this issue with my boys pants. Today while trying on some pants that my mom gifted me that said their waist was a size bigger than mine I found then uncomfortable and started thinking should I lose some weight? And that fucking blew my mind because I am already thin and in a pretty normal range of BMI. Those clothes feel comfortable as long as you are underweight. That is insane. Seriously. Ladies if this the case with you all. Or maybe some of you. Ditch the women's section. If you are short like me, go for the boys section or else mens. These fucking clothing sizes and designs are not made thinking of your comfort in mind. Now im gonna go to the store and exchange the pants for some boys khaki pants.

I think this is just one face of how the system is designed to make you feel uncomfortable and doubt yourself. You see how much waist room guys get? We are the same species after all. What the fuck. Do you make different size clothing for male and female cats or monkeys? No fucking other species have such a wide difference in body shape than what humans are told we have.

[ddlydevotion]

YOU MAKE LOVIN’ FUN 🧸 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Bo Chow Marriage Headcanons

currently listening to: Mound Bayou by Ludwig Göransson

A/N: read part one here 💌! I said I wasn’t gonna turn into a Sinners blog but here I am writing for Bo for the hundredth time.

After he proposed to you, it didn't take long before a wedding took place. Bo makes a good amount of money from his store which made it easy for the two of you to move on from being engaged to legally married. Marrying for love wasn't necessarily common in the early 1900's, so you considered yourself to be an incredibly lucky woman to have met a man like Bo. Sure, he could provide for you financially and the two of you worked well together, but you were also obsessed with one another.

Like I said in my last marriage post about him, he'd love nothing more than to achieve a family with you. He'd constantly have his hands on your swollen belly, kissing it and whispering to your growing baby as if there was a possibility they could hear him.

Bo constantly has a cigarette dangling from his lips while he's working, but he tries his hardest not to do it as often around you.

Places his hands on your hips when he's squeezing past you at work. It's his way of getting his hands on you without raising any eyebrows due to public indecency.

Your eyes quickly flickered to his gold amulet the first time you met, and you later developed a habit of seeking out Taoist bracelets and pendants to gift him.

Always makes sure to treat you to intimate nights out as well as gifts that are specific to your vast interests. He's definitely the type to gift you all sorts of beautifully woven dresses/blouses and refer to them as his favorite clothing options for you.

"I'm takin' ya out tonight. Make sure to wear that blue one I gotchu, alright?"

If you're on the curvier side, this man has to stop his tongue from lolling out of his damn mouth. He'd still love you the exact same if you were slender don't even play with me, but he'd act like a kid around a cookie jar when it comes to your curves. His hands always manage to find the plush inside of your thigh while he's driving/sitting near you, his hand makes a home on the small of your back, he takes it upon himself to sneak an indulgent squeeze to your ass, bracing himself for your surprised squeal and the quick smack you deliver to his sturdy shoulder.

he's very touchy when it comes to you. Bo isn't shy when it comes to allowing his deep affection for you shine through. He'll pull you in towards his chest before swaying you to the melody of whatever song may be playing, He'll hug you from the back while you're completing basic daily activities, he wraps his arms around you & kisses your shoulder as the two of you lay in bed together after going for a third round. You're sweaty, sticky, panting, and yet you're ready to go once more.

He's fiercely protective over you and isn't afraid of puffing his chest out like a male bird in order to defend your honor. He definitely has the "don't disrespect my wife, any problem you have with her you also have with me and you will take it up with me" type of mindset.

modern au! Bo would definitely get your name tattooed on his forearm. Am I saying that because Yao, the actor who played Bo, has tattoos? Well, yes!

He supports you wholeheartedly when it comes to your interests. If you down books like they're glasses of water, he'll build a sturdy bookcase just for you. This man works with his hands, okay? If you enjoy baking or cooking in your free time, he'll gift you cook books and share his family's personal recipes. This man doesn't let you enter the kitchen alone. He's always right there helping you take something out of the oven, handing you certain ingredients when you ask for them, feeding you a spoonful of whatever it is you're making before asking you:

"How's that, baby? Of course it's good, you made it. Alright we made it, don't get smart with me."

He never lets you go through anything alone. If he notices something is eating away at you, he's making you sit down and tell him everything that's going through your mind. You never have to worry about him silently judging you for your tears or vulnerability. He reassures you that it's okay and to let it all out, he never wants you to hesitate before running to him for comfort. You don't have to hide your mess or your pain from him. You melt in his arms, you cry, and you feel safe.

He's best friends with the twins so that means you'll frequently assist Bo in supplying them with whatever they may need for their juke joint

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── EVEN WHEN IT'S HARD... ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the one where even when it's hard...sim jaeyun will always choose you.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 1.1k ⌗ angst angst ANGST, reader is a lil self-sabotaging, jakey gets v v sad :(, but then comfort, reassurance, & fluff<3

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hello pls don't be mad at me for this one,,,decided to throw another angsty one into the mix because once again─i really wanna make this series realistic and i totally see yn still getting into her own head every now & then. and it's totally normal & realistic for couples to have lil moments of miscommunication and i feel like this is how jake would handle it :') bc at the end of the day, he will always choose yn...

You don’t even know how you got here.

It probably started small.

Something barely noticeable—something as small as a mere thought in the back of your head. A flicker of doubt—the kind that’s been fading, slowly but surely, over time.

But still lingers.

Like a crack in glass you don’t notice until the whole thing shatters.

Maybe it was a comment.

A look.

Maybe the restaurant you recommended but it ended up being mediocre.

The too-long silence during the drive back home from dinner.

And now here you are.

Standing in the middle of your living room, your bag still half-slung off your shoulder, while Jake stands from across the space—watching you with his arms limp at his side, a pout on his lips, confused and concerned, like he doesn’t know what’s happening.

And you don’t even remember what you said.

Only the way Jake’s face fell.

The way his shoulders sank immediately, like something slipped through his fingers and he didn’t even realize he was holding it.

The way he blinked, slow and stunned—like he felt the crack before he could make sense of it.

“I just think—” you sigh, sharper than you mean to be, your arms folding across yourself, “I don’t know—maybe you shouldn’t assume things about how I feel.”

Jake’s brows knit together, his voice low but steady, “I’m not assuming anything, Y/N. I’m asking. You won’t talk to me, and I’m—I just…I’m trying to figure out where your head’s at.”

You turn away.

Try to blink it back—the tightness rising in your chest. The frustration.

You don’t even know why you’re upset.

At him? At yourself?

“Well maybe my head’s a mess right now,” you say, a bubble rising to your throat. “And I don’t need you trying to fix it.”

There’s a pause.

A shift in the air.

Jake lets out a soft breath. Barely audible.

But you hear it.

And you see it, too—the subtle way his expression drops.

And god, it hurts.

“Okay.” He nods slowly, his voice suddenly quieter, barely above a whisper. “So what do you need, then?”

You hesitate.

Because that’s just the thing. You don’t know.

Because it’s not him. Never him.

It’s not the quiet car ride home. Or the under-cooked steak at the restaurant. Or the stupid thing he said about maybe meeting his parents next month.

It’s you.

It’s everything else.

The pressure. The doubt. The sinking feeling in your chest that you don’t deserve something this good. Something as good as him.

“I think…” you start, your eyes meeting his, swallowing hard. “I think I need space.”

And it’s like you ripped the floor out from right under him.

You watch the words hit him.

Watch how he stumbles without even moving.

His eyes flick to yours like he misheard. His breath catches like you knocked the wind out of him.

His fingers tremble at his sides, helpless and twitching, like he doesn’t know what to hold on to anymore.

He exhales a shaky breath and—

“No.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I’m not giving you space.” His voice cracks. Barely holding it together. “Not like this. Not when I don’t even know what I did—”

“You didn’t do anything, Jake—”

“Then I’m staying.”

His voice breaks again. And when you look at him again—his eyes are glassy. His voice trembles in a way that shatters your heart more than you’ve ever known before.

And before you know it—

Jake crosses the living room and closes the distance between you two—like he’s trying to reach the part of you that’s slipping through his fingers.

And when he’s right in front of you, he stops.

Just looks at you.

Like you’re the only thing he sees. Like he’s begging you to see him too.

“Let me stay,” his voice unsteady, more desperate now. “Please.”

Your throat closes.

“You’re shutting me out again and I can feel it and I know I’m not perfect, but—God, Y/N—I love you.”

A breath. A blink. A beat.

“I’m trying. I’m here,” Jake continues, his eyes pleading. Breaking. “Please don’t push me away when I’m trying to stay.”

You stare at him.

And you hate it.

You hate how much he means it.

How sincere he sounds—how shattered he looks.

How his hands are clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you, like he’s not sure he can.

And you hate that you’re the one making him feel that way.

Like love has limits.

Like maybe even he isn’t allowed to cross the invisible line you drew without even realizing it.

Because deep down—

You’re terrified.

Terrified that one day he’ll just say okay and walk out.

That he’ll stop trying. Stop fighting.

That your worst fear will come true: that you are too much. That you’re not worth all this effort.

“Jake…I’m scared,” you whisper—and it breaks.

The dam. The silence. You.

“I’m scared you’ll realize I’m not worth this,” you choke, your own vision blurring. “That I’m just—too much. Or not enough. Or both.”

Jake’s face crumbles.

Completely.

“Y/N.”

You shake your head, blinking fast—it’s all spilling now, messy and unfiltered and real.

“You could have anyone. You could find someone easier. Someone who doesn’t blow up over nothing or pull away every time it gets hard or—”

“Don’t.”

The sudden edge in his voice stops you—not sharp, but urgent.

Urgent, wrecked, and aching.

“Don’t you dare try to write me out of this story when I already know how it ends. Like I haven’t already chosen you.”

He takes a step forward.

“I don’t want easy. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

Another step.

“Even when it’s messy. Even when you’re mad. Even when it’s hard.”

And before you can stop him, Jake’s hands cup your face—gentle, steady—like you’re something fragile and priceless at the same time.

“This is still you,” he murmurs, leaning down to press his forehead against your own. “And I still love you.”

Your lip quivers.

He brushes his thumb along your cheek—and only then do you realize you’re crying.

A broken breath escapes your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you choke out, the tears falling out faster now—completely open and raw.

Jake lets out a small, breathy, almost sad laugh.

“Me too.”

And god.

You think that might’ve been the moment you fell completely, absolutely, irreversibly in love with him.

In a way you can’t describe.

In a way that sits in your chest and says this is it—even if you don’t know how to say it out loud yet.

So for now—

“Please stay.”

Jake smiles. It’s small. But so full of relief.

“Always, pretty.”

And he does.

Jake stays through the silence. Through the ache.

Through the heavy nights and the mornings when it’s better.

Because real love doesn’t run.

It reaches. And it stays.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially when it’s hard.

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[joelcrush]

Let Me Learn You

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mdni, | age gap | oral (f & m) | fingering | unprotected sex | size kink | dirty talk | praise + possession | face grabbing | mild & mutual obsession | Joel being emotionally unwell about it in the hottest way | no outbreak word count - 7.7k summary - Your dad’s old friend Joel helps you move. You don’t see the tension—but he does. And when it finally breaks, there’s no going back. A slow build into something filthy, soft, and completely his.

part one part two

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your place was already too warm by the time the couch got wedged in the hallway.

Boxes everywhere. Cabinets open. You’d been living out of a backpack for three days and still hadn’t figured out where to put your bath towels or your coffee mugs. But it was your first place, and the chaos felt kind of earned. You weren’t expecting help until later, but someone knocked just after noon. When you opened the door, a man was already walking up the short front path. Mid-40s, maybe older. Black shirt. Solid frame. A calm face that didn’t give much away.

“Your dad said you might need help with furniture,” he said. “Oh—yeah. I didn’t know he sent someone already.”

He nodded once, like that was enough talking, and stepped inside when you held the door open. You moved a box out of his way and watched him take in the space.

“Sorry it’s such a mess. I’m still figuring things out.”

“That’s what movin’ is,” he said, and then he gestured toward the hallway. “You want that couch in there?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that’s the living room.”

He got to work without another word.

You grabbed the lighter end automatically, even though he didn’t ask, and together you managed to get the thing unstuck from the hallway and into place. He didn’t struggle much. Barely looked winded. You didn’t talk a lot while he moved the rest. Just helped where you could—pointed at where things should go, said thank you more than necessary. He wasn’t cold, just quiet. Direct. There was something steadying about it, actually. The way he barely blinked when you offered him a half-finished bottle of water or said you were probably gonna live with a broken bookshelf for the rest of time.

“You don’t need a new one,” he said. “Just better anchors.” “That sounds like something a bookshelf would say right before collapsing on me in my sleep.”

That made him smile. Small, quick, but you saw it.

He finished sooner than you expected. Wiped his hands on his jeans. Gave a little grunt of finality like he was mentally checking the job off a list. You followed him toward the door, grabbing a new bottle of water from the fridge.

“Thanks again,” you said, handing it to him. “Seriously. I would’ve been here all day trying to flip the mattress on my own.”

“No problem.” He took it, his hand brushing yours. “Glad to help.”

Then, like it was nothing:

“Take it easy, sweetheart.”

The word didn’t stick. Not in a weird way. Just something he said, maybe a habit. You smiled, nodded.

“See you around, probably.”

He left with a short nod and a low “mmhm” that barely registered before the door clicked shut behind him.

You didn’t think twice about it.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He wasn’t planning on saying yes when her dad called.

It was supposed to be his day off. A list of errands to half-ignore. Tools to clean, laundry to avoid. But then the man mentioned his daughter—first place on her own, said she was “barely five feet and stubborn as hell,” trying to move a bed frame solo.

Joel didn’t ask for details. Just wrote down the address and showed up twenty minutes later with a socket wrench in his back pocket and a short list of things he was telling himself this wasn’t. He was expecting someone anxious. Chatty. The kind of girl who got overwhelmed easily and didn’t know the difference between drywall and brick. He wasn’t expecting her.

She opened the door barefoot, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair barely held in place by a clip. A box cutter was still in her hand. She blinked like she forgot anyone else existed.

“Oh—yeah. Hi. Come in.”

She didn’t look twice at him. Didn’t pause or fidget or start fixing her hair. She just waved him in and apologized for the mess, like he gave a shit. Joel followed her inside, slow, eyes catching on the curve of her back as she bent to move a box. Her legs were bare—soft, clean skin above the knee, and a pair of shorts that weren’t trying to be anything but comfortable.

It didn’t mean anything. Didn’t have to. He kept his voice steady.

“Your dad said you needed help with the bed frame?”

She nodded, smiled like it was nothing. “Yeah—it’s in the bedroom. Not built yet. It’s kind of in pieces, sorry.”

Joel just grunted, made his way down the hall, and tried not to think about how small her bed was. How soft the mattress looked when he pressed it into place. How nice her voice sounded when she laughed at herself.

She stayed close. Helped with one end of the dresser. Pulled things out of boxes while he worked. Told him about the bookshelf she half-built and already gave up on.

“It’s gonna collapse on me in my sleep. Death by IKEA.”

He’d smiled. Couldn’t help it.

She had no idea how easily she pulled reactions out of him.

She moved like no one was watching. Sat with her legs folded under her. Hummed along with her phone when music came on. Handed him tools without making it weird. Said thank you every single time like she meant it. He tried not to stare at her mouth when she talked. The way she bit her lip when thinking. The little breath she let out when lifting something heavier than expected. By the time he finished, his hands were itching. His jaw ached from how tight he’d kept it the whole time. He took the water bottle she offered him, let their fingers brush for half a second too long, then stepped toward the door before he did something dumb.

“Thanks again,” she said behind him, voice easy, warm. “I would’ve been here all day trying to flip the mattress on my own.”

“No problem.” He forced the words out. “Glad to help.”

He turned back to her. She was smiling, casual, eyes bright but unreadable.

“Take it easy, sweetheart.”

It slipped out. Not flirtation. Not even affection. Just… instinct. Something familiar to fill the space before it got quiet enough to admit what he was actually thinking. She didn’t react. Just nodded and said see you around.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t even fucking know.

Joel walked down the steps with his jaw tight, grip still too firm around the neck of the water bottle. He told himself he wasn’t coming back unless she called. And that if she did—

He’d keep his hands to himself.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your shelf gave out around 11:45 on a Tuesday night.

You weren’t surprised. It had been tilted since move-in, bowing just slightly in the middle. You told yourself it’d be fine as long as you didn’t put anything too heavy on it—which was, in retrospect, a lie. Three cookbooks and a ceramic bowl later, it tipped forward and slid halfway off the wall with a low, dramatic creak.

You stared at it for a minute from the hallway, then texted your dad.

Me: hey do you still have joel’s number? the guy who helped move the bed?

He sent it over right away.

Dad: What’d you break lol Me: nothing important

You stared at Joel’s number for a second. Then tapped out a quick message.

Me: hi! this is y/n, from the move-in last week. my shelf kinda fell off the wall and i think i stripped one of the screws trying to fix it. no rush at all but if you’re around sometime this week, i’d really appreciate the help.

You hovered over “send” for about half a second—then hit it.

He replied later that morning:

Joel: I can come by after 6.

You changed into a hoodie and shorts after work, didn’t think twice about it. Hair up. Face clean. You weren’t trying to impress anyone—you were just tired. You cleared the area near the shelf, shoved the broken screws into a Ziploc, and ate half a granola bar standing at the counter while you waited. 

When the knock came, you opened the door barefoot again.

“Hey,” you said, stepping back. “Thanks for coming.”

He nodded once, stepping inside, his tool bag slung low in one hand.

“This the one?” “Yeah. It gave up.”

He crouched without hesitation, unzipping the bag and pulling out a drill. You moved to the side, then bent down next to him without thinking—knees close to his, your hip brushing his arm as you leaned on one hand. 

He stilled, just for a second. You didn’t notice.

“I tried to tighten it again myself,” you said, squinting at the side bracket, “but I think I stripped the screw.”

“Probably,” he said. “Wrong kind for drywall.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching as he fit a new anchor in place. His hands moved slow, careful. He didn’t fumble or double check. Just measured, placed, and drove the screw in clean.

“You make it look easy,” you said, and you meant it.

He didn’t respond right away.

“It is,” he said eventually. “Just takes practice.”

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft breath. Felt the hoodie rise slightly against your ribs but didn’t bother fixing it.

“I should learn,” you said. “So I don’t have to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not,” he said. Quick. Low.

You blinked. Looked at him.

He was still focused on the wall. Like the drywall had something real important to say. When he finished, you stood and stepped back, brushing off your legs as he gave the shelf a firm test tug. It held.

“All good now,” he said, rising.

You smiled. “You’re magic.”

He didn’t smile back—not fully—but something in his face shifted. Like he wanted to.

“Seriously, thank you,” you added, walking toward the kitchen. “Do I owe you anything for the anchor things?”

“No.” “Not even like, a coffee or something?” “You don’t owe me,” he repeated. “You needed help. That’s all.”

You turned, leaning your hip on the counter, granola bar wrapper in your hand.

“Well I still appreciate it.”

Joel adjusted the strap of his bag.

“Text if anything else breaks.” “Hopefully that’s not a weekly thing.” “You never know.”

He walked to the door, pulled it open.

“Night, Joel.” “Take care,” he said. Then, after a pause—“See you.”

You nodded once. Locked the door behind him. Then turned back to clean up the mess of drywall dust on the floor, not thinking twice about how close you'd been. Not even wondering what he’d seen when you bent down next to him.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He shouldn’t have said yes.

He told himself that the first time, and again when her text came in. He sat there with the phone in his hand, staring at the words like they meant something bigger than they were.

Her: hi! this is y/n, from the move-in last week. my shelf kinda fell off the wall and i think i stripped one of the screws trying to fix it. no rush at all but if you’re around sometime this week, i’d really appreciate the help.

It was polite. Friendly. Clear. Not flirty. Not suggestive. Still ruined him anyway.

He told himself not to answer right away. Answered anyway.

Him: I can come by after 6.

And that was that.

She opened the door in that same kind of outfit—something soft and small and lived-in. Hoodie half-tucked, legs bare to mid-thigh, hair up in a clip that didn’t look like it was doing much.

He looked at her face. Only her face.

“Hey,” she said, stepping back to let him in. “Thanks for coming.”

“This the one?” “Yeah. It gave up.”

She smiled like it was no big deal, then followed him to the wall.

He crouched low, unzipped his bag, pulled out the drill.

And then—then—she crouched down beside him. No hesitation. Her knee knocked gently into his. Her hip brushed his arm. She planted her hand beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.

Joel’s heart stuttered hard in his chest.

She didn’t notice.

“I tried to tighten it again myself,” she said, leaning in closer. “But I think I stripped the screw.”

“Probably,” he said, throat dry. “Wrong kind for drywall.”

She rested her chin in her palm. Her shorts rode up slightly as she shifted her weight.

He didn’t look.

He absolutely looked.

“You make it look easy.”

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn't.

“It is,” he managed. “Just takes practice.”

And then she stretched. Arms over her head. Hoodie lifting just enough to expose the soft dip of her waist, a sliver of skin above the waistband of her shorts. She sighed like she’d been holding her breath all day.

He almost did something stupid.

“I should learn,” she said. “So I don’t have to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not.”

Too fast. Too hard.

She blinked at him, caught off guard. He didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t. Focused on the drywall like it was going to crawl off the wall if he didn’t stare it down.

When he stood, she did too. Watched him test the shelf, nod in approval.

“You’re magic,” she said.

He wasn’t. If he was, he’d disappear before he did something he’d regret.

“Seriously, thank you. Do I owe you anything for the anchor things?” “No.” “Not even like a coffee or something?” “You don’t owe me,” he said again, voice rough. “You needed help. That’s all.”

That was supposed to be it. His line. His boundary.

Then she leaned against the counter. Granola bar in hand. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Looking at him like he was just… normal. Like she wasn’t killing him without even trying.

“Well I still appreciate it.”

“Text if anything else breaks.” “Hopefully that’s not a weekly thing.” “You never know.”

He turned toward the door before his mouth could get ahead of him. Opened it. Let the cooler evening air hit his face.

“Night, Joel.”

“Take care,” he said.

He hesitated and looked back.

“See you.”

Then he left before he could fuck it all up. He didn’t even make it to the car before he had to stop and breathe. Stared at his truck like it might help. Gripped the edge of the driver’s side door like he needed something solid to hang onto. She had no idea.

Didn’t even know what she was doing. Didn’t know what she’d done.

And that? That was the worst part.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

You hadn't seen Joel in almost two weeks.

You hadn’t needed anything since. The apartment was starting to feel like yours now—boxes gone, rugs laid down, kitchen mostly organized. You spent your mornings with coffee by the window and your evenings on the couch with a book or something half-watched on TV. Quiet. Repetitive. In a good way.

Some nights, you stayed up too late just rearranging cabinets or deciding which drawer made the most sense for silverware. It wasn’t that deep. It just felt nice—having your own space, your own rules, your own rhythms.

Every once in a while, you’d think about Joel. Not in a way that meant anything. Just—when something squeaked. Or when the fridge made a sound you didn’t trust. He was the kind of person who’d know what it meant. That’s all.

So when the kitchen drawer started acting weird—handle loose, catching on something inside—you didn’t think twice.

You grabbed your phone and texted him:

You: hi. sorry to bother you again but my kitchen drawer is being weird. handle’s all wobbly and i have no clue what i’m doing. if you’re around, i’d love the help. but no pressure!

He replied an hour later:

Joel: I’ll be there after five.

He showed up in a navy work shirt this time. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Same tool bag. Same quiet expression.

“Handle loose?” “Yeah. It’s barely hanging on.”

You gestured toward the drawer, stepping out of the way. He crouched beside it, tugging gently on the knob. Watched it tilt sideways and catch.

“You got a screwdriver?”

You blinked. “Somewhere. I think.”

He gave a low hum—noncommittal—and set his bag down.

You turned toward the junk drawer, rummaging through it with one hand, then realized the screwdriver you did have had rolled under the counter the other night when you tried to open a wine bottle with it.

You spotted it—tucked just behind the leg of the lower cabinet.

“Wait—I think it’s down there.”

You bent at the waist, one hand on the counter, reaching for it blindly. 

Behind you, Joel went still. You didn’t see it—didn’t turn around. Didn’t notice how close he was standing. Just grabbed the screwdriver, stood back up, and turned to hand it to him.

“Found it. Not that I know how to use it.”

He took it slowly. Said nothing at first.

“This one’s fine,” he said, glancing it over. “You wanna try?”

You blinked. “You mean actually fix it?”

“Why not.”

You smiled, stepping in beside him as he held the drawer open. He pointed to the screw just inside the panel.

“This one’s backing out. You wanna keep it flush. Push in, twist clockwise.”

You crouched down again beside him and lined it up—then tried to turn it. It slipped.

“Here,” he said, quiet again.

His hand came around yours, firm and steady, guiding your wrist. His palm covered the back of your hand easily, fingers calloused but warm.

“Like that,” he murmured. “Gentle pressure.”

Your breath caught—not sharply, just enough to notice. Enough to make you pause. His chest brushed your shoulder. He didn’t move away. You kept your eyes on the drawer. Focused.

“I think I got it.”

He let go a beat later. Stepped back just slightly.

“Good,” he said. “It’s in.”

When you both stood again, you smiled without thinking. A little dazed, maybe, but content.

“Thanks,” you said, and meant it. “That was kind of satisfying.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice a touch rougher than before. “Guess it’s worth teaching.”

You laughed. “Well I’ll still probably text you next time something breaks.”

He nodded once. Looked at you for just a second too long.

“You’re welcome,” he said finally. “Glad to help.”

He left not long after. And once again, you stayed in the kitchen long after he was gone, still holding the screwdriver in your hand like it was worth something.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

It was just a drawer. A loose handle. Five minutes of work, tops. She’d probably be busy—on the phone, cleaning, half-distracted. He’d fix it, nod politely, get out before he did something stupid.

And then she opened the door. Same bare legs. Same oversized hoodie, sleeves pushed up her forearms. Her hair was clipped back messily, like she hadn’t thought about it once.

She smiled when she saw him.

“Yeah. It’s barely hanging on.”

She pointed to the drawer like it wasn’t a trap.

Joel crouched, checked the damage, asked for a screwdriver even though he already had one. Just to hear her laugh. Just to keep her talking.

“Somewhere. I think.”

She turned to look for it, rummaging like she’d forget it halfway through.

And then she bent.

Bent.

At the waist. One hand braced on the counter. Shorts lifting just enough to expose the full curve of her thighs, the soft underside he’d been trying not to think about for weeks. He was behind her. Close.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She had no idea. She came back up like nothing happened. Smiled as she handed it to him. No pause, no shift in her voice. Like she wasn’t burning him alive.

“Found it. Not that I know how to use it.”

He wanted to tell her. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.

But he just nodded. Told her to try. Handed her the screwdriver like it was a test.

She crouched beside him. Elbow bumped his. Her shoulder brushed his chest.

He stared at her hands, small and careful, fingers slipping once.

“Here.”

He wrapped his hand over hers, gently. Guided her wrist, pressed his palm to the back of her hand to steady her grip. 

And that was it. That was the fucking moment. He felt it—heat, want, something hard and undeniable sparking low in his spine. She was so close. Warm. Smelling like laundry detergent and faint vanilla and something softer underneath it all. She looked so serious. So focused.

She didn’t notice. Didn’t shift away. Didn’t tease. Didn’t flinch.

When he let go, her fingers flexed just once. She smiled at the drawer like it had passed a test.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “That was kind of satisfying.”

Joel couldn’t speak for a second. His jaw was locked. His pulse loud.

“Yeah?” he managed. “Guess it’s worth teaching.”

She laughed, soft and light. Like nothing had happened.

He nodded when she said she’d probably text again soon. Forced himself to turn around. Told her “glad to help” like it wasn’t the fucking truth.

He made it out the door without letting it show. Made it to his truck before his breath caught.

But he didn’t drive home right away. He sat there with his hands on the wheel, hard and shaking, and his dick aching so bad it bordered on painful. Her laugh. Her legs. Her little thank you. The fucking bend.

He drove home with one thing on his mind. Locked the door behind him. Dropped the bag. Went straight to the bathroom. Unzipped his jeans, fist already tight around the base of his cock before he even got the water running. Leaned hard against the counter, eyes closed. Thought of her on her knees—not because she meant to be there. Just crouched beside him, bare skin brushing his arm, looking up like he was someone worth listening to.

He came fast.

Too fast.

Palm braced to the mirror. Breathing rough.

Still hard. Still wanting.

It wasn’t the first time. He thought of her more than he admitted. At night, especially. When the house was quiet and the TV was off and there was nothing left to distract him. He saw her laugh. Saw the way she sat cross-legged on the floor. The way she always said thank you. The way she smiled when she held the door open and didn’t look at him twice.

She didn’t know.

And that was the thing he hated most.

Because part of him was starting to hope that one day she would.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your door wasn’t broken, not really.

It latched. It locked. But sometimes it stuck, and sometimes it didn’t. The key turned stiff. The frame shifted just slightly when it rained. You weren’t sure if it was normal, but the idea of it not working right—the thought of forgetting to double check it before bed—had started to settle in your chest the way small anxieties do.

You told yourself it wasn’t worth bothering anyone. Then you texted Joel anyway.

You: hey—sorry again lol but do you mind checking something with the door lock? it’s probably fine but i’m paranoid and you’re the only one who knows what they’re doing.

He replied quickly, like always.

Joel: I’ll stop by. Be there in an hour.

You didn’t rush to get ready. Just changed out of your tank with the bleach stain and pulled on a clean one. Combed your hair. Opened the windows to let the evening breeze in. You weren’t trying to make anything of it.

But when he knocked, your stomach did that quiet fluttery thing anyway. He looked the same. Always did. Button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled high, work-worn jeans, one hand loose at his side and the other around the handle of his tool bag.

“Door’s acting up?” he asked as he stepped inside.

You nodded. 

“It’s probably nothing. The latch just sticks sometimes. Or it clicks too fast. I don’t know—I don’t want to lock myself out one day and realize it’s been busted this whole time.”

He gave a small grunt in response, already crouching near the frame, running his hand along the wood with practiced ease. You leaned against the counter and watched him move—quiet, focused, not in a hurry. There was something oddly calming about the way he handled things. Like he could break something down and make it make sense without saying much at all.

He worked in silence, checking the alignment, nudging the hinge with his thumb. He didn’t ask for tools. Didn’t explain what he was doing. Just moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You stayed still. Tried not to let your eyes linger too long.

But when he bent to inspect the strike plate—shoulders flexing under the fabric of his shirt, jaw set tight as he leaned into the motion—you looked. Just for a second. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him crouched over things before. You had. The bed, the shelf, the drawer. But something about tonight felt… closer. Or quieter. Like your apartment had shrunk while he was in it.

He stood again, twisting the deadbolt back and forth until it slid smoothly.

��Heat’s probably pushing the frame out a little,” he said. “Wasn’t latching clean. Fixed now.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

You didn’t move right away. Neither did he. He glanced toward you, eyes unreadable, and for just a second the silence stretched—not awkward, but full. Charged. Something in your chest stuttered.

“I feel like I should pay you for this,” you said lightly, voice thinner than you meant it to be.

Joel shook his head. “You know I don’t want that.”

The way he said it made your throat go tight.

He stepped forward to put a tool back in his bag, and as he passed, his arm brushed yours—bare skin to bare skin—and the contact left something behind. Something warm. You could still feel it after he moved away.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the counter.

He picked up the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and didn’t speak again until he reached the door.

His voice was low this time. Softer.

“You keep the bolt oiled, it’ll stay smooth.”

You nodded. Didn’t say anything.

“Night, sweetheart.”

You heard the door click behind him. And you didn’t move for a while.

Just stood there, hand still pressed to the spot where he’d touched you, wondering when his voice started sounding like that in your head. Then—

The doorknob turned again. You’d forgotten you hadn’t locked it yet.

He hadn’t made it far—probably still on the porch—maybe he forgot something, maybe—

You opened it just a little.

Joel was still there. One hand at his side, the other adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He looked up like he was about to say something, but didn’t.

And before you could stop yourself—

“Wait.”

He blinked.

You opened the door a little wider. Stepped back.

“Do you… wanna stay a little longer?”

It came out too fast. Not flirty. Not smooth. Not even really intentional.

You didn’t know why you said it. You weren’t lonely. You weren’t scared. You didn’t need anything. You just didn’t want him to go. Joel didn’t move at first. Just looked at you—slowly, like he was trying to understand something you hadn’t even figured out yet.

“I mean—if you’re not busy,” you added quickly. “Or if you don’t want to drive yet. I don’t know. It’s dumb. Forget it.”

He didn’t let you spiral. Just said it, quiet and even:

“You sure?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t hopeful. It was serious. Rough around the edges. Like he needed to hear you say it twice, just so he wouldn’t do something he couldn’t take back.

You swallowed.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stepped back inside. You shut the door behind him, heart hammering like you were the one who had something to hide. You didn’t know what you wanted. But you wanted it to be him. 

You didn’t know what to offer him. He’d already fixed the door. Already stepped back inside. It wasn’t like there was something to do—no show to watch, no dinner to finish.  

So you said:

“You can sit if you want.”

And he did. Took the end of the couch like he was still on duty. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands folded. He didn’t relax. He didn’t sprawl. Just… sat.

You curled into the other corner. Pulled your legs under you. Told yourself not to overthink it.

At first, it was small talk. Something about the weather. The construction noise a few blocks down. You said your neighbor’s dog barked like it had been through a war and Joel let out the smallest huff of a laugh. It was easy. Comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the quiet stretched again and your eyes drifted—slow, unthinking—to the way his forearms rested across his thighs. To the line of his profile in the soft light. To the way he looked at the floor like he was trying not to look at you.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your legs. Your knee bumped his.

Just a brush. Just skin.

But it was something. 

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

Your breath slowed in your chest like it was afraid to make a sound. You said something then—you couldn’t even remember what. A question. Something about where he grew up. Or maybe if he liked his job. Anything to fill the space.

He answered softly. Nothing too deep. But his voice had dropped again—lower, quieter, like it only belonged in the room you were sharing. You nodded along. Fiddled with the hem of your tank top. Your hands were warm. You didn’t know why.

A few more minutes passed. A few more glances. The energy never spiked. It just sat between you—thick and warm and new.

Eventually, he checked the time.

“I should head out.”

You nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

You walked him to the door again. He didn’t look at you quite the same way. And when you said goodnight, it came out quieter than you meant.

He said your name, low and even.

“Take care.”

You locked the door behind him. Checked it twice, like that would make the moment last longer. The living room felt different after he left. Not colder. Not empty. Just… aware. Like the air had shifted around you and was still trying to settle. You stood there for a while. Then turned out the lights. Got a glass of water. Tried to act normal. But when you passed the couch—that spot—you felt it again.

That hum under your skin.

The tension in your chest.

The way your breath had slowed when his knee touched yours.

You went to bed without brushing your hair. Climbed under the blanket and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. It didn’t. You closed your eyes. And the first thing you thought of was his voice. That low “take care” at the door. The way he said your name. The way his hands looked when he fixed things—rough, steady, careful. You exhaled, quiet and shaky. Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket.

You didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. But your hand slid down anyway.

Just over your stomach. Just under the hem of your shirt. You weren’t thinking clearly, weren’t even sure why you were doing it—but your body was buzzing, hot, still echoing from the way it had felt sitting next to him. You touched yourself softly. Slowly. Just enough to take the edge off the ache you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t say his name. But you thought about his hands. And somehow... that was worse.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

It was around 8 pm the next day when she texted.

Her: hey—are you around?

No other details. No broken drawer. No explanation. Just like the night before.

Joel had spent most of that day trying not to think about her. Didn’t work. He kept seeing her—how she looked when she asked him to stay. The way she leaned on the counter, lip tucked between her teeth like she didn’t know what she was doing to him. He kept hearing her voice in the dark. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He didn’t know what the hell she thought this was. He didn’t even know what he thought it was anymore. But when she sent that message, he didn’t hesitate.

He answered.

Him: Yeah. You need something? Her: no just—wanted to see you if you’re not busy

He read that last part twice. Then grabbed his keys.

Her apartment was dim when she let him in—lights low, one lamp near the window, something soft playing in the background. She wore a ribbed tank top and sleep shorts, her hair half-clipped up, a faint line across her cheek like she’d just woken up from a nap on the couch.

She didn’t look nervous. But she didn’t meet his eyes right away either.

“Hi,” she said.

That was it. No reason. No problem to solve.

Joel stepped inside and felt his body lock up almost immediately. The air felt too warm. The room too quiet. Like the walls knew something he didn’t.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Smiled. Tucked her leg up on the couch and motioned for him to sit.

“I just didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”

She said it lightly, like it didn’t mean anything. But Joel could feel it. Something was different.

He sat at the opposite end of the couch. It felt too small. She curled up in her usual spot, blanket draped over her legs, a glass of water resting on her thigh. Her foot brushed against the cushion near his hip when she shifted. She didn’t pull it away.

He couldn’t focus on what she was saying. Some story about her neighbor’s smoke alarm going off for two hours, about how she tried banging on the wall but it didn’t help. He nodded when he should. Said “yeah” once. Let her talk.

But all he could think about was how good she smelled.

How soft her voice was.

How close her knee was to touching his.

The worst part was how normal it looked. From the outside, it could’ve been nothing. Just two people sitting. One talking. The other listening. But inside him, everything was clenched.

Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear. Every time her tank top shifted when she reached for her glass. Every time her voice went quiet at the end of a sentence. It was like being on fire. Quietly. And she didn’t even notice.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that. Maybe an hour, maybe more. The sound of her voice, the way she laughed at her own joke, the curve of her body under that blanket—it all started to stack up. He shifted once. Adjusted the way he sat. It didn’t help. His hands were too still. His legs too tense. His jeans too tight across his thighs.

He wanted to leave.

And he wanted to stay forever.

Eventually, she leaned back a little, head against the cushion, voice low.

“It’s nice when you’re here.”

Joel didn’t respond. He couldn’t. 

She looked over at him. Eyes soft. Barely searching. And God help him—he almost reached for her. Almost touched her ankle where it peeked out from the blanket. Almost slid his hand over her knee and just held it there. But he didn’t.

He just nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

When she walked him to the door an hour later, she said goodnight the same way she always did. But her voice had changed. And Joel? Joel barely made it to his truck before he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and sat there in the dark, breathing like he’d just run six miles uphill.

She didn’t need anything from him. She just wanted him there. And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep coming over without letting her know what that did to him.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

It was 6 pm on a Thursday. You had just gotten home from work and settled in.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You hadn’t texted him. Hadn’t broken anything. You’d just been pacing a little—half-folding laundry, checking your phone without a reason, replaying the sound of his voice from last night in your head. It was quiet. Too quiet. 

You were mid-sip of water when the knock came. Not loud. Just two firm knocks—confident. Familiar. Your breath caught before your brain caught up. You set the glass down and wiped your hands on your shorts. Walked to the door slowly. When you opened it—he was already looking at you.

Joel. Still in work clothes. Shirt wrinkled, sweat at his collar, bag slung off one shoulder. His eyes didn’t move like they usually did. No casual sweep of the room. No distant quiet. They were on you. And they stayed there.

“Hi,” you said, soft. “I didn’t know you were—”

“I know.”

His voice was rough. Tired. Not angry. Just… decided.

You blinked. Your fingers curled lightly around the edge of the door.

“Everything okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. And then, without breaking eye contact— “Can I come in?”

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

She opened the door wearing that same look she always had with him—soft, unsure, like she didn’t even know what she was doing.

But he did. He knew. It had hit him earlier that day, hours after he left—when he realized how long she’d watched him from the couch. How quiet she’d gone. How the blanket had slipped down just far enough to show the top of her thigh and she hadn’t pulled it back up.

She’d wanted him there. Not because she was lonely. Because she wanted him. And that was it. That was the fucking end of his restraint. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t thought it through. Just got in the truck. Drove straight to her door. And now he was standing inside her apartment, watching her back away slowly as he stepped in. She looked nervous—but not scared. Like her body was catching up to something her brain hadn’t named yet. 

Joel dropped his bag by the door.

“You sure you’re not just bein’ polite?” he asked quietly. “What?” she blinked. “You didn’t ask me to fix anything.”

She shook her head once, eyes wide.

“No. I just… wanted to see you.”

He stared at her. Then took one slow step closer.

“You ever let anybody else in here just because you wanted to see ‘em?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Joel’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“Didn’t think so.”

She was still standing by the doorway, arms at her sides, breathing like she didn’t trust her own chest to move too much. Joel took another step.

Closer.

Slow.

The silence between them folded into something heavier.

“Why’d you really want me here?”

She blinked, lips parting. No words. Just air. He could see it in her eyes—the hesitation, the pull, the heat she hadn’t admitted to herself yet. And it wrecked him.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured. “Do you?”

She swallowed. Didn’t speak.

“You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

That made her breath catch.

He stepped even closer, so close now he could feel the warmth coming off her skin, could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

“Every time I come over here. Every time you call. Every time you smile like that like I ain’t comin’ apart at the fuckin’ seams…”

His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t move.

“You sit there in your little tank tops. You lean close. You say my name like it don’t mean nothin’. And you don’t even know.”

She was staring up at him now—still quiet, still frozen—but there was something in her eyes.

A question.

A need.

She whispered it, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard.

“What if I do?”

Joel went still. Just for a beat. Then—

He moved. Not rushed. Not soft. Just real—a hand at her jaw, fingers curling gently but firmly, tilting her face up. Not a kiss. Not yet. His mouth hovered just over hers, breath mingling, eyes locked.

“You say that again, baby… I won’t be able to walk away.”

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth. Then back to his eyes. She didn’t say it again. But she didn’t move. And she didn’t stop him when his forehead came to rest gently against hers.

“Tell me to leave,” he rasped, jaw tight. “If I stay, I won’t keep pretendin’ I don’t want you.”

She didn’t say a word. And that silence? 

That was all he needed.

She just looked up at him with those wide, careful eyes, breath slow and warm on his mouth. And he knew.

Joel’s hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, slow and certain, and the second his mouth touched hers—it was over.

Soft at first. Gentle. Like maybe he could stop himself if he started slow. But then she made a sound—something small, something like a sigh—and it wrecked him.

He pulled her in. Gripped her waist, pressed her back against the wall without meaning to. Mouth open now, kissing her like he needed it, like it had been building for years instead of weeks. Her hands slid up his chest, shaky, unsure, fingertips digging into the fabric like she didn’t know what to hold on to.

“Joel—”

She breathed it like she couldn’t help it. Like it was already a habit.

He groaned, low and deep into her mouth, then pulled back just enough to look at her.

“Tell me to stop.”

She blinked, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Didn’t say a word.

He kissed her again. This time rougher—hands in her hair, thigh between hers, tongue tasting the little gasps she gave him. She clung to him like she didn’t know what else to do, and he let her. Let her pull, let her press up against him, let her feel everything he’d been trying to hide.

He dragged his mouth down her neck, nipped lightly at her collarbone.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me,” he muttered, voice ragged.

She whispered back, almost dazed:

“I want to.”

That was it.

Joel lifted her without thinking. Hands on her thighs, walking her backward through the apartment until the backs of her knees hit the couch. He laid her down gently. Crawled over her slow.

She looked up at him like she was still trying to believe this was real.

He kissed her softer this time—one hand braced by her head, the other brushing her cheek.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely there.

She nodded—then paused.

Eyes searching his face. Lips parted, like the words were already sitting there, waiting to fall out.

“I’ve never…” she breathed. “Not like this.”

Joel froze. Not because he was surprised. But because of how softly she said it. Like it mattered. Like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just about sex—it was him.

She looked up at him, nervous. Exposed. Brave.

“I’ve never been with anyone like this before,” she said again, quieter now.

Something in Joel’s chest cracked wide open. He touched her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“You don’t have to explain that to me, baby.”

His voice was low, almost reverent. His hand cupped her jaw like she was breakable. Like he’d do anything not to hurt her.

“You just tell me how to touch you,” he murmured. “Tell me what you like. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Eyes locked on his. Lips parted. Like something was about to come out, but her breath caught instead.

“I—I don’t know what to… I mean, I’ve never—”

Her voice cracked. She swallowed. Blinked fast like she was frustrated for even trying to say it. 

Joel leaned in, hand cradling her face, steady and warm. He kissed the corner of her mouth—just once, gentle—then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to know what to do.”

“You just let me learn you.”

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. He brought his forehead to hers.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmured. “You wanna stop, you tell me. You want more—I’ll give you more.”

“Joel…” she whispered.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

She looked at him—wide-eyed, nervous, open.

“I want it to be you.”

Joel exhaled like her words physically hit him in the chest. But he didn’t move forward. He leaned in, kissed her—once, slow, firm. Then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

Her face faltered. She looked like she was about to apologize. Joel shook his head—soft, gentle—thumbing her cheek before she could look away.

“I like that you’re new to this. Like that you trust me.” “But I’m not in a rush, baby.”

He kissed her again. Deeper this time.

“Not gonna take you fast. Not gonna take you like you’re just somethin’ I can fuck and leave. I want you feelin’ safe. Wanted.”

She blinked up at him—something between a gasp and a breath catching in her throat.

“I do,” she whispered. “Feel safe.”

That almost did him in. Joel groaned softly and dipped his head, kissing her slower now—longer, lips moving against hers like he was savoring the shape of her mouth. Like he had all night to learn it.

Her hands came up around his neck. Her body pulled him closer. The couch shifted beneath them as he laid her back gently—not to take, not to fuck—but just to have her close.

He kissed her jaw, her cheek, her neck—each one softer than the last. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. He let out a breath against her skin.

“You tell me when you’re ready,” he said, voice low. “Until then… I’m gonna take my time.”

She nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he kissed her again.

And for a while, there was nothing but the sound of mouths meeting, breath between them, the soft drag of his fingers over her waist and thighs—not pushing, just exploring.

Not claiming. Just caring.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

You didn’t expect it to feel like this.

His weight above you. His hands slow and steady. His mouth moving like he wanted to memorize you—not take you apart. Joel wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t even undressing you anymore. Just kissing. Letting the couch shift beneath your backs while his hands slid over your waist like it was something precious.

“You tell me when you’re ready,” he’d said.

And you believed him. God, you believed him.

Now his lips were on your throat. Your collarbone. His hand was smoothing over your thigh—up, down, warm, patient—like he wasn’t trying to get anywhere. Just feel. Just touch. You didn’t know your body could light up like this. Every place he kissed felt like it meant something. Your skin tingled. Your breath kept catching—right in that tight little place under your ribs.

You didn’t feel nervous anymore. You felt wanted. Not like a thing. Not like a curiosity. Like something he needed. Like something he’d been waiting for.

“You’re killin’ me,” he whispered suddenly, voice thick and low in your ear.

You smiled—barely.

“Why?”

He kissed your neck again, then your jaw.

“’Cause you don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

That made your stomach drop. Your hips shifted before you could stop them. You didn’t mean to grind up against him—but you did. And he groaned. Deep. From the chest. His body stiffened. Then he backed off just an inch—eyes meeting yours, wild but controlled.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head immediately.

“No.”

It came out faster than you meant. Hung in the air between you. He nodded once—then leaned back down, kissing you softer now, his hand cupping your face, holding you like he didn’t want to let go.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he murmured. “You just let me hold you like this, and that’ll be enough.”

And God— that made your throat tighten. Because you didn’t want to stop either.

You just didn’t know how to say: I want to feel like this forever.

So instead, you whispered,

“Okay.”

And then you let him hold you. Let him kiss you slow. Let his hands slide over your skin like he was trying to learn every inch of it before asking for more.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel nervous about being touched.

You just felt like you wanted to be.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Joel: “Go out with me.”

You hadn’t seen him in about a week.

Not since the night he held you on the couch like something worth keeping. Like he didn’t want to rush, or take, or ruin anything. Just learn you. Kiss you slow.

But he texted. Every day. Never too much—just enough to stay in your head.

Sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes something stupid he saw at the hardware store. You smiled every time his name popped up. Sometimes you reread the things he sent you when you couldn’t sleep. Tonight was quiet. Laundry folded. Tea in your mug. You were halfway through some show you weren’t paying attention to when your phone buzzed again.

Joel: You eaten tonight?

You smiled.

You: not yet. why?

There was a pause—long enough you almost thought he got busy or changed his mind.

Then:

Joel: Thought I’d take you out.

You stared at the screen.

Out.

Not over. Not “swing by.” Not “grab something on the way.”

Out.

You: like… out out? Joel: Yeah. A date.

Your stomach flipped. Then a second message came in.

Joel: Unless that’s not what you want.

You answered fast.

You: no. I do. I want that. Joel: Friday okay? I’ll come get you. You: what should I wear? Joel: Somethin’ you feel good in. Joel: Don’t dress up for me.

Another pause. Then:

Joel: You’re already pretty.

You set the phone down. And sat there for a while, smiling at your hands.

[bluemotifofsleep]

Sukuna doesn’t care for horror movies.

It’s tacky- the fake blood, the gore, the screams. Everything feels fake because it is fake. It all pales in comparison to real terror, real violence. Something he’s well accustomed to.

But you- you seem to love them.

Currently, you’re clutching onto the front of sukuna’s hoodie, half perched in his lap on the couch. He really doesn’t understand- these shitty moves always scare the shit out of you, and yet you insist on watching them.

Every. Damn. Time.

This particular movie, sukuna has to admit, is slightly above the rest that you’ve watched together. The suspense was piled on well, the acting was half-decent, and even the gore was realistic.

He’s almost impressed.

He can feel you trembling against him, though.

One part of him- the devil on his shoulder that always wins with everyone else, but never with you- wants to tell you it’s your own damn fault for putting yourself in this situation, time and time again. But another, squishy, disgusting part of him that only comes alive when he’s around you, makes him tilt your head away from the blood on screen and towards himself.

He peers into your wide, glassy eyes filled with terror, and they make him want to coo at you like a startled deer. Instead, he guides the hair that’s fallen out of your ponytail behind your ear softly and cups your jaw.

“Are you scared, little angel?”

You purse your lips up into a defiant pout, and despite the tremble of your hand clutched to the front of him and the tears in your eyes, you whisper out:

“No.”

He smiles. A rare, soft, genuine smile, and slides his hand down onto your neck, feeling the racing pulse there.

“You’re lying. I can feel it.”

And so he grabs your thigh and hoists it over his own, settling you in his lap with two big hands on your hips. The screen is cut from your line of vision, blinding you from the movie. He drags two fingers up the side of your body, all the way up to your neck where he finds your pulse again, effectively slowed.

“How about we get your pulse racing for a different reason, pet.”

You can already feel his half-hard dick underneath you, right up against your crotch. Every time- every single time you watch a horror movie, the result is the same, and you don’t even think he realizes it.

You know it gets him off- your fear. And you also know it’s sick and twisted of him, to get hard at the sight of tears in your eyes and the feeling of your racing pulse under his fingers, but that was just sukuna. A predator.

Maybe it was because he never felt fear himself, so he was fascinated about the way it looked on you. Or maybe it was the way he could play knight in shining armour and rescue you from your fearful thoughts with his tongue or his fingers or his cock.

It was working now. Each grind of his now painfully hard dick against your clothed pussy was wiping the memory of the movie you just watched straight from your brain. Each drag of his teeth against your neck was bypassing your amygdala, confusing the hell out of it.

And when he slides home, grinds your hips against his while he swallows your moans, the horror movie is effectively gone from your memory. All you can think, all you can say, is a breathy “Sukuna.” Into his neck, over and over again.

It’s always softer like this, with you on top, while he wipes scary images from behind your eyelids. Large hands guide your hips in circles against his own, the tip of his dick mashing against your cervix while he whispers assurance against your ear.

When you cum, you whimper and fist his shirt while your hips jerk against his. Your pussy milks him, dragging a broken groan from his throat while he spills white inside you, whispering about how good you did.

And during the comedown, all you can think about is next time- which terrifying movie you can pick out to top the last, even though you hate them. Yes, you hate horror movies, but you love the way sukuna fucks you after.