#“i didn’t order this! send him back!”

[kingkonoha]

♡ — SUMMARY; your ex-husband, Nanami, asks you to meet him at a local diner.

♡ — CONTENT; heavy angst, toxic relationship, mentions of death, illness, loss of child, slight gojo x reader.

“I didn’t think you would show up.”

KENTO NANAMI took a tentative sip of his black coffee. Though he did not show it, his heart was pounding rapidly from the very moment he glanced out of the window and saw your car enter the parking lot of the old-fashioned diner.

“I didn’t think I’d show up either, to be honest.” You mumbled unhappily. You sat down in the booth across from your ex-husband. “Why am I here?”

Your face was as blank as an untouched canvas. Sitting his white mug of coffee down, Kento folded his hands, resting them on the table.

“You know what today is, don’t you?” He asked. As soon as his question fell from between his lips, he hated himself for the way he approached such a sensitive topic.

“Of course I do, and I’d rather spend it alone,” you snapped, speaking in a harsh tone slightly above a whisper. “I don’t wanna talk about this with you.”

“Well,” Kento took a deep breath. “To the rest of the world, today’s a regular day. But to us, it’s . . . his birthday. We’re the only two people grieving him today, so I thought-”

“Thought we’d grieve together? I’ve been grieving alone for four years now. Today’s no different. I needed your help then and you didn’t give it, but I don’t need you now.” Suddenly, you started to scoot out of the booth. “You know what? This was a bad idea, I’m just gonna leave-”

“No, no, wait. Don’t leave yet,” Kento’s words halted your movements, but you glared at him as he continued to speak. “It’s me who needs help. I know you don’t need me anymore, but I still need you.”

“Still?” You settled back down into your seat. “The word still implies that you needed me before now.”

“I’ve always needed you,” Kento said softly.

“You sure didn’t act like it.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true.” Taking yet another deep breath, Kento ran his large hand through a few strands of his blonde hair. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for everything. I was an awful husband. Distant father. I’d do anything to make things right.”

His words were met with silence. Your eyes were scanning him — perhaps for some sign of dishonesty — drifting from his serious expression, white collared shirt, and even down to the laminated menu resting on the table in front of him.

“You’re a couple years too late,” your voice was soft. Filled with regret. “I’m remarried, and our boy is gone.”

Those were two facts Kento knew well. Even so, hearing them sliced through his heart, creating a horrific ache painful enough for him to wonder if he would truly die from heartbreak, here and now.

“Is Satoru treating you well?” He asked with as much composure as he could muster.

“We, um,” you hesitated. “I’m pregnant now, actually.”

Kento looked into your eyes. His eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, but his eyes were glassy.

“Oh. I’m happy for-”

“Save your breath. Don’t lie to me,” you interrupted.

“But I am happy for you.”

This time, it was your turn to raise your eyebrows in surprise, but your eyes flickered away from him and down at the salt and pepper shakers. “Really? You’re not upset?”

“I am. I’m heartbroken. Two things can be true at once,” Kento said. “You’ve moved on, and I understand that, believe me. I only wish I was the one to heal what I broke. But, as you said, I’m too late. I’m out of time now.”

A young brunette approached with a kind smile and a notepad in hand. She jotted down your orders. Though it was a little ways past eight p.m., you ordered buttermilk pancakes, while Kento opted to respect the time of day and ordered a sandwich with tater tots for his evening meal — not his favorite, but he wanted to order the first thing that came to mind in hopes of sending the waitress away as quickly as possible.

Her departure sparked a bit of small talk between you and Kento, and it lasted until she returned a while later with steaming plates of food. Your pleasant chatter was rather mundane, but even so, you said, “Seems like you’ve changed. I hope it’s genuine.”

Oh, how he wanted to hear those words more than anything. The left corner of his mouth twitched with the urge to smile, though not noticeably.

“It is. I quit my job,” Kento said.

“Wow, that’s . . .” For a brief second, you smiled, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “That’s great to hear, but at the same time, I wanna slap you right now. Why did our lives have to fall apart for you to finally wake up? Why weren’t the hundreds of arguments we had enough?”

Happy and pissed. Two things can be true at once.

“Our lives would have fallen apart anyway,” Kento said calmly. “Whether I had quit my job sooner rather than later would not have changed what happened to Kenji.”

“No, but when he suddenly took a turn for the worse, I would have had my husband there to hold my hand, and he would’ve been able to see his father one last time.” Pain flashed across your face. There was a slight tremble to your voice. You were trying your hardest to control your anger among the quiet diner chatter from nearby groups and family. “He was scared. He was asking for you. And where the hell were you? Handling stocks while our son was dying.”

“They told us we had time-”

“It was fucking cancer, Kento! Any day could have been his last, and you knew that, and you didn’t care.”

A few heads turned in your direction, but with tears threatening to stream down your cheeks, with the memories of your dying boy replaying in your mind endlessly, drawing attention was the last thing you were concerned with.

“Of course I knew and cared, that was why I worked so hard. Someone had to pay for all of the stays in the most advanced hospitals, the finest treatments known to man, the rarest medication administered by the best team of doctors, surgery performed by some of the best surgeons we could find . . . Kenji had all the help money could buy and only because I worked every second of my life.” A tear fell from Kento’s eyes. He wiped it away quickly.

“And in the end, it was pointless, wasn’t it?” You said quietly. “Wasn’t it? Because he died anyway, and you weren’t there to say goodbye.”

“I know what you’re doing.” Kento’s voice had an unfamiliar, dark tone. “You feel guilty as well. About what exactly, I don’t know, but you’re taking the anger you feel towards yourself and letting it out on me.”

“You’re wrong, you jackass. Do you seriously think you’re blameless in all of this or something?” You glared at him with pure hatred. “I was wrong. You haven’t changed one bit.”

The way you looked at him now, as if he was worthless, as if he was a bug that deserved to be squashed; it snapped his heart into pieces, if it was capable of being broken further at this point.

However, it didn’t stop him from continuing on with his own form of cruelty.

“You can’t bring yourself to say his name. You haven’t said it. Not once.” Kento was as calm as ever. Or, at least, he was pretending to be. “You try to avoid talking about him. You try to pretend he didn’t exist by marrying a man I know you don’t care for, all so you can have another child to replace him-”

“Go to hell.”

“I, on the other hand,” Kento continued to speak despite your bitter interruption as if you hadn’t said anything at all. “I spend my time keeping his memory alive. All of my money goes towards research. Towards organizations dedicated to finding a cure so no parent has to go through what we went through. I wasn’t there for Kenji when he died and I will never forgive myself for it, but you aren’t here for him now, in the present.”

“Here for what? A pile of bones in a graveyard?” You glared.

“A graveyard you never visit, so I’ve heard.”

That was it. Those were the words that finally made your brewing tears fall. They splattered against your half-eaten plate of pancakes.

A long enough period of silence passed, long enough for nosy fellow diners to return to their own conversations.

Kento’s eyes softened at the sight of your crying face. “I’m sorry. Sweetheart, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t call me that. You’ve lost that right a long time ago.” You sniffled. “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of trying to erase the memory of our son from my life.”

Kento's brows were pinched as he frowned. “And I can’t believe you’d accuse me of not caring about him. It hurts, doesn’t it? The accusations we keep throwing at each other?”

Your face was unreadable. He knew you well, better than you knew yourself as fate would have it, but even so, he couldn’t tell what you were thinking right now.

Outside, it started to rain. For a moment, you eyed the raindrops coating the street. Neither you nor Kento said anything for quite some time, your food becoming cold, and together, you watched the rainfall.

“I’m sorry.” You said after a while. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m just still so pissed off about it. I know you’ve suffered enough, and I know you only worked so hard to save him, but . . . you didn’t see him use the last of strength trying to call for you. It haunts me every day. I can’t live with that amount of pain, Kento, so I’m just trying to move on and keep on living, not erase his memory.”

“I know, I know. I wish I never said that.” Kento wanted to reach out and touch your hand, but the sight of the wedding ring sitting on your finger stopped him. “I wish I never did a lot of things in general.”

“You need to do what I just said.” You faced him, wiping away a few stray tears. “Try to move on and keep on living. Forgive yourself.”

“Can you ever forgive me?” Kento asked softly.

“I can.” You gave a sad smile. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I already do.”

He matched your sad smile with one of his own.

“God, we’re a fucking mess. I can’t believe I caused a scene.” You buried your face in your hands for only a moment, then looked up at the sound of Kento’s voice.

“I would lie and tell you they won’t ever see either one of us again, but I’ve been coming to this diner for years, and I don’t plan on stopping,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah I know. We went on our first date here, remember? We were dumb teenagers back then.” It was a bittersweet memory, one you regretted bringing up immediately.

Never before had your smile been so bright. If only you could go back to that simpler time.

If only.

“But we were in love with each other back then, weren’t we?” Kento asked. His own question nearly pushed him to his limit.

“Yeah, we were.” You smiled, brighter this time, and continued, “You’ll always have a special place in my heart — you know that, right?”

“I do.” Kento paused. “And, I’m sorry, but you’ll always be my sweetheart.”

“Good,” you mumbled, though your words were guilt-ridden. Avoiding Kento’s gaze, you started to fiddle with your wedding ring. “It’s getting late. I should . . . I should probably go.”

He didn’t want you to leave, but you weren’t his anymore. How he felt didn’t matter.

“Thank you for coming. It meant more to me than you know,” he said.

“Well, I was lying when I said I wanted to spend his birthday alone.”

“I know.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course he did.

“Bye, Kento,” you got out of the booth, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. “I . . . nevermind.”

Kento watched you walk through the chiming exit doors of the diner, your last sentence left incomplete. Raindrops were splattering against your head and clothes, but you were in no rush, not minding the drizzle.

Suddenly, your footsteps halted on the concrete sidewalk. You turned around, peering through the big windows, locking eyes with your ex-husband. At first, you gave him a soft smile — one that meant goodbye, and nothing further.

But then, he saw the corners of your lips fall into a little frown, and your eyes glistened with uncertainty. Hesitation. Regret.

You sighed, turning away from the sight of the man in the booth, the man who you knew for a fact held more than a “special place” in your heart, but still owned it entirely.

Though every step away from him was painful, you dragged yourself to your car, and drove away from the ex-husband you still loved, and home to the current-husband you somewhat liked.

Kento thought about rushing out of the door, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissing you in the rain — passionately and deeply, as you once loved. After all, he knew what your final look towards him meant. He knew your past marriage, though destructive, still held more passion than your current loveless one.

But he stayed put in his seat, taking a sip of his cold black coffee.

Perhaps, he would regret not chasing after you for the rest of his life, but being that he discovered not too long ago that his son’s cancer was genetic, originating from Kento’s side, and would soon claim his life as well — even after he survived all these years — he knew he wouldn’t have to live with his regret much longer.

This was the last time he would ever eat at the diner he once took you to, back when you were both young fools excitedly in love, fools who would die for each other in a heartbeat.

And those couple of seconds in which you locked eyes with him through the diner window? That was the last time he ever saw you.

🏷️: @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @thewondrousdreamer @levisfavoriteteashop @preciousamethyst @iwanttohitmyself @shoyosdoll @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @sonarspace @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @koikohib

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, mentions of an autistic meltdown, Lando being horrendously down-bad.

Notes — I love to ramble with ya’ll about my fics, so send me as many asks as you want!

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2018

Amelia liked it when the pit garages were like this. Tools neatly racked, screens idle but ready, the scent of fresh tire rubber still hanging in the air — not yet burnt.

Fernando sat on a workbench, sipping his espresso.

She was perched on the same tire she always chose, butter-yellow water bottle in hand. There was enough ice inside to keep her drink cold all day, even under the Abu Dhabi sun. She wore a white cotton dress that would probably be stained with oil by the end of the day — she didn’t care.

"You are thinking too much," he said eventually, voice low, words shaped by the curl of his accent. "I can hear them.”

She turned the bottle slowly between her hands, listening to the ice crash against the insulated metal. “You can’t hear thinking.” She told him. 

"I can when it is this loud," he replied. She frowned, staring at one of the stickers on her water bottle. Either there was a language barrier — or Fernando was some kind of mind reader. “You are worried about the new boys, yes?”

She rounded her shoulders up to her ears in response. 

He shifted slightly, the sound of his espresso cup touching down on the metal bench. “You worry they will not like you. Or not understand you. That they will say stupid things.”

“I don’t care if they like me,” she said automatically, but her voice was too tight around the words. “I just… I don’t want to make them uncomfortable. Because I don’t act the way they will expect, since I’m their boss’ daughter. Or because I don’t always know how to—”

He cut her off with a short sound — not quite interrupting, just catching the sentence before it turned into something more self-deprecating than necessary. “Mi niña,” he said. “You are not responsible for the comfort of two boys. Especially not ones who still trip over their own feet getting into the car.”

She didn’t smile, but the edges of her thoughts softened.

“They come into your garage. You were here first. You are a very helpful addition.” He paused. “And you are never unkind. This is more than most.”

She tightened her grip on her water bottle. “I make people uncomfortable sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed, and his honesty was nice. People always tried to lie to her in a silly attempt to make her feel more normal. “But only the ones who do not listen properly to what you say.” He picked up his espresso again, then added, “And if they do not listen, I will teach them.”

Amelia glanced toward the open garage, where footsteps passed in rapid beats and voices moved in bursts. It was the last race of the 2018 season. Lewis had already secured the Drivers’ Championship. She’d sent a big cake to his house with Well Done for Being Fast written on it. He’d posted a picture on his Instagram, which meant he’d appreciated the gesture.

She glanced at her phone and started chewing on her bottom lip.

Thinking about Lewis only reminded her of the email — unread, unacknowledged — sitting in her meticulously organised inbox.

Toto Wolff had taken it upon himself to email her. From his personal address, not his work one — no “Mercedes” anywhere in sight.

She’d taken one look at the subject line (Unconditional Job Offer / Employment Opportunity) and promptly launched her phone across the room. Miraculously, the screen had survived.

Lewis had warned her more than once that his team principal was interested in her talents. She’d assumed it was flattery. Apparently not.

If her dad ever found out about the email, he’d have a full-blown meltdown — the kind usually reserved for her. A rival team trying to poach his daughter wasn’t just a personal affront; it was a declaration of war.

“Amelia,” Fernando said. 

She didn’t look up right away. 

"Yes?” She asked. 

"Do not worry so much,” he said, tapping the side of his cup. "It ruins the coffee."

— 

The MTC was half-empty, lit with the flat grey light of a British winter morning. Most people were still on holiday. Lando wasn’t most people anymore. 

He tugged at the sleeves of his new team jacket as he walked the corridor past engineering, sneakers squeaking just slightly with each step. It still felt surreal; being here. Not as a junior, not as a maybe, but as a full-time McLaren Formula One driver.

He was so wrapped up in the thrill of it that he nearly walked right past her.

Amelia Brown was crouched beside a cart of sorted telemetry tablets, scanning each one like she was decoding a puzzle, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed unhappily. Her white trainers were smudged, her dark hair pulled back loosely, and her signature butter-yellow water bottle was sat beside her on the floor.

Lando stopped.

“Hey,” he said, a little too loud for how quiet the corridor was.

She looked up, blinked once, then gave a small nod. “Hello.”

Not cold. Not warm either. Just… Amelia. 

“I, uh… I set two alarms now,” he blurted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “So I’m never late anymore. Not even accidentally, you know?”

She turned her attention back to the tablets. “Okay.” She mumbled, hardly eligible. 

He waited. 

Right. That was it. 

Just okay.

“You know,” he tried to remind her, smiling because he wasn’t sure what else to do with his face, “because you said I lacked discipline and wouldn’t get the promotion if I kept being late.”

“I did say that,” she said, tapping on one of the screens and letting out an almost silent sigh when the screen remained black. “It was a problem.” 

Still nothing. No smile. No teasing. 

Lando cleared his throat. “Right. Well. It’s not a problem now.”

“Good,” she said.

A pause stretched between them. 

Lando rocked back on his heels. “Cool. Alright. I’ll just— I’ll see you around?”

Still, she didn’t look up. “Highly likely.”

He gave a quick nod and turned to go, cheeks warm.

He’d always thought of himself as pretty likeable. People laughed when he wanted them to. He was decent at reading a room — usually. But clearly, none of that meant anything to Amelia Brown. 

As he walked off, he glanced back without thinking. And, like an absolute idiot, he stumbled a little when he saw her absolutely beam at one of the tablets as it flickered to life, screen lighting up her face like something out of a bloody PC World advert.

Jesus Christ. She was fucking pretty.

Not in a flashy, look-at-me way. Just… quietly, properly pretty. The kind of pretty that made his stomach do something proper dodgy. He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering to himself. “Yeah. Sick. Nice one, mate. You’ve got no chance.”

— 

iMessage – Tuesday, 19:47

Lando mate she’s well fit 

Max F. bro 💀

Lando can’t stop staring at her she probably thinks im a right creep

Max F. yeah probably who are you even talking abt

Lando zak’s daughter

Max F.

are you actually brain dead?

you can’t fancy your boss’s daughter, mate

Lando she smiled today not at me but i saw it 

Max F. get a grip

Lando shut up you don’t get it

Max F. it’s a miracle you’ve still got a job 

Lando is this a safe space or what??

Max F. absolutely not you’re delusional, mate she’s so off-limits it’s not even funny

Lando 

🖕

— 

The Browns didn’t really do Christmas — not in the traditional sense. No matching pyjamas, no big family gathering, no chaos in the kitchen over a turkey no one actually wanted. They kept it simple: jazz music, good coffee, and her dad’s usual schtick — “I forgot to buy you anything this year.”

Which was a lie. Obviously.

She found it parked just outside on the driveway. A muted grey, weather-worn 1974 BMW 2002. 

Amelia stood and stared at it for a long time. Long enough that the cold bite of English winter started to seep in through her socks, and the tips of her fingers began to sting.

“Don’t just stand there,” her dad called from the doorway, hands tucked into his dressing gown pockets. “Take a proper look. She’s all yours.”

She took a slow step forward, then another. The car was old, but solid — just the way she liked things. A little rust, some scuffed chrome. It was beautiful. She crouched next to the front fender and ran her hand along the edge, careful, reverent.

“You hate shopping,” she said, still staring at it.

“I didn’t shop,” her dad replied. “I emailed a man named Clive and paid way too much to have him do all the work for me.”

There was a long silence.

She stood, glanced at him, tried — really tried — to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

He gave a small nod. “You’ll need new tires. And probably a carburettor.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her sleeves, but this time it wasn’t nerves — it was barely-contained energy. Her thoughts were already whirring; parts lists, toolkits, diagrams, weekends in the garage with grease on her hands and her favourite playlist playing on repeat.

“I— I can order those online,” she said, already calculating delivery times in her head. “And the belts. And the spark plugs. And—” She stopped herself.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled into his coffee mug that said ‘Worlds Best Dad’ and stepped back inside, leaving her alone with her new car and barely contained excitement.

Her hands started moving at her sides — flapping, stimming, too fast to stop once they began. She shoved them into her pockets, fists clenched tight against the fabric. Closed her eyes.

She took a breath. Let it out slowly.

Old habits died hard. Years at school had taught her to mask her reactions — even the harmless ones — because they made her stand out. Because they made her weird.

She hadn’t just been ignored. She’d been mocked. Not always loudly, but enough to stick. The way she flapped her hands. The way she didn’t make eye contact. The way she talked too much about one thing and not enough about everything else.

There was a reason she’d chosen not to go to university, even though she loved learning. Even though engineering made perfect sense to her in ways people often didn’t.

She could get a degree. She’d probably be good at it.

But it would drain her — the social minefields, the unspoken rules, the overwhelming noise of lecture halls and shared spaces and trying to be something she wasn’t just to fit in.

She’d spent so long trying to pass as normal. To not stim in public. To not talk too much. To not be too much.

Once, a girl in her class had said, in a tone that Amelia guessed was meant to be kind, “At least you’re pretty. You wouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve got, you know… issues.”

She still thought about that sometimes.

How it was supposed to be a compliment.

How it hadn’t felt like one at all.

— 

2019

The lights were off in her dad’s office. Just the soft hum of the monitor on standby, the gentle click of the old wall clock, and the warm, familiar scent of coffee baked into the furniture. She curled up on the old leather couch, knees tucked close to her chest, head resting against the arm. She had her weighted blanket on. Her yellow water bottle was beside her, half-full. The room felt like a safe haven. 

After yesterday, that was all she wanted.

The meltdown had come on fast — she’d been too hot, the lights too bright, someone had changed the layout of the front-desk without warning her, and it had all just spiralled. She hated how quickly she lost herself in the emotions. Hated the looks people gave her when she couldn’t hold it all together.

She’d apologised more than she should have. Her dad told her that she never needed to apologise for being who she was.

The office door opened.

She didn’t move, but her eyes flicked toward the sound. Her dad stepped in first, deep in conversation, and behind him were Carlos and Lando.

“I told you, she’s probably curled up somewhere charging like a phone,” her dad said lightly, then saw her. His voice softened. “Ah. There she is. Amelia — this is Lando. And this is Carlos.”

She blinked. Sat up a little. “I already know Lando.”

Lando almost tripped over his own feet. “Yeah! Yeah, we’ve, uh— run into each other a few times. Around. Just, like—hallways. And stuff.”

He scratched the back of his neck. His face went bright pink.

Amelia stared at him for a moment before she turned her attention to Carlos. “Hello.”

He gave her a small smile. “Hola,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a small pause.

Her dad cleared his throat, cheerful as ever.

“Carlos is one of the good ones,” he said. “No nonsense. I like that in a driver.”

Amelia nodded once. That made sense. She respected no-nonsense people, too.

She tucked her knees back under her chin. “Okay,” she said quietly.

Carlos smiled again, just a little wider this time. Still cautious, but less unsure.

Amelia didn’t return the smile — not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t always remember that she had to. Instead, she reached for her water bottle and unscrewed the lid. 

“You retired in Australia,” she said. 

Carlos blinked, then gave a small laugh. “Yeah. Not the best start to the season.”

“It was the power unit,” she shrugged. “Renault engine. Unreliable. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her dad gave a low chuckle. “She doesn’t miss much. Reads through race data like it’s the morning newspaper.”

Carlos tilted his head slightly. “You work with the engineers?” He asked her. 

“I don’t work anywhere,” Amelia said. “But I sometimes sit in on meetings. And I fix things when they’re wrong. Fernando used to let me be in his garage. He said I was very useful.”

“You are useful,” her dad said automatically, from across the room.

She didn’t respond. Compliments were difficult — they always made her feel like she was meant to do something with them, and she never quite knew what.

She looked at Lando. He was already watching her.

She blinked. His eyes widened a little.

She let out a quiet sigh through her nose. She hated not knowing what expressions meant — what came next, what was expected.

“Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” Carlos said, breaking the silence.

Amelia took another sip of water. The right words settled on her tongue this time.

“You overshot Turn Nine,” she said, turning back to Lando.

He coughed. “I—Yeah. I know.”

“You let off the brake too early. You always do that when you’re nervous.”

Carlos let out a small, choked sound.

She frowned at him. 

Lando shifted. “I don’t always do that.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “You did it at Monza in 2018.”

“Okay.” He said. His neck was going red. 

“But you’re getting better,” she added. “You were twelfth. That’s good, considering the partial engine fault.”

He looked at her for a second too long. She didn’t know why. Then he said, “…Thanks.”

She nodded once, and then tugged at her blanket. 

There was a quiet pause — the kind Amelia usually didn’t mind. Lando shuffled his feet. Carlos glanced toward the door, then back to her.

“Right then! I’ll come find you later,” her dad said to her. “We’ll get something nice for lunch.”

“Okay.” She agreed. 

Carlos gave her one last polite nod. “See you around, Amelia.”

She didn’t say goodbye, just looked at him, then at Lando. “You should eat more complex carbohydrates before qualifying sessions,” she told him. “You looked quite pale.”

Lando stared at her. “I—yeah. Alright.” He paused, then added quickly, “It was, uh, nice seeing you again.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips pressed together in a way that, for her, was close to a smile.

— 

iMessage – Thursday, 10:51

Lando i’m fucked like properly fucked

Max F. bro come on

Lando she’s unreal and actually insanely smart

Max F. mate this is such a catastrophically bad idea

Lando she remembered i locked up into turn 9 in monza like three years ago i think i’m in love

Max F. you’re not in love you’re having a breakdown

Lando can’t it be both

Max F. lando i’m staging an intervention where’s jon⁉️ does he know you’re acting like this

Lando jon just keeps saying i should be stretching more he doesn’t care about my emotional wellbeing

Max F. he’d start to care if he found out you were thirsting after zak browns daughter 

Lando gonna make her my wifey 😏

Max F. fucksake lando 

— 

Amelia stood behind the screens at the back of the McLaren pit garages, fingers looped through the sleeves of her jacket. She’d already organised the weekend’s tyre allocation list by compound, colour-coded the data feed to match, and adjusted the ride height figures twice. Not because she needed to — just because she could.

It was her first race of the year.

The first time back since before the winter break. 

The new chassis looked better in person than it had in the renders. She liked the way the papaya paint caught the light.

“Amelia,” someone said softly.

She turned her head slightly. One of the engineers — Greg? Grant? She still hadn’t learned his name. She was terrible at remembering names. 

“Telemetry’s live when you’re ready.” He told her. 

She nodded once and moved closer, careful to avoid the cables that trailed across the floor like snakes.

The numbers lit up on the screen in front of her. Speed. G-force. Delta times.

She exhaled, long and slow. 

“Morning.”

She looked up. Lando.

He was already in his race suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair a mess and half-damp. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly after his shower.

“Hello,” she responded.

“You’re here,” he said, smiling. Then quickly added, “I mean — yeah, obviously. It’s only the third race. But still.”

She tilted her head. “Yes. I’m here.”

A pause. His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, then closed again.

“Okay, cool,” he said finally. “Sick. Um. Good luck out there.”

“I’m not driving,” she frowned at him.

“Right.” He turned and walked straight into a support beam.

Amelia blinked, then returned her attention to the screen.

Lando’s throttle trace was spiky again. She’d make a note of that.

— 

The garage was quieter now. Not silent though. It was never fully silent. Engineers were keeping their voices low. Tools clinked still, but in a less urgent rhythm. Some of the pit crew were already sweeping up debris from the floor. Wiping away a mess that no one wanted to talk about.

Amelia stayed where she always did, behind the screens, legs crossed on the floor like it helped anchor her in place. Her yellow water bottle sat by her knee, half-empty and warm now. She hadn’t drunk much since the race started.

DNFs always left a strange taste in the air. Bitter. Like metal.

She hadn’t seen the full replay yet, but she didn’t need to. Lando’s car had made it twenty-eight laps before something failed; she’d seen the warning signs creeping into the data before the radio call was made. His voice had been clipped. Tired.

The flap of the garage partition opening made her flinch. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

It was obviously Lando. His helmet was gone, race suit peeled halfway down, sweat-damp fireproofs clinging to his arms. He stopped just beside her.

“I’m fine,” he said. His voice cracked a little. “In case anyone’s, you know. Wondering.”

Amelia didn’t respond.

He hovered.

She tapped the edge of her tablet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Kind of was.” He dropped onto the floor beside her with a groan, back against the wall. “Clipped the kerb weird coming out of six. Probably jarred something.”

“No,” she said. “You were nursing a power unit issue from lap seventeen. You did what you were supposed to.”

He looked at her, then away again, picking at the velcro on his gloves.

She watched him for a second. Tried to decide if she was supposed to say something else. If there was something people usually said in moments like this.

Nothing came.

So she offered the only thing she could give. Facts. “You did better than the data predicted.”

Lando glanced at her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

She squinted at him. Hadn’t that been obvious? “Yes.”

He smiled a little. Just with the corner of his mouth. “Cheers.”

They sat there in silence for a while. A few people came over to touch Lando’s shoulder and offer him sympathy. His jaw got tighter every time. 

Eventually, she picked up her tablet and started rewatching his onboard. Then she angled it toward him. 

“You’re going to tell me exactly what I did wrong, aren’t you?” he asked.

She nodded.

He let his head thump back against the wall. “Brilliant.”

—

The motorhome had quieted after media duties and the two-hour race debrief. Lando sat slouched on the drivers' lounge sofa, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling. Carlos was across from him, arms folded, watching with a look Lando had come to recognise: the I know something you don’t want me to know look.

“I need to ask you something,” Carlos said, tone casual. But the accent gave it weight — Som-theeng.

Lando didn’t look up. “No.”

Carlos chuckled. “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say, coño.”

“I do.” Lando groaned. “And the answer is still no.”

Carlos leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You like her.”

“What? No, I—” Lando paused, brow furrowed. “Like who?”

Carlos tilted his head. “Come on. Don’t play dumb, amigo. Amelia. You like Amelia Brown.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “Nah. We’ve barely talked.”

Even he could hear the lie in his own voice.

Carlos raised a silent eyebrow.

“I’m just being respectful!” Lando snapped. “She’s—she’s McLaren royalty, basically. And she knows more about my car than I do half the time.”

Carlos shrugged, eyes sharp. “Sí, she’s smart. And I like her. But...” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “You need to be careful, cabrón.”

Lando’s jaw tensed. “Why? Do you like her? Is that what this is?” The words came out sharper than he intended, something hot and ugly twisting in his gut. Jealousy. Stupid, immediate, and impossible to hide.

Carlos blinked. “Ay, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lando didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said he wasn’t convinced.

Carlos sat back, arms folding again. “She’s not a paddock flirt, okay? She’s not like the grid girls or the influencers who want a selfie and a race pass. She is your boss’ daughter. You screw that up, it’s not just her you lose — it’s your job, your reputation, and the respect of thr whole damn garage. If you haven’t already lost your seat.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “Why does everyone act like I’m some... idiot teenager with zero self-control?”

Carlos held his gaze. “Because you are a teenager with zero self-control.”

“I’m nineteen!” He argued. 

“Exactly.” Carlos exhaled through his nose. “So, listen to me. If you’re serious? Fine. But don’t start something you’re not ready to finish.”

Lando looked away, jaw tight. “I’m not a total dickhead, y’know.”

Carlos gave him a long look, then nodded. “Bueno. Just remember what I said.”

Lando muttered under his breath, “Still worth it.”

Carlos groaned, grabbing a cushion off the sofa and chucking it at him. “Ay dios mío. You are so getting yourself fired.”

— 

Amelia was sat on the low wall outside the McLaren hospitality unit, sipping from her water bottle, tablet balanced on her knees.

She heard him before she saw him — Lewis never really moved quietly. Valtteri was beside him. 

“Morning, little genius,” Lewis said, slowing to a stop.

She looked up, blinked once. “Good morning.”

Valtteri gave a small nod. “You’re looking well.”

“I’m fine,” she said, glancing back down at her tablet. 

There was a pause. 

She sighed softly before looking up at them both. “You can tell Toto thank you,” she said, tone even. “For the offer. I appreciate it, but I’m not interested.”

Lewis blinked. “Offer?”

“Yes. The job.” She paused. “I assumed he’d told you.”

Valtteri and Lewis exchanged a glance; surprised, a little caught off guard.

“He didn’t,” Valtteri said slowly.

Lewis folded his arms. “He reached out to you directly?”

She nodded. “From his personal email. Not the Mercedes one.” That felt important.

Lewis let out a low whistle. “Damn. That sneaky bastard.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Amelia went on. “And I’m staying with my team. With my dad. Loyalty is important to me.”

Valtteri raised his brows. Lewis looked at her for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. “Well, he’ll be disappointed,” he said, voice lighter now.

Amelia shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

“Guess we’ll just have to beat you on track then,” Valtteri added, grinning.

She frowned down at her tablet screen. “You have a significantly better car than us.”

Lewis laughed. “Yeah. Guess we do.” 

— 

“Miss Brown, I’d like a word.”

She turned, blinked, and then frowned.

The team principal for Renault smiled at her, a little too wide — it was off-putting.

“I’ll just jump straight to it. I think you could be a great asset to our team. We’d love to have someone with your brain power. I could offer you a very generous employment package.” He said. 

She blinked at him. She’d been getting these exact kinds of propositions ever since the season started. Every team, it seemed, was suddenly interested in her ‘brain power’. She wasn’t sure what had changed. Maybe they had followed her on Twitter. 

“I am happy where I am,” she said flatly. “Thank you.” 

The man was still smiling, though it was starting to fade just a little. “Are you sure? We’d be willing to work out a very appealing arrangement for you. It could be a great opportunity.”

She wasn’t interested. She didn’t need to be polite. It didn’t take a lot of effort to walk away from the conversation. She took a step back, her fingers clenching around her yellow water bottle.

As she moved past him, she heard him call after her, but she didn’t stop.

Gosh, she thought to herself, as she made her way back to McLaren motorhome. Could none of them find anyone better than a 19-year-old without a degree?

NEXT CHAPTER

[puck-luck]

hi andy! this is my first ever ask but i just love your writing so so much that i had to participate. could i please order a chai latte with peppermint for any of the hughes brothers, you pick, i trust your brilliant mind- best friends brother trope. congrats on one year! 🫶

i am so honored to be the recipient of your first ever ask<3 i went with jack for this blurb (1.9K) and reader is luke's best friend.

warnings: possessive jack, guilt from reader, unprotected p in v, kind of insecure luke (sry lulu), spit kink, DIRTY talk, uhhhh without spoiling it... having sex in... someone else's bed.

You were doomed the first time Luke told you that he sometimes feels like he’s just Jack’s little brother. You were at Michigan with him at the time, hanging out in his dorm room while Dylan was out, when you and Luke had your first real deep talk. It was late at night and you both were overtired, but you weren’t willing to go back to your room just yet. Luke didn’t want you to leave, either. You both were having a lot of fun talking and bearing your souls to each other.

“I love my brothers, but sometimes it feels like people only want to be my friend because of them,” Luke had admitted quietly. “I wish more people were interested in, like… me. Not ‘Luke Hughes,’ but… just me.”

You hadn’t met the brothers at that point, although you felt like you knew them from Luke’s stories alone. Without telling him, you vowed that you’d never feel more for his brothers than you do for Luke. You’ve become friends with each of them over the years, and friendship was fine as long as they didn’t overtake Luke as your best friend, but things took a turn this spring.

It’s your final semester at UMich and you’re trying to make the most of it. When Jack got injured in March, Luke had asked you to keep an eye on him while he was living alone in the lake house and recovering. Luke was worried that Jack would become hermitish and sullen in the wake of his injury and another surgery, so you’d been more than happy to send Luke updates.

Jack was lonely in the house. You started spending more and more time there, keeping him company. You’d spend the afternoons there when you were done with classes, studying and hanging out with Jack so he didn’t feel quite so isolated. You started spending the night because it was too late to drive an hour back to Ann Arbor and Jack promised it wasn’t putting him out at all. In fact, it was his idea.

Then it happened. Things went too far one night and you ended up breaking your own vow. The first time, you thought it was a fluke. You avoided the house for a full week until Luke texted you and asked how Jack was doing, cornering you and forcing you to go back to see if he was okay. It happened again… and again.

You regret it every morning, feeling like garbage for feeling something more for Jack when you swore you’d never make Luke feel like you’re just friends with him for his brother, and yet you can’t seem to stop yourself from succumbing to Jack whenever he looks at you like that.

He took you out to a bar tonight, celebrating the end of the school year. All you have left are your finals and then you’ll be done, graduated, and on the job hunt. You’ve been looking, but haven’t found anything yet, and you’ve got a full summer to apply and hope for the best. 

You’re both tipsy when you make it back to the house. Jack was kissing you in the Uber and kisses you all the way up the walkway, pressing your body into the front door as he fumbles with his key and blindly lets you in. You almost fall backwards into the foyer when he opens the door, but Jack wraps a strong arm around your waist and keeps you upright. He keeps your core aligned with his bulge, showing you just how badly he wants you.

The house is dark as you make your way upstairs. You’re lost in Jack’s kisses, allowing him to guide you in the general direction of a bed. One of his hands has snaked its way up your shirt and taken it off, dropping it in the hallway, and is now working on unclasping your bra. His mouth trails down to your neck, sloppily licking over your jaw and sucking a hickey beneath your earlobe.

You and Jack collapse against the mattress, his body solid on top of yours. He rolls his hips down, between the juncture of your thighs, and you moan into his mouth. The uninhibited thrust of his covered cock against your clothed core was satisfying in the way that it only can be in this state– tipsy and drunk on the lingering taste of beer on Jack’s tongue. 

He finally removes your bra and gets his mouth on your tits, sucking blemishes over the soft skin as his fingers unbutton your jeans and wiggle inside your panties. You’re already dripping from all the times his tongue sparred with yours on the journey up to this room, so Jack is met with no resistance when two of his fingers make their way inside of you.

“So fucking wet,” Jack praises, his voice a low growl. “God, baby, you’ve soaked your panties already. All because I gave you a few kisses?”

You whimper and grind into his touch, his fingertips close to but not touching your g-spot. “All for you,” you confirm in a wanton voice, saying anything that’ll speed this up. Your abdomen is a dam that’s waiting to burst. 

Jack takes your nipple in his mouth and hollows his cheeks, suckling harshly and flicking his tongue over the bud. He looks up at you with those deep blue eyes, dark and glinting through the shadows of the bedroom, and a strand of hair falls over his forehead. The heel of his palm rubs against your clit, applying pressure as his fingers beckon inside of you quickly. He rolls his hips into your thigh, his hard length getting some well-deserved attention through his own pants. He moans against your nipple, tongue flat and eyelashes fluttering, and switches sides before rolling his hips again. He bites down on your nipple and his fingers dance against your g-spot, the stimulation against your clit too much to hold back, and you come with shaky legs because of all of Jack’s efforts and how pretty he looks with his pink lips wrapped around the peak of your breast.

“Atta girl,” Jack continues, licking over his bottom lip in a way that is almost predatory. “You want this?” He thrusts against your thigh again, overexaggerated and slow. “Want me to fuck you, pretty girl?”

“Jack,” you plead. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, so you fist the fabric and try to pull it off. 

He chuckles and gets his hands on the back of his collar, tugging the shirt from his body and throwing it across the room. He lays a kiss on your mouth before standing at the edge of the bed and unzipping his pants, frantically shimmying out of them. 

You do the same, matching his pace. You’re writhing on the quilted blanket atop the bed, which is weird because you could’ve sworn that Jack has a comforter, given the fact that he runs cold, but you’re more focused on freeing your legs and removing your panties so that Jack can hurry up and get inside you.

Both sufficiently naked, Jack stays at the foot of the bed, pulling you towards him by your hips. He brings one of your ankles to rest on his shoulder, allowing the other one to dangle. Your foot finds the floor and Jack kicks it wide, making space for himself. He fists his cock and slaps the head against your clit before finding your gaping, seeping entrance with the blunt tip. 

You arch your back when he thrusts forward sharply, half of his length working into you at once. He draws back out and fucks inside of you entirely on the second thrust, filling you up and knocking the breath from your lungs. “Oh my God,” you moan.

Jack smirks at that. “Oh, yeah?” he asks. He plants his hands on either side of your shoulders, hinging forward so he’s hovering above you. The stretch in your hamstrings is enough to have you humming in relief, then Jack catches your mouth while it’s still open and launches a glob of spit onto your tongue. 

Your eyes roll back in your head and you swallow the saliva, feeling Jack’s hand move down to grasp your throat. In the already dark room, your vision dances with black spots from the deprivation of oxygen. 

“Touch yourself,” Jack commands in a strong voice, leaving no room for argument. “Rub your clit. Make yourself feel good while I fuck you.”

You nod helplessly, right hand finding the apex of your legs and struggling to make proper contact with the sensitive nerves due to Jack’s rough thrusts displacing your body. Once you’re able to get your hand in the right place, you’re circling your fingers uncontrollably, hips jerking into your touch and into Jack’s brutal, ramming movements. 

Your brain is fuzzy and your eyes are screwed shut and Jack’s hand is on your neck and his mouth is poised right next to your ear and he whispers–

“Does it feel good, huh? Are you about to come, baby?”

“Please, Jack, can I? I’m so close,” you babble, lips touching the curve of his jaw and tasting the droplets of sweat that have formed there. 

You feel his smile, his evil, beautiful smile, form. He licks over your earlobe and traps it between his lips, gently tugging. “Let go whenever you’re ready, sweet thing.”

You shudder and your free hand goes around the nape of Jack’s neck. Your fingers curl into the long strands and he hisses at the pressure against his scalp, but he doesn’t stop moving. He drops another line of spit into your open mouth, then kisses your lax lips.

You feel like what you imagine a supernova feels like– a bright, hot, abrupt flash of energy collapsing against itself and becoming completely destroyed. 

Jack clicks his tongue and talks you through it. “Oh, there you go… what would Lukey think if he could see you now, hear all the nonsense you’re saying while you come all over his big brother’s cock? On his bed, baby? You’re such a slut, God, so perfect for me, just for me…”

He drives his hips into your heat, bodies slapping together in a wet symphony until Jack trembles and releases his load right in your pussy, flooding your cunt and claiming you. 

You breathe heavily, gasping and trying to catch your breath after that intense orgasm. It’s the strongest one that you’ve ever experienced and it’s followed by a terrible comedown– the abrupt comprehension of what Jack just said and how you’d desecrated your best friend’s bedroom with his older brother, the one that everyone seems to adore more than sweet Luke. You’re mortified as Jack pulls out of your cunt and grins down at his handiwork, teeth glinting in the moonlight that seeps through the window. You feel frozen in place, ice running through your veins as Jack’s hot cum leaks out of your pussy and onto Luke’s quilt. 

His words were possessive. He growled them in your ears with full confidence and worse, he was right. You’re a slut for Jack, you’re drunk on him, you keep falling into this trap and digging yourself deeper, and there’s no way Luke can ever know. You’re screwed– but you also can’t stop. It’s too good, Jack is too good, and you feel empty without him around. Fuck.

[windyremedy]

puppy pleads

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

scenario: realizing that katsuki does everything you want ft. my dad with the dog he said he didn’t want

Takeshi Bakugou compared to his other siblings listened to his parents the best. Not that the others don’t but by far he’s the quickest to respond doing whatever they asked, whether it be to go sleep on time or help sweep the floors. But one thing’s for certain and something he probably got from his father is that he’s unshaken when he sets his mind to something and that something he wants is a pet, a companion if you will.

But no matter how much times he asks and pleads they always seemed to tell him no. Well more specifically his dad refused, telling him that they’re too messy and require a lot of work. Takeshi understood that they probably couldn’t afford taking care of another living being especially since they had their hands full with his baby sister but c’mon he was feeling lonely. After his oldest brother left for U.A early and his other brother busy with presedential club duties things were just too quiet for his liking.

Don’t get things twisted though he didn’t feel left out with his parents. In fact he adores his baby sister and loves being an older brother after being the youngest for so long but can’t a boy just get another pal?

“Mom can you please convince dad to agree.” he begged as you sat there amused on a kitchen stool, feeding Asami a spoon of baby food.

“Love he tells me no too y’know.” you informed laughing slightly at his incredulous expression.

“Impossible!” he exclaims in total disbelief.

“It’s true, remember when he was on that one long month mission and you wanted to gonna sleep in our room because you missed your dad so much you wanted to sleep on his side of the bed because it smelled like him.”

“Yeah what about that time?” he asked skeptically.

“I asked him for a specific snack but it was already too late to get anything.” you replied wiping Asami’s messy mouth.

“But then he bought some coming home though, a few days after he got back he secretly ordered online and got them for you.” Takeshi pointed out with pinched eyebrows and a detective pout.

“Oh! I guess you’re right. Well there was also the time where I wanted to get another plushie for Asami but he said there was already too many.”

“Uh huh and he bought that too when you weren’t looking.” he confidently retorts.

“But….”

“Got you that too…”

“Also…”

“Surprised you…”

“That time…”

“Actually…”

And many more instances where you remembered Katsuki had told you no but actually in fact got what you wanted anyway.

“Okay! okay, maybe he doesn’t say no to me a lot.” you admitted, now realizing that fact.

“At all.” He corrected.

“Fine, I’ll ask your dad but I’m not promising anything kay? now can you please get more tissues before— wait Asami no!” you pried her little arms from trying to eat the food around her face with her palms.

“Kay!!” Takeshi smiled avoiding the messy onslaught and already looking like he just got what he wanted.

three months later

“Dad you can’t be giving Snowball too many snacks.” Takeshi laughed at the sight.

The small little puppy laying peacefully on the large hulking figure whose expression can send enemies running was a whiplash to see for sure. He had just gotten back from school and the new addition in to the family seemed to be fitting in perfectly. Takeshi knew just a couple weeks after his mom asked that his dad would give in.

“He wanted a treat, I can’t not give him a treat. What do you want me to do? not give him a treat? I have to give him a treat.”

“Okay dad.”

©windyremedy

[lex-the-flex]

Under the Cherry Blossoms – Love and Deepspace

Including: Sylus x fem! reader

Warning(s): MEGA FLUFF, established relationship, makeout session (slightly sexual), semi-public sex? 👀 (fingering), Sylus being a horny gentleman.

A/N: Well, I guess I write first LADS now, and honestly, as long as it cures my writers block, that’s all I want! Feedback is appreciated and enjoy!

“Sylus…” You whisper only for him to hear.

Briefly releasing his lips from your jawline, a smirk rises in the corner of your lover’s mouth.

“Yes, my love?” He asks.

Gently caressing the sides of your face, Sylus's crimson eyes gaze into yours.

“We can’t… People will see.” You say, tugging on the hem of his leather jacket.

“Well then, the cherry blossoms will provide the ruse: we’re just two young lovers who decided to enjoy the afternoon. …Regardless of the outcome.” Sylus explains.

Realizing that you’re not going to win this fight, you wrap your arms around Sylus's shoulders, prompting him to lean closer.

“You’re such a bad influence.” You mock him with a smile.

“And you’d have me no other way.” He replies, tilting your chin forward.

Capturing your lips on his own, he guides you both further back into the shade. The scent of the fresh, flowing blossoms waft through the cool breeze, causing the skirt of your brand new dress to glide over your legs.

Running your fingers through Sylus's short white hair, he slightly presses you against the wide trunk of the tree. Scrunching the buds of your fingers along the back of his neck, he momentarily pulls back, ending the kiss.

“God, the things you do to me.” Sylus announces, trailing a free hand down the curves of your body.

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?” You tease.

“Oh, sweetie. Trying to celebrate my birthday a little early?” He replies, biting your bottom lip.

Deepening the kiss, Sylus's tongue breaks the barrier of your cherry flavored lips. With his free hand sinking past your hips, you unconsciously move your body against his hips, secretly wanting more.

Tracing his fingers in between your thighs, his hand dances along the soft skin of your legs. Tilting his head to the side, a brief groan escapes from Sylus's chest. Determined to continue, Sylus carefully cups your clothed clit, earning a muffled gasp from you.

Giving you barely any time to breathe, Sylus moves your silk panties to the side. Seductively playing and pulling around the bundle of nerves, your knees begin to wobble, causing you to balance your leg on Sylus's waist.

Breaking the kiss, Sylus nibbles on the outside of your ear.

“So eager for me.” He smiles.

Caressing your throbbing clit, Sylus pushes two of his fingers past your entrance. Giving him a soft moan as a reply, that’s all he needs to know. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, your fingers scrunch his short hair. Swirling his digits along your slick walls, you grip Sylus's shoulders and your knuckles begin to turn white.

“…Sylus.” You moan. 

Shielding your frame from the rest of the outside world, Sylus's digits tread deeper into you, ultimately reaching your sensitive spot. Calming stroking the ticklish nerve, you can feel your legs burn from the impending arousal. 

Leaving his spot from your neck, Sylus grips your waist, keeping himself composed. Shaking at his horrifyingly accurate precision, it never failed to send you over the edge. Sending you closer to the breaking point, your thoughts start to spiral out of control, unable to hold on anymore. 

Suddenly, Sylus’s warm voice radiates against your eardrums, only making you more wet and slick. 

“Don’t cum. I’ll have you all to myself soon enough, Y/N.” Sylus orders, circling around your closing walls.

Doing as he says, you do your best to hold back. Releasing your grip on his shoulders, you let out a shaky and a sharp breath once he removes his fingers. Leaning his forehead against your own, a peaceful, yet satisfied hum leaves Sylus's chest.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself?” He asks.

Smirking, you collect his face in both hands as he leans in your touch.

“You fiend.” You reply, tugging on his bottom lip.

“You–” Sylus gasps, surprised by your sudden action. 

You could tell he had more in him, more hunger. But right now, this wasn’t the time or the place to share it. There were too many prying eyes everywhere. Taking you by the hand, Sylus leads you through the rest of the park, eager to continue this rendezvous elsewhere. 

a/n: happy birthday to my man.

tagging ~

@iraot

@abbzloves

@sylusbelovedwifey

[riverbends]

SECRETARY AU (jack abbot x f!reader)

part one: the blouse | mdni | MASTERLIST

tags: sexual content, mentions of smut, power imbalance, age gap, angst, perv jack, perv reader, dubcon elements??, masturbation wc: 5.6k cat says: this fic is a deviation from the source material, although i will include some of the other characters who play different roles in the story. i also initially wrote the entire thing as an abbotmohan fic and i spent so long deciding if i wanted to keep it that way. i changed all the pronouns and verb tenses to see how it looked and now i can’t be bothered to change it back to abbotmohan but also i think im okay with this anyway. i've planned a different fic for them. i’m also pretty much basing this off of the film secretary and i’m not familiar with the american healthcare system (if that still...even exists today...) so I’m just drawing things from an australian perspective (yeah ew). thaaaaaaank you bye

Five days a week. From 7 AM until only God knows when. Supposed to be 5 PM. Most of the time, 7 PM. On the rarest occasions, 8 PM. If you didn’t get paid overtime, you’d complain about it more. Not to him, obviously.

You never really share anything with him, much less your grievances. Nor does he, save for a random but contextual anecdote from his life in relation to a patient he’s just seen or maybe a very brief retelling of an encounter he had with somebody on the way to the practice.

Apart from that, the two of you tend to keep to yourselves when he isn’t giving you tasks or instructions for correspondence. A few glances when he enters the waiting room, some tight smiles at the reception. No lingering, no small talk, no jokes (it rarely occurs to you that you might be the one avoiding any interaction possible).

Though, to your embarrassment, he does seem to foster a habit of saying something very normal and, arguably, platonic in such a way that sends an agonising heat searing through your belly. This is only an embarrassment on your part because it feels nearly impossible to hide the effect he has. The dewy, sticky mess he leaves underneath your skirt with only a few words in a warm, hushed tone.

He has never indicated any awareness of this apprehension—at least, not to your knowledge—but you fear the patients might catch your eyes lingering on his back as he walks away. Your mouth drawn in tight, eyes shining under furrowed brows as you endure a throbbing ache down south.

The same praises you whisper at night against your sheets while you work yourself up, and up. Fingers pruned, sore—

Fear they might hear your heart punching your ribs or, God forbid, the soft chafe of your stockings against your skin as you squeeze your thighs together.

Thank you, doll.

What would I do without you, honey?

A whole year of casual praises and brief compliments.

You swear there’s something tucked between those words, something that tears away all the lights and the patients and the furniture. Like his voice dissolves the waiting room, sponging up the sludged air until your blood runs in your ears. Only you, in your chair. Him, standing at your side, mere inches away.

Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot

Perhaps, he doesn’t mean it the way you think he does and it only sounds different to you, and you unprofessionally engineer unspeakable fantasies when you shouldn’t be…and you are unfit for this job and maybe you need to leave for good and hopefully you’ll forget the smell of him whenever he leaned over your shoulder.

Robust cologne. Blade slicing through fruit; bleeding sharp, heady wine—

Your name is called.

Out of focus, your eyes flit up. Frank stands behind the counter holding a takeaway box over the top of the glass case displaying sandwiches, pastries, and cookies.

“Oh,” you stop fiddling with the button of your coat and step forward, returning the smile. “Sorry, Frank. Thank you.”

“No need,” he laughs as you take your order from him. “I’d be out of it too if I sat at that desk all day.”

Internally, you grimace. You don’t even really mind the desk job. The paperwork, the phone calls, the patients, the hospital correspondence, the tidying, the pay, the hours of nothingness. You are good at this. Well-rehearsed and comfortably attuned.

It’s the dread that pulls you into wanton lapses, into daydreams. No, ‘dread’ just gives the feeling an ugly suit. It isn’t so much dread as it is anticipation. The anticipation is ugly. For what, you don’t want to admit. It even borders on hope, and it’s pathetic.

From hopping on the bus with a flame in your belly to opening the practice at 7 AM while your head spins to waiting for Dr Abbot to appear at the door half an hour later to bracing yourself for his greeting to expecting a task from him to imagining how his thumbs would pry apart your labia minora, nice and wide, so he can slot his tongue—

To secretly hope for whatever you are secretly hoping for. Yes, you do feel quite out of it.

“It’s not so bad,” You smile, shrugging. “Although, I sort of envy you. I’d kill for free lemon slices after every shift.”

“Okay, you know I don’t get free stuff every shift,” Frank raises his hands as if in surrender, “but all you have to do is ask.”

Two months after you initially got the job at the practice, you were already a regular at the café off the corner. You know all the employees, but it’s always been Frank Langdon who's given you discounts and, of course, the occasional freebie. Maybe he flirts a little sometimes and maybe you flirt back. It’s fun, you can’t lie. You also can’t ignore his momentary glances slipping below your eyes, settling on the valley of your breasts.

The blouse was a bad idea. You knew it the moment you buttoned it up this morning. There must be some kind of dress code that warns against it, but you’ve been having little to no sense these past few months anyway.

The sweet, silken pink flatters the slope of your waist with seven magenta buttons stopping right up at the source of Frank’s inhibited attention. Your breasts aren’t on complete display but anyone with eyes can make out the soft cleave between them, despite your many futile attempts to tug the fabric over the middle of your chest.

(A deviant part of you wore it for Dr. Abbot).

“Will do,” you salute before heading for the door.

Dirty. That is the recurring adjective.

Dirty, old man, Robby had once playfully mocked Jack in response to the small and, in his opinion, insignificant confession about you. Jack didn’t even say anything bad enough to warrant that kind of epithet. Definitely nothing as bad as the things he thinks about. Only that, sometimes, the way you look up at him from your chair puts his stomach in knots. And that, of course, you are pretty.

He didn’t dare mention that the look—the gleam in your eyes when you peer up at him, as if you are lost; unmoored. Like you need guiding and, oh, does he want to guide you—sends him over the edge. That his pants suddenly feel taut over his crotch when your mouth parts ever so slightly. A few warm breaths away from his twitching cock.

Dirty, old man.

Jack harbours a medley of perverted reveries, all of which are the fruit of a desire that has burgeoned from the moment you walked in for the job interview a year ago. He remembers it like it was only yesterday.

It had rained that day. Heavily, and evidently. You hadn’t anticipated the bucketing showers. The bus stop was a fair walk away, so it made complete sense that your hair was dripping and plastered to the sides your neck. Drops of water trailing down your temple, slipping over your throat to settle on your clavicle. You apologised profusely for the state of yourself while Jack tried not to stare at the imprint of your bra through your soaked shirt.

You scrambled for any and all explanations for your late arrival when Jack simply said your name, mouth softening into a half smile at the sight of your stunned, wide eyes. Said it like he had known you for years. You shut up. He had already made up his mind.

It’s still a mystery to you, how you ever got the job in the first place. But you needed it too badly to ask why at the time. Your résumé had listed an odd number of administrative jobs you had worked over the years. Twenty-something and cautious. You were polite and well-dressed (from what he could tell, even with the rain-drenched clothes). It wasn’t like there were people lining up to interview for the job either, so he had to take what he could get.

The practice belonged to his late father. A quaint block in the middle of a strip of stores hiding a small staff carpark out back for everybody. Independent surgery with loyal patients and a dedicated secretary, Mary, who worked for his father for over three decades. Jack took over the place five years prior to your interview, leaving behind his old practice with Robby and Heather, who were now joined with two new providers.

Conveniently, the patients have adjusted to Jack quite well over time, the elderly reminding him every now and then about how it was sad to hear that his father had passed, and does he miss him very badly? Oh, and does he have anybody waiting at for him at home and, if so, what’s the lucky woman’s name? And doesn’t he long for someone and isn’t he getting older? And isn’t his secretary just so sweet and have you settled down yet? And are you really so young and where did he find you?

(And why doesn’t he fuck you senseless?)

So vividly, he can still remember the sheer pleasure ripping through him as he pumped his cock in his hand, picturing you drenched in water earlier that day. He was fond of the tremble in your lips too. You were shivering. Your nipples were probably hard as pebbles from the cold. He came, then.

It had been too long since he bothered to get off like this, a grunting mess in his bedsheets. That first time, ashamed after he rode out his high. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

Jack is ravenous, and he has mastered indifference with great difficulty. It is, however, thrilling to think that his depravity knew no bounds.

Months and months of deterring his want. He has found some kind of succour in your inadvertent touches, his wrist brushing past your shoulder or your foot knocking against his. Your knee just barely skimming his shin when you turn in your chair to face him. Anything, any kind of innocent contact in lieu of your warm, wet cunt milking him dry. He is convinced he can live with that, just the momentary sweeps and grazes. But he’s had to pace himself, stretch out the weeks and refrain from thinking about you every night. Hand wrapped around his base as the showerhead (perversely) baptises him in freezing water, chasing his spend down his thigh. He can get off on the scent of you alone.

There was a day, maybe six months into your employ, where you both ended up in the break room at the same time. Jack had walked in to find you, back turned, leaning against the countertop on both hands. Fingers tapping the laminate as you stared at the simmering kettle of water. The coffee pot he was looking for sat near your left hand.

The hot churning of water seemed to conceal the sound of his footsteps for you hadn’t acknowledged his presence. He paused for a moment, a few feet away from you. You had worn a pair of slim black tailored pants that day, and he thanked whatever God he could for the sight of your ass stretching out the fabric. Thighs perfectly sculpted and visible to him. Had to suppress a groan when he caught the strip of soft, bare skin revealing itself between the bottom hem of your shirt and the low waistband of your pants. His knuckles paled and locked around the handle of his stained, empty mug.

Without a word, he softened his footing and approached you, heavy-lidded eyes boring into your spine. Blade slicing through fruit—

He sidled up to you, a little to your left, extending his hand around your frame to reach for the pot. So menacingly quiet about it. The movement in your peripheral and the sudden murmur of a breath over your shoulder ripped a sharp gasp from your lungs. In an impetuous panic, you stumbled backwards into the wall of his chest, haphazardly trampling over his foot. Jack’s free left hand jerked back and flew to your hip. Both of you were too stunned to realise that his other had abandoned the mug to latch onto to the meat below your right hip and above your thigh, far lower than where his left was situated.

His fingers dug into your pelvic bone. Couldn’t resist the temptation to press further. He let the tip of his middle finger prod the crease between your inner thigh and your mons, swearing he could nearly feel the faint imprint of your panties. Jack had half a mind to shove an angry hand under your waistband and slide a finger over that velvety bundle of nerves—

The clash and shatter of the mug drew a memory from your childhood many years ago.

Elementary: third grade. A classmate of yours shared an unusual object for Show & Tell with everyone. You pictured the hunger of it now, flashing in the backyard of your brain. A slender green neck with a pink mouth, eagerly open for prey. Spindly teeth, splayed out like eye lashes. An unsuspecting, though crafty, insect swooping into its treacherous jaws in search of nectar. Treading carefully around the trigger hairs, thinking it had plenty of time before it was too late. You and your classmates watched, enthralled, as the jaws enfolded its guest. Snapped itself shut, like hands interlocking fingers, to squeeze its victim in a carnivorous embrace.

“It’s just me,” he whispered, pinching your flesh between his hands. You shuddered; it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You could wager this was far more paralysing than getting caught in a Venus Fly Trap.

Jack’s iron hold on the curve of your hip steadied the both of you. But, for him, the heat of your skin burning through your shirt was secondary to the way your ass had rubbed against his crotch from the moment you stepped back. He thought his blood was aflame, the way it surged and swelled between his legs.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity. You could only focus on the steady rise and fall of your breath while he burned his fingerprints through your clothes. It took everything in him not to fold you over the counter and fish his cock out from his fly. Drive himself into your pussy as he toyed with your puffy clit. He wondered if you’d even object.

Split you open, tickle your cervix.

“You can return to reception,” he murmured over your shoulder, stiff cock notching against the cleft of your ass. His breath was strong and hot against your neck when he, to your quiet dismay, released your hips. “I’ll clean up the mess, sweetheart.”

You thought you’d soaked yourself through your pants, but wasted no time to follow his instructions. Nodding and catching your breath, you stepped aside when he didn’t move and spun around to scurry out of the break room.

Neither of you could look at each other for the rest of the day. Didn’t say goodbye to each other either. That was the first night he had left at exactly 5 PM. You kept your eyes glued to your keyboard as he strolled past the reception in his dress coat with his bag slung over his shoulder. Out the door without a word.

Walked around the back to climb into his car and dry-fuck his fist like a madman. Barely spoke to you directly for a week after the fact.

(You, on the other hand, have opted to erase the memory of it entirely. If you linger too much on the phantom pinches and his fingertips almost teasing the place you needed him most, you fear you’d do something mortifyingly regrettable. You’ve gone as far as to convince yourself that the delusion only arose from the lack of coordination between you two. A defect in your recollection. The semi that hardened in his pants and poked your rear could not have been real.)

The practice has always been something you considered near ‘cosy’.

A waiting room with space for at least a dozen chairs. An intimate reception is nestled to the left corner against the wall. You face the opposite side of the waiting room where the small flat-screen is situated on the wall, the glass doors and windows kept to your right. Not to mention the play zone wedged between the window and the short end of your countertop. The children are usually well behaved, aside from a few screamers.

Sometimes, if someone’s tall enough, they’ll stretch on their toes and claw at the countertop to beam at you. Shiny doe-eyes blinking for your attention until you turn your head to the right and smile.

For this reason, you’ve always kept stickers and gadgets behind the desk as small prizes for them when the toys in the play zone aren’t enough. And, if their parents approve, you hold out a jar of candies for their eager choosing (although, this is usually a reward for after their appointment, you’re not opposed to breaking your own rules once in a while. Especially for those damn screamers).

It’s not so bad for the most part. You’re always kept busy and distracted enough to stay awake. There is this relentless creeping dread, though. Working for him will do that to you. Waiting with bated breath when he grows closer in proximity, your fingers itching to hold onto anything. Keyboard, mouse, paper, pen, throbbing cock—

The majority of the patients are easy and conversational, many know you by name. You do your best to keep your eyes on your computer and off the TV.

Very early into the job, you had once been quite visibly tense at the desk and he frowned down at you in his own sympathetic way.

“Just a small headache,” you smiled, your elbows pinned to the desk while you rubbed your hands down the sides of your neck. He didn’t hide his scepticism. How did Mary work in this horrible lighting?

“You sure?” He pressed, and you managed a nod. “You can come in and see me, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you sputtered hastily, fearing he’d take offence to your hesitation. “I’m okay, really.”

A small headache was bad enough. Being in that office alone with him—his soft reassurances and his close assessment of you and his watchful eye and his thumb on your slack jaw—would’ve atrophied your brain.

He shrugged, still doubtful: “Alright. If you say so.”

In the following weeks, he had the harsh overhead lights switched out for softer canned lights, washing the waiting room and reception in warm off-whites and yellows. Whether or not he detected the source for your headaches, the gesture is still fresh in your memory when you open up the practice most mornings.

A rectangular, high-rise countertop frames your workspace like an L and separates you from the patients, leaving a walkable gap between the countertop and the wall where you or Dr. Abbot can easily move in and out near the corridor.

Said corridor leads to the treatment room on the right, while Dr. Abbot’s door is on the left. Only one wall separates your reception from his office, allowing you only muffles of conversations you cannot cognise. There are, of course, many times where you’re both in the break room at the far end of the corridor, but never for long. One of you is either entering or exiting (the incident from six months ago shivers like a ghost between the two of you).

When you unlock the clinic in the morning, you prefer to keep the lights off and blinds drawn, door locked again, so as not to leave an invitation for people to creep in before appointments are actually supposed to begin. This means that Dr. Abbot’s arrival gives you at least five seconds to prepare yourself for a greeting when you hear his key click in the door.

At 7:30 AM, you’re stood and leaning over the printer with a stack of pristine white A4 sheets when you hear that click. To your relief, the blinds over the door always conceal him. And you.

He turns the lock and pushes on the handle to find you refilling the printer tray. Everything feels like a balancing act in front of him.

“Morning,” he greets, calm and mellow, as he locks the door behind him.

You wear the same sweet but not-too-eager smile: “Good morning.”

Looking away from him, you still notice the pause in his step. As if his foot stopped short before a pothole. You tuck the slab of paper into its tray, eyes trained on sharp white, waiting for him to say something.

In the blurred corner of your vision, he rubs a hand back and forth over his jaw. But he regains himself after a moment. Leaves the waiting room and disappears down the unlit corridor. The sound of his door quietly latching shut tugs your head in its direction. Soundlessness fills the practice again.

He lowers himself onto his chair, unbuttoned coat still on and bag between his feet. His hands run slowly up and down his thighs. Dress pants burning electric under his palms. Closing his eyes does little to fight away the image of you and the low neckline of that slippery, salmon-pink blouse perfectly framing your tits. The printer faces the windows so he was able to see you head-on the moment he walked in. Low yellow lights bathing your chest golden.

If he let his index finger tug on the curved hem, he could probably pop one out. Had he lingered near you any longer, he fears that is precisely what he would’ve done. Walked around the countertop and cornered you against the desk just to hook his fingertip in your blouse. Give himself a glimpse of your stiff, peaked nipple under his breath.

Lean down and suck—

Jack can probably get off on the thought of it now, pathetic as he is. First appointment isn’t for another half hour. Not like he hasn’t found release in his office before.

Are you trying to vex him? Part of him (all of him) considers firing you.

By some miracle, he contains his urges. His coat feels tighter the longer he keeps it on, so he tugs it off furiously to relieve himself. Most days, he wears a plain, long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a sweater; habitually rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Pale, freckled skin laid bare.

Jack’s standard consultations run for fifteen minutes at best, with maybe an average of twenty-five to thirty patients per day, many of whom have attended the practise for years and years. The absence of his father, to Jack’s awareness, is somewhat mended. Or, at least, the patients seem to think so. Initially, he had worried he’d find trouble filling the gaps and building over the relationships they had already established with his late father. His worries diminished within the first month as he developed a strong rapport with all the regulars.

The very, very elderly often fall into lapses of time and lost recollection where they confuse him for old Dr. Abbot, referring to memories and stories with which Jack is not familiar (though, he is quite fond of this).

He is also moderately aware of his…charm, however dry it may be. Particularly with the women that come in. There have been too many offers and flirtations to count over the years. He doesn’t mind it, and it’s never gone anywhere dangerous. He knows how to keep things separate. Tidy. Clean. Untouched.

Once divorced and quite content on his own (or so he chooses to believe). He won’t deny that his fist gets old, the way he can only forage for fading memories of you when he gets himself going. He’s all leaky when he remembers the press of your ass in the break room. Or a skirt you wore one day, a tad too tight and stopping halfway down your thighs. You had dropped a pen on your way to the door of his office after handing him paperclipped forms. He watched you leave, as he always does. Didn’t expect to see you bend over slightly, just for a moment, to retrieve the pen.

He fooled himself into thinking that if you had parted your legs and leaned forward a little more, he’d just catch a hint of the lacey garters of your sheer black stockings.

Dirty, old man.

Jack curses himself, alone in his office. That infernal blouse of yours is now slotted beside all of his other decadent memories. His own erotic memorabilia.

Throughout the day, he communicates with you as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. He speaks with you when he needs to, maintains steady eye contact (anything below your nose is marked as a hazard zone in his head). Takes your calls, accepts your paperwork, says his pleases and thank yous. Makes sure he stays flaccid and unaroused. Impossibly.

Some time during lunch, when the waiting room is empty, you hear Dr. Abbot before you see him, approaching from your left with a collection of referrals. He doesn’t get a chance to speak because the front door is suddenly pushed open to reveal none other than Frank. The both of you look up to your right where he stands frozen in the doorframe.

“Shit, sorry. Hi,” Frank pants, mouth splitting into an embarrassed smile. “Uh, am I able to make an appointment? With him? Soon, if that's okay.”

You don’t know why, but you look back up to your left, almost like you’re trying to gauge whether Dr. Abbot is okay with it. You don’t need to, obviously. It’s your job to make appointments for him. The man just shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, of course, Frank,” you laugh softly. Dr. Abbot shifts impatiently beside you as Frank walks up to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you. I burned my hand on the panini press pretty bad. Few minutes ago,” he raises his left hand, revealing the flimsy bandage wrapped loosely over and around his palm. “I wasn’t sure if you guys take walk-ins.”

“Not often,” you smile, searching the appointment book on your computer for an open slot, “but I think we can fit you in.”

Frank nods, sighing another ‘thank you’ before silence circles the three of you.

Dr. Abbot places the referrals on the desk, “Fax numbers are in that email from Peter’s mother, thank you.” He’s just about to step away when Frank perks up again.

“You working late tonight?”

The both of you look up at him again, but he’s very clearly beaming at you. His curiosity is endearing.

“I don’t think so.” / “Yes, she is.”

A nervous laugh bubbles from Frank while you and Dr. Abbot flick eyes at each other after clashing your answers. You hope to God he didn’t mean it.

Politely, you try to answer differently, “Maybe, depending on—”

“Y’know what, I can probably just see him now,” Dr. Abbot interrupts, quite gruffly, as if he has somewhere else he desperately needs to be. Taps two fingers on the desk. “He can fill out the registration form in my office,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the corridor.

He slips around the counter, leaving the waiting room before you can say a word. Returning to Frank, you just smile again and hand him the clipboard of forms with a pen, “Here you go.”

“Is he alright?” Frank quirks a brow, accepting the form from you.

“He’s just tired,” you falsely reassure him, very unsure of why Dr. Abbot responded so bluntly. He can be dry in tone, but he doesn’t usually have such an edge with patients. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” says Frank. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time.”

Frank chats you up at the reception desk ten minutes later, eyes twinkling as he nurses a freshly dressed palm with his prescription in his other hand.

Sometimes, when you really let it, a small consideration crosses your mind. Presumably desperation bred from a lack of…venery from someone you cannot have. So, naturally, you’d feel inclined to look at the options more available to you. And Frank makes himself ludicrously available any chance he gets.

You’re not unaware of it. The dragging glances, the sweet-talking he’s peppered in over the past year. Preening your platonic relationship into this hazy in-between where he hopes he can bribe you into his bed with free food and (arguably) innocent banter. There’s nothing stopping you either. You’re free to latch onto the bait, get his hooks inside you. Curling horribly.

Can’t fill you up nice and good like Dr. Abbot.

Appointments ended at 5. It’s 8 PM when he finally fucking decides to leave his office.

He rounds the counter, ruffling through his pigeon hole at the wall behind you. “I don’t wanna see that Fred guy again.”

“You mean Frank? Was everything okay?”

“Does he bother you?” He ignores your question with his own, straightening up when he finds pamphlets held in a rubber band. He’s never cared to read through them, so it appears to you that he is, for whatever reason, stalling. “He seems eager.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Oh, come on,” a laugh jumps out of him, which compels you to turn your chair in his direction. “The way he looks at you, he’s dying to fuck you,” he smiles and it’s so sickening. Like it amuses him. “Kid probably creamed his pants, seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.” You’re frozen in your seat, barely processing the utter bluntness of his wording. Serrated knives. “Y’should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

In an attempt to brace yourself, you turn back to face your computer. Your clothes kiss your body uncomfortably now. It’s impossible to soothe the ache pulsing between your legs.

He flips through the pamphlets indifferently and sighs. “Anyway, I think I wanna cancel that meeting with the psych rep on Thursday. The ginger with the goatee. Spencer, I think it was? Doesn’t take any of it seriously. You won’t believe the shit he said last time, that ignorant fuck.” Then, he laughs bitterly, running a hand down his face after he tosses the pamphlets in the bin at your feet. You can only nod, acutely aware of the slick flooding your panties. Slippery clit longing for his hot mouth.

The room tips on its side when he gently squeezes your left shoulder.

“Good job today, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, struggling to look up at him, “Thank you.”

Releases his hand. Though, it feels like he almost rips the skin off your shoulder. Like the sheer heat in his touch had fluxed your flesh with his. Amalgamation. The grooves of his fingertips leaving cracks in the molten rock of your arm.

“And don’t wear that again,” he orders as he walks back around the counter.

Your brows pull tight in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The blouse,” is all he says, passing you and disappearing out the door.

One morning, too many months ago, you had rummaged through the storage room at work in search of decade-old vaccination files for a stubborn patient. Hopelessly, you dug around papers in drawers to find the last thing you were supposed to be looking for. Old prints of Dr. Abbot’s headshots for practice advertisements and pamphlets from two years ago...

At present, on your bed, you are kneeling back against your feet, thighs spread. Loose top hanging on your form, pair of cotton underwear. His crumpled photo, pinned to the sheets under the heel of your outstretched palm.

He looks exactly the same in it. White collar folding out of his sweater. Cropped ashen hair, snowy stubble. An indecipherable vacuum in his eyes (if you aren’t careful, you could sink in and deliquesce into nothing). No doubt, he probably cringed at the idea of getting his picture taken like this.

But one of them has been yours for a while now, always folded and tucked away in your bedside drawer. It rarely leaves its nest, but you can’t help yourself sometimes. When your thoughts aren’t enough, the photo acts as a crutch for an orgasm. Something tangible; real.

With shame coiling in your belly and your free hand wedged between your thighs, you screw your eyes shut to think of him. If you try hard enough, you can probably feel the ghost of his hand trapping your shoulder. His hands clutching your hips. His hands on the desk. His loins obtruding your ass—

—seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.

Long breaths pour from your open mouth when you feel your core string itself tight, hole clenching around your sore fingers as you thumb your clit. Electric shimmers dot the abyss behind your closed eyes. You pull yourself forward to lean on your other hand while you aimlessly grind against your working wrist. The hovering and the sustained pressure of your thighs set your knees ablaze with overuse. Pain is easier to endure with the precipice of pleasure drawing closer and closer to you in every stroke you manage to thrust into yourself.

One of many fantasies you’ve fabricated, where he drags his flushed tip up and down the seam of your weeping pussy. Mixing his pre with your slick. Playing with you. It’s almost like a memory to you in the way that it shoves you towards climax and sends your eyes flying open to lock in on the photo scrunched in your clenched fist. A strangled cry catches on your teeth before tumbling from your lips.

You come hard, looking at Dr. Abbot’s paper face in the low lamplight of your bedroom.

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʟᴇɢᴀɴᴛ ᴇxᴇᴄᴜᴛɪᴏɴᴇʀ- ʜᴡᴀɴɢ ʜʏᴜɴᴊɪɴ

WARNING: Mature themes, violence, possessiveness, power dynamics, dark romance, mdni, no proofread, etc...

TAGLIST: @lixies-favorite-cookie

---

To the world, Hwang Hyunjin was an enigma. A man of beauty and grace, whose hands painted breathtaking masterpieces by day and took lives by night. The duality of his existence was chilling, an artist whose strokes could either create or destroy.

And yet, despite the blood that trailed behind him, with you, he was soft.

Hyunjin loved you like a muse, delicately, reverently, as if you were a masterpiece too precious to touch. But his love was also lethal, woven with the promise that anyone who dared to threaten you would meet a fate as poetic as his brushstrokes.

---

You first realized the extent of his devotion the night someone defaced your art gallery.

Red paint was splattered across the canvases, vulgar messages scrawled over the delicate strokes of colour you had spent months perfecting. It wasn’t hard to figure out who was behind it, a rival family, trying to send a message to Hyunjin through you.

You were furious. But Hyunjin? He was silent. Too silent.

That night, as he held you close in your shared penthouse, his fingers traced soothing circles against your skin.

“They touched something of yours,” he murmured, voice devoid of its usual warmth. “They made it personal.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You already knew.

Two days later, the leader of the rival family was found lifeless in his own art studio, his body positioned like a tragic masterpiece. Red paint, only it wasn’t paint, dripped across the floors, eerily similar to the way your own gallery had been vandalized.

Hyunjin came home that night smelling of rain and something darker, his expression unreadable as he slipped off his gloves.

“They won’t bother you again,” he said simply, pulling you into his arms.

And they never did.

---

Hyunjin’s world was dangerous, but he kept you wrapped in luxury and safety, shielding you from the chaos he orchestrated.

One evening, as you admired the ruby earrings he had gifted you, he leaned against the doorway, watching you with a small smile.

“They reminded me of you,” he said when you met his gaze in the mirror.

You arched a brow. “Because they’re expensive?”

His lips curled. “Because they’re rare.”

Your heart swelled, but before you could respond, his phone buzzed. The moment of tenderness vanished as his expression darkened.

“Wait here,” he ordered, already slipping into his blazer.

“Hyunjin—”

“I mean it,” he cut in, pressing a kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the night.

Hours passed before he returned. You were half-asleep on the couch when he walked in, the metallic scent of blood lingering on him. He was unharmed, but the exhaustion in his eyes was unmistakable.

“You didn’t listen,” he sighed, kneeling in front of you.

“I never do,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek.

He exhaled sharply, leaning into your touch. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

“You won’t ever have to find out,” you assured him, brushing a kiss against his lips. “You always come back to me.”

His arms tightened around you. “Always.”

---

Hyunjin was a man of contradictions, a lover and a killer, an artist, and an executioner. But there was one truth that never wavered.

In a world painted with blood, you were the only masterpiece he vowed to protect at any cost.

[runnning-outof-time]

Hi K! I have a request if you fancy it... 👀

❛ i could keep you safe. they’re all afraid of me. ❜ with Tommy or John. 🙏🏻🫶🏻

Thanks so much for sending this in, Daisy! I’m sorry it took me a little bit to get it written — I decided to write this for John. I hope you like what I did with the prompt! ☺️

People Know Better | John Shelby x Reader

Pairing: John Shelby x fem!Reader

Summary: (Y/N) meets a rather charming man at a party who seems to have no worries towards dealing with the group of men who were giving her a hard time.

Warnings: drinking

Word Count: 1089

COMMENTS, REBLOGS & ANONS ARE APPRECIATED — I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF THE STORY!

A smile formed on (Y/N)’s as she looked around the club. She was happy she decided to come to this place. The energy coming off of the clubgoers was so poignant that she could practically feel it.

She had been sitting at the bar, occupying a single seat in hopes that she could have a drink or two and do some people watching. She was able to get that wish for most of the evening…but then two men showed up.

They sat in the two open seats next to (Y/N). Those seats had been previously occupied by an older couple, and they’d been a lovely pair to conversate with. (Y/N) had the immediate feeling that this new pair wasn’t going to follow suit in that same manner.

At first they kept to themselves, ordering a few drinks and then talking with each other. But then she caught their eye.

It started with a few glances coming from the man that was facing her direction. She was able to see him grinning at her from the corner of her eye, and she tried her best to ignore and keep her eyes trained on the dance floor. But then the first guy nudged the second; the man that was sitting closer to her. The hand that brushed her arm made her finally look in their direction.

“Not gonna give us anything attention, sweetheart?” the first man questioned, a grin on his face.

“Why should I?” she asked in a curt tone, raising her eyebrows at them. She hoped that her uninterested nature would make the conversation short and sweet. Both men looked at each other upon hearing her response. They seemed surprised that she offered push back instead of going along with with they’d said. “That’s what I thought,” she said, more so to herself then anything, before turning back to look out at the sea of people again.

That wasn’t the end of the interaction though. “Who do you think you are speaking to us like that?” one of them quipped, incredulousness present in his tone.

(Y/N) kept her eyes trained straight ahead. Maybe if I ignore them, they’ll stop, she thought to herself, silently hoping for that to be the truth.

“Hey, we’re talking to you, doll,” the other man chimed in, his tone holding more frustration than anything.

(Y/N)’s head didn’t turn.

They still didn’t get the message. Thinking of a new plan, they both stood from their stools and moved so that they were now standing in front of her. “Whatcha gonna do now, huh?” one of them questioned her, a grin forming on his face.

“The lady doesn’t want to speak to the two of you,” another voice entered the conversation before (Y/N) could say anything. “Give it up before either of you do something stupid,” the new man then gave a suggestion.

“We’re in the middle of some…”

“Let’s get outta here, mate,” the second man stopped the first before he could finish his sentence. His eyes were trained on the new man, and the smirk he was previously wearing was nowhere to be seen now.

This interjection made the first man turn and look to see who this new person was. His demeanor flipped on a dime. “Let’s go,” he muttered to his friend, tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket in attempts to save face before he nodded his head to his friend, a silent gesture for them to leave the bar.

(Y/N) finally got to look at the man who’d made the others leave. He was tall, wearing a long, black coat and a peaked cap covered his head. He watched the two men leave before finally turning and meeting (Y/N)’s gaze. A grin formed on his features as his blue eyes met hers.

“Thank you,” (Y/N) smiled at him, appreciative of his sudden company, “those two were insufferable.”

“It’s my pleasure,” the man grinned at her. He motioned to one of the empty barstools and (Y/N) nodded her head, knowing that he was asking if her could join her.

“You’re not planning on trying the same thing, are you?” she questioned him, a light-hearted tone laced into her words.

“No,” the man shook his head. “I could keep you safe though. They’re all afraid of me.”

His second statement made (Y/N)’s eyebrows furrow. “How can you be sure of that?” She didn’t quite need help being kept ‘safe’, but she’d happily accept his offer of keeping those men, and any others like them for that matter, away from her.

“People know better than to speak against a Shelby, love,” he responded in a confident manner.

“Ahh, and you’d be a Shelby?” she questioned, tilting her head slightly to show her intrigue.

“John Shelby,” he introduced himself, holding his hand out between them to extend a formal greeting.

“It’s nice to meet you, John,” she smiled at him, “my name’s (Y/N).”

She then accepted his hand, her eyes widening and lips curving upwards slightly in surprise as he suavely lifted it to his lips and kissed the top of it. Not a single thing about him was making her feel like she should be cautious around him. If anything, his confidence was making her more intrigued by him. It was refreshing, and a complete 180 from how the other two men had attempted to get her attention.

He winked at her as he lowered her hand, and all she could do was grin as she tried not to let her cheeks heat up too much. The last thing she wanted to do was freeze up in this moment. So she put on a confident face and maintained eye contact with him until he looked away to call the bartender over.

John asked for another round for the two of them, waiting until the man left to begin making their drinks before he turned to look at (Y/N) again. He didn’t expect doing a routine check of one of the Shelby-owned clubs would turn into this, but he wasn’t complaining in the slightest.

(Y/N) also didn’t expect to meet this handsome stranger when she entered the club to do some people watching. But as John handed her a glass and flashed one of the grins that she was so quickly falling for, she realized that her night had turned into something that was ten times better than anything she could have planned out.

MASTERLIST

Tagged: @succubaby @mystcldydrms @look-at-the-soul @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing

@evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings @watercolorskyy

@strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @stevie75 @dark-academia-slut

@zablife @cillmequick @depxiety @shelundeadxxxx @padfootdaredmetoo

@crabat-the-queen @sebastianstangirl01 @everythingelseisextra @kmc1989 @papichulo120627

@brummiereader @adaydreamaway08 @justrainandcoffee @peakyltd @johannelis2302nely

@ce1iat @wildheartsalwaysburn @dragons-are-my-favorite @jessimay89 @slaymybreathaway

@mysticalfuncollectorus @sleepyycatt @novashelby @wonderlanddreamer

[holylulusworld]

Human Purse (4)

Summary: You meet a stranger, and he won’t let you go...

Pairing: Mobster!Loki Laufeyson x fem!Reader

Warnings: language, kissing, possessive Loki, stalking vibes, mafia au, arguing, fluff

Human Purse masterlist

Catch up here: Part 3

You’re shaking in anger, frustration, and maybe fear. Loki was following you for months, maybe even years.

“How could you believe for one second this will work out?” You clench your jaw when Loki watches you from his seat. “Did you honestly believe I’ll fall in love with you after you stalked me?”

“Y/N, darling,” Loki softly speaks to you. “I told you that I did not stalk you. I fulfilled a promise my father made to your family. I kept you safe without interfering with your life. I wasn’t at the boutique because I followed you.”

You shake your head. “You want me to believe that you didn’t follow me today and that our meeting was coincidental?”

“Yes,” he harshly replies, regretting his reaction instantly. “I want you to believe me, Y/N. I would never lie to you.”

“You pretend to not know me,” you snap at Loki. “You came to me, kissed me, and made my brain all fuzzy. What did you expect would happen tonight?”

He leans back in his chair and smirks—smug bastard. “We both know what I wanted to happen, darling.” Loki winks at you before taking a swig of his wine. “We can still have dinner and a nice evening.”

A frown colors your features when you look at Loki. “How? I mean—” You sigh deeply and exasperatedly. “I could never trust you. From the first moment we met, you lied to me. You were following me.”

“I thought we were past this.” He dips his head to look at the waitress patiently waiting for you to order. “Y/N, we should order now. I don’t want to be impolite. They are waiting for us.”

You slowly get up and throw the menu at Loki. “Have a nice meal. Tomorrow, I’ll bring all the clothes back to the boutique. From now on, I want you to stay away from me.”

Loki slowly puts his napkin aside. He rises from his seat, standing in your way. “Darling, I told you I set my eyes on you.” Loki chuckles as you sidestep him. “You can deny it as much as you want to. We both know I’m all you can think about.”

“Yeah. No.” You walk out of the restaurant, cursing yourself for accepting his invitation and buying all the things. You should’ve known better.

Loki doesn’t give up easily. You give him that. When you woke, your apartment was filled with yellow and pink roses. The boutique wouldn’t take the clothes back, and you got a delivery of your favorite food every day—for free.

For five days, he wouldn’t stop sending gifts. Roses, perfume, chocolate, lingerie. Even a poem—which he wrote himself—at least you hoped so.

On day six, you almost caved in. He stood in front of your door, looking even more handsome than you remembered. Still, you slammed the door in his face.

Loki didn’t give up, though. He sent a breathtakingly beautiful gown for you to wear to his brother’s party. A form-fitting, scarlet gown that clings to your curves. The deep plunging neckline and the slit up the side of the skirt reveal a little too much skin for your liking, but you cannot deny the smug bastard has great taste.

The doorbell rings at eight sharp. Loki didn’t ask if you’ll accompany him. He just appears in front of your door. He smirks and holds out his hand. One last invitation to join him at the party and in his life.

“Why did you come here?” You ask, earning a stunning smile from Loki.

“Why are you wearing the gown?” He cocks his head, still that smile on his lips. “Did you get dressed to impress, or do you want me to be a bad brother and miss Thor’s party because I’m busy ripping that dress off your body?”

“How about you ask me for a dance first?” You pat his chest with your clutch. “Maybe, and I’m not saying it will happen, you’ll get to feel one tit.”

Loki laughs. He offers his arm, smirking as you take it without hesitation. “You look beautiful tonight, darling.”

“I hope you know, I’m hiding a knife somewhere,” you dip your head to whisper in his ear. “If you act out, you’ll lose one ball.”

“I’ll offer both to you if I misbehave,” Loki is quick to reply. “I can’t promise that I won’t try to get more than a dance tonight…”

Tags in reblog.

[thedeviltohisangel]

Over the Handlebars//Fools Rush In

a/n: a direct continuation to part 1 which can be found in my pinned post! thank you for the love and support on part 1! the rest of this may or may not be chronological so if you have any requests for these two, please send them my way. xoxo

Dr. Robby has decided that he cannot go on with his life if he thinks there is even a chance of him and Dr. Larson being more than an attending and a resident. So one night on the roof, he tells her just that. But his bullshit is more transparent than he thinks.

The cold bit into her skin but she enjoyed it. The way it burns through her nose and into her lungs and spread to fill the emptiness of her chest. Everything felt better with a little fresh air. Her headache was gone. Her nausea was settling. Her blood was pumping again. She had made it through the shift. And she could make it home to her bed, too.

“It’s a little bit cold out here tonight, isn’t it?” Charlie didn’t jump in surprise because she had been expecting him. The first day she was at PTMC, she found herself on the roof after shift. And he had been there too. He had been standing at the edge and contemplating the night sky and she had silently sat against the HVAC unit. Not a word was said between them. It wasn’t the time or the place to talk about the night they had spent together. Nor did it feel appropriate to rehash any of the cases they had worked on together all day. They were content to just simply be.

“Feels good. I think my cheeks have been flushed for the last hour.” Robby knew they had been because had been watching her. Today he had watched her expertly reduce a hip, intubate a patient without a camera to guide her and successfully remove a battery from a little boy’s nose. He had watched her because he found it impossible to look away from her. 

“Here, I don’t need my newest resident getting a fever.” It felt strangely intimate to watch him shed his hoodie and offer it to her. To see the flash of ink on his biceps that was normally hidden by the sleeve of his scrubs. 

“Thank you.” She pulled the collar to her nose as subtly yet shamelessly as possible. The scent of him lingered and wrapped around her like a blanket of safety and warmth. She remembered the feeling of being in his arms, enveloped in his very essence. This was as close to getting that back as she was ever going to get. “And I also don’t just mean for the hoodie. For accepting my application midway through the traditional term.” Robby shrugged.

“Your resume was the most diverse I’ve seen. A perfect fit for an emergency department, especially one as busy as ours. I knew you’d be an asset to our team.”

“My dad he…he lives in a trailer park on the outskirts of the city. He needs someone to take care of him so…” Charlie wasn’t sure why she was sharing the reasoning behind her transfer. And why she sounded so embarrassed to be discussing her father’s living situation. 

“He’s very lucky to have you,” he answered. He leaned his elbows onto the barrier so he could look up at her and have unfettered views of her face. Watching her work downstairs was one thing but admiring her in the moonlight was another thing entirely. He could be convinced that Artemis was jealous. “I did come up here and interrupt your moment of peace and privacy for a reason.” 

“Not interrupting,” she furrowed her brow, “I like our happenstance mutual silence on the roof.” She was beginning to look forward to it even.

“I wanted to apologize for the first day. When Dr. Mohan introduced us and I was other than welcoming.” That had been days ago. Almost two weeks. Had he been agonizing over his words for that long?

“I didn’t think you were. No need for an apology.” 

“No, I implied that the night we actually met was one we should pretend never happened. And I shouldn’t have done that. In order to be colleagues and for me to be your attending, we should clear the air.” Charlie blinked and consciously worked to close her mouth that was falling agape.  

“It was just two adults enjoying a night at a bar. That’s all, right?” So maybe her voice faded to a whisper as she lost the strength to say the words she didn’t believe at all. And maybe they made her throat raw with the way she had to claw them from within. If that was what he needed to hear in order to reconcile his own feelings, she would find a way to say it. She had to find a way to get over her desire to have both. The career path she had chosen did not leave any room for anything else. And certainly not with someone who clearly didn’t want her.

“It was…nice. And under different circumstances, maybe-”

“Please don’t.” She couldn’t stomach the idea of the words that were poised to come next. Some version of a speech on timing and responsibility. It was the last thing she needed echoing around in her mind. “I should go. Let you have your turn up here.” Charlie knew she would never be coming back to this roof again. 

She nearly tore the sleeves from his hoodie with the ferocity she used ripping it from her body, pushing it into his chest with a little more force than necessary. “Have a good night, Dr. Robby.” He winced at her tone but didn’t try to stop her as she turned and walked through the door that led back into the hospital.

That wasn’t how he had wanted the conversation to go. He had hoped he would be able to find a tactful balance between keeping things professional and conveying how he had truly enjoyed the few hours they spent together that night. Robby had been successful at neither of those goals. And instead he was just left wondering how he was supposed to fix something he wasn’t meant to want in the first place.

----

Jack had taken to lingering around the ED a little bit longer when it came time to doing his shift change with Robby. Not because he missed his friend and was feeling sentimental, he would never admit if he was, but because he was endlessly intrigued by the way he looked at the newest resident on his shift. Dr. Larson. She was beautiful and smart and had seemingly befriended everyone who worked in the Pitt. Except for her attending physician. 

Abbot had noticed the way Robby’s eyes tracked her every movement. The way he spoke to her a little softer or got to her a little quicker when she was asking for his advice on something. It wasn’t hard for him to deduce that maybe his brother in arms had a little crush on the young woman. It couldn’t hurt to play a little game and find out.

“How’re the residents holding up on day shift? Any of them still smiling?” Jack asked as he mindlessly clicked through the charts on the computer to make sure nothing needed his signature before he departed.

“They seem good. Nothing for me to be concerned about.” But he wasn’t looking at Jack when he responded. He was looking at Charlie.

“What about the transfer? What’s her deal?”

“Why all the questions?” Robby laughed with a scratch to the back of his neck. He reached for an iPad and began to scroll through pharmacy stock numbers to avoid the line of questioning from his friend.

“Just curious if you think she’d want to get coffee with me is all.” Bingo. It had the exact effect that Jack had been hoping for. Robby’s eyes were snapping up to him and drilling into pinpoint lasers as they zeroed in on the target. He looked more sniper than doctor. 

“Since when do you…Were you really wanting to…I don’t think-” There was no version of this sentence he could finish that didn’t end in Abbot knowing exactly the forecast of the storm raging inside of him. But Robby couldn’t ignore the jealousy that spiked under his skin with the mere implication of Charlie spending time with someone in any way close to the time they had spent together the other night. 

Jack merely grinned that wicked smile that told you the feats he was capable of. “Does Dana know?”

“There is nothing to know.” Robby blindly reached for a second iPad and clicked on the first chart he saw, broken finger from a fight with a filing cabinet, and immediately picked it as his first consult of the shift.

“She’ll see it in your eyes even if you don’t mention it. Just weigh which option is worse,” Jack smirked as he finished packing away his backpack and zipped it tight. “Look, I know after your last two relationships, you’re a little bit gun shy. And I know you had a good night with that woman at the bar last week but you may never see her again. It’s no use lingering-” 

Robby swears he didn’t mean for anything to flash across his eyes. Whether it was a look of understanding, a look of shut the fuck up or a look of agony he wasn’t sure. Either way, Abbot, the insightful fuck, took it upon himself to interrupt what that look meant. And it stopped him right in his tracks with the most devilish grin that had ever been worn since the fallen angel himself. “Dr. Larson is the fucking woman from the bar.”

“I never said that.”

“Your eyes did.” The iPad went back into the charging stand and Robby offered Jack his full attention. “Please tell me you’re gonna fucking do something about it,” Jack asked, his voice dropping to whisper. He had learned about the night Robby had with Charlie on an early morning while on the roof. As they often did, Jack was contemplating the value of that last inch of concrete before the wide open air and his friend had shown to remind him why a step backwards wasn’t always a bad thing. And Robby had talked about that night. How he had seen a beautiful woman and just wanted to get a closer look. And how getting closer had made him want to hear her voice. And how hearing her voice had made him want to learn her name and so on until he was branding his name to the skin of her neck and seeking salvation in the way she said it back. 

It was to remind his friend, and himself, that for all they had been through there was still something within them others could see. It hadn’t mattered to Charlie that he was a doctor because she hadn’t even known. She had seen him and wanted him just as he had her. His broken pieces weren’t worn on his sleeve, warding away strangers with their jagged edges the way Robby had convinced himself they were. And even if they were, she had grabbed his hand and squeezed tight in spite of the potential for pain. 

One second of your life could hold more feeling than all the others combined. And Robby had told Jack that in those seconds with Charlie, he had learned to love the companionship of another person again. Learned to love the feeling of eyes breaking down walls. Learned the world was still full of laughter and smiles and gasps and moans that were worth eliciting and exploring and reveling in. 

“I can’t. She has her whole life ahead of her. It would be a reputation that followed her everywhere.” 

“Already assuming she’s leaving, are we?” Abbot slung his bag over his shoulder. “Guess I’ll ask her about that coffee.”

----

Charlie rolled her neck as she tried to focus on the words in front of her. It was new study on different treatment options for septic shock but she was having trouble preventing the words from blurring together. 

“What are you doing here? Shift ended almost an hour ago.” Robby had walked by the lounge once and restrained himself to a quick glance at her. But then the second time he had indulged a little bit further. Noticing the way she tapped her pen to her mouth. The way her mouth quirked to the side to blow a strand of hair away from her face. The huff of frustration as she underlined a particular sentence. He could find peace just watching her like this. He could be settled. Which is why he had to disrupt it.

“Well, in the divorce, I figured you would win custody of the roof so I chose a different spot.” It was impossible for her to head straight home from work. She needed time to decompress and the walk wasn’t nearly long enough for that. The silent evenings overlooking the city with Michael as comfort had done exactly the trick. But after their last conversation, she figured they weren’t meant to happen anymore.

“If that was how that came across, I didn’t mean it. I don’t have full custody of the roof. You can still have visitation rights.” She smiled at him and he took a chance by pulling out the chair next to her and taking a seat.

“Duly noted.” Charlie turned to face him and he could see the exhaustion settling into her face. Her beautiful, soft, perfect face. His arm moved to rest on the back of her chair and ached to move closer but he fought the desire. This was pushing a boundary close enough. Fo fuck’s sake he had been the one to ask for space and distance. The one who told her their night together had meant nothing. He had to back up his words with actions or he’d be trapped in the what ifs forever. 

“I’ll see you on Monday?” he whispered, low and slow. In a way that her spine tingling and toes curling. And she’ll blame the exhaustion when she replays this moment in her head over and over again later. But just because he said their night together never happened doesn’t make it true. 

Her fingertips landed on the apple of his cheek and she smoothed them down over his beard with a reverence he’d only see at Temple. Like he was worth a damn. Worth something sacred. Worth risking salvation to touch. “Not if I see you first,” she whispered back. She smiled, not moving her hand, and he smiled back. There was something about sharing a burden that made everything brighter. There was something about that light guiding the way towards something greater. And there was something great about seeing a path to happiness. It was just the thorns along the way that made him flinch.

[angelsdean]

Also, since I'm thinking about it now I shall share my headcanon that nobody asked for of how Dean and Lisa originally meet. This is how it goes down every time in my mind.

Dean in 3x02 tells Sam:

DEAN Remember that road trip I took, uh... gosh, about eight years ago now? You were in Orlando with Dad wrapping up that banshee thing. SAM Yeah. Yeah, the five states, five-day – DEAN (laughs) Yeah. Well, kind of. Although I spent most of my time in Lisa Braeden's loft.

Dean was about 19 at the time....same age he was when he discovered his panty kink with Rhonda.

Personally I think him and Rhonda happened earlier (spring / summer 1998) while he meets Lisa on the later end of his 19th year (like early january 1999).

And Dean tells Sam here that he was on a road trip while John and Sam were wrapping up a hunt. But Sam is like, what, 15? Dean would've been better backup, no? Definitely more experienced. But for some reason John just...let him go on a road trip.....hmmm.

See TO ME, I just can't help but think of what Dean says in 14x12:

DEAN I know things got dicey… you know, with dad… the way he was. And I just… I didn’t always look out for you the way that I should’ve. I mean, I had my own stuff, you know. In order to keep the peace, it probably looked like I took his side quite a bit. Sometimes when I was… when I was away, you know it wasn’t ‘cause I just ran out, right? Dad would… he would send me away when I really pissed him off. I think you knew that.

SO, I think when Dean meets Lisa it's actually during one of these stints where John sends Dean away. So Dean is essentially homeless, pissed off, and aimless. "Road-tripping" until John cools off and decides Dean can re-join them. This is when Dean meets Lisa.

And sure, it's a fun little fling. But this is Dean we're talking about. He remembers her. He is fond of her, enough to seek her out again all these years later. And it's not just because the sex was so good. To me, I think she was a touch-stone and a good memory in the midst of a pretty shit time. She showed him affection. She basically put a roof over his head ("I spent most of my time in Lisa Braeden's loft.") And Dean-y baby forms attachments fast and loves hard. And while EYE personally do not think he was IN LOVE with Lisa at age 19, not the way he falls for Cassie during Stanford Era, I think he was surely fond of her. Had good memories of her.

As for the sex..."best night of her life" "crazy, semi-illegal" sex....WELL. That's where the "this is post-Rhonda" part comes in.

[and sorry to my staunch gay Dean truthers, I love you and support your beliefs, but this is gonna be very bisexual]

Now I don't think Dean was ever prudish about sex. And if you know me you know I don't buy into "sexually repressed" Dean fanon / headcanons. I think he's been aware of his sexuality since he was a young teen. I think he's always been a "I'll try anything once" kind of guy. But I think, before Rhonda, he wasn't really having very adventurous or kinky sex with women. I think he was still keeping his bisexuality on the down-low with women and playing up a specific Role in these relationships. But then, Rhonda shows him another way and shatters his preconceived notions of what sex with women is like. Rhonda (my bi queen<3) shows Dean the wonderful world of m/f QUEER SEX. And Dean is like "oh. Oh, I can be the submissive one. I can be penetrated, if I want."

Anyways, so, Lisa. Miss "Guess I was a little wild back then." Yeah, she definitely pegged him. Like, best-sex-of-her-life? YEAH GIRL. She finally got to peg a guy!

And Dean's whole "she was a yoga teacher. It was the bendiest weekend of my life" thing? YEAH that's because our girl Lisa helped him bend into alllllll sorts of new positions. Yoga TEACHER. Bendiest weekend of HIS life. She was turning him into a pretzel and drilling his holes.

Anyways. This is my truth.

[gardezamour]

harry potter au where james is still alive, but lily still sacrificed herself.

i’m thinking she had her wand, james didn’t, she made him take harry and run. and she was so infuriated and frightening, that james listened to her, praying to the whole universe that she would make it out alive. they had their final, desperate kiss. and then she was running towards the explosion at their doorstep.

he ran into the darkness, grabbing his broom and sobbing with his sleeping son in his arms as blue and green lights flashed through their windows. he took off and forced himself not to look back. because he would’ve ruined everything if he had.

he made it somewhere over the ocean, looking over dark waves as the sun rose again. he was freezing, but harry was watching him silently from his blanket. they were still in their pajamas. harry had always loved their broom rides, but he didn’t giggle like he usually did.

they eventually go into hiding. he reads about lily’s death through the paper, dealing with the grief on his own.

he reads about sirius’ arrest, and peters death. then, he reads about voldemort slowly taking over the ministry one department at a time. making it harder and harder for muggle born witches and wizards to come and go. then, it’s remus’ arrest after killing fenrir greyback in a blind fit of werewolf bloodlust.

he grieves again, because he’s truly alone.

while out shopping, polyjuice potion disguising him as he sorts through produce, he catches a cat watching him from the stoop of the small store. then, a familiar nose that makes him grab his son. then, a rippled vision of his best friend.

he pays five minutes later, because harry was much too thin to go a day without good food. and he tries to run. but, he’s quickly caught, and the flurry of spells he tries to send at the men are deflected with awful, sympathetic grimaces.

he doesn’t relent until the cat finally transforms, a cold hand patting his cheek as his favorite professor pulls him into a tight embrace.

it takes possibly too much convincing, but eventually he’s making them chai, and keeping harry protectively close. they ask him to rejoin the order, to let them protect him. protect harry.

he screamed at them, only catching himself haphazardly when harry began to cry. but he’d been so full of wrath as they spoke, like he hadn’t experienced the torture of own failure. like everyone he’d ever loved wasn’t gone.

all, except his son. he wouldn’t allow the order to fail them a second time.

he’d never seen severus or regulus look so defeated. like he was someone they cared about, and they weren’t sure how to comfort him. like they were friends. he bluntly reminded them that his friends were as good as dead. minerva teared up.

he packed everything up with a rushed spell, and took harry away with the three of them still sitting behind steaming mugs.

he took to teaching harry everything he could. going through old books that his own parents had collected. some of his own from school, which held idiotic notes that he’d cry over late at night.

a few months after harry had turned five, it was severus (of all people) who found them again.

lol. this got too long and i’m still thinking about how the plot would go. i’ll possibly post more parts as i think of them. i already know if or when i do write this as a proper fic, it’ll be long. i crave james angst i fear. possible ship recommendations would be appreciated for consideration. i don’t promise anything, but romance can make things so much more tragic 🤭

[fl6thy]

mdni, fem reader

warnings; modern au, male masterbation, voyeurism, consensual ambiguity, obsessive undertones, idk he’s lowkey just a freakazoid here

a/n; tysm for the love on my last post! lmk if y’all want a part two to this! :3

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s been a somewhat close friend of yours since high school. you both met from mutual friends at a party ofc and you guys hit it off from there, hanging out sometimes after class or on the weekends.

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s caught off guard when you tell him you got accepted to a university in another state. “oh…... i thought….we were gonna be classmates…at the community college here..” he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, glancing away. regardless tho he’s happy for you!! and you swear you see him tear up a bit during your send off party.

longdistancefriend gojo! who still makes sure to keep in touch with you ofc, sending you memes that pertain to college or two inanimate objects with just the text ‘us’. he also asks about what your professors are like, or if there’s any gossip or drama you’ve heard lately. you both also have monthly update facetime calls, the few times where he actually sees you other than your occasional instagram posts and close friends stories. gojo cherished these times so much, sometimes just getting lost in your eyes instead of paying attention to what you’re saying.

longdistancefriend gojo! who also takes live photos during your facetime calls, some are of you doing funny facial expressions but his most favorites are the off gaurd pictures, the ones you never noticed him take since you were occupied with something else. oh the ones he absolutely adores are the pictures he’s captured of your body the few times when you set up your phone.

longdistancefriend gojo! who strokes himself as he stares at your ass in the picture, in those fuzzy pajama shorts he’d love to push to the side if he had the chance. he holds the picture down to play the live photo, squeezing the base of his dick a bit harder at the small moment of you grabbing a cup from a cabinet taller than you. “mmh…shit..” he shuts his blue eyes as he continues to stroke faster, imagining that it was your ass bouncing on him instead.

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s taken out of his rhythm by his phone ringing. of fucking course it had to be you. he stares at his phone, dick still in hand as he weighs his options. unfortunately his other hand ‘slips’ and answers the call, his breath still heaving and forehead still sweaty. “hey toru!! can you talk right now?” god you looked so good, phone propped up against your vanity showing your full portrait.

longdistancefriend gojo! who chuckles lightly as he starts to stroke himself again slowly off camera. “of course i can, what’s up sweets?” he answers a bit shakily, hoping you don’t notice. you don’t, (or at least didn’t mention it) as you brought up your small day to day business. which unfortunately he was NOT paying attention to as he continued to jerk off, passing off his small moans as “mhm’s” of acknowledgment. you start to notice this after he interrupts you twice.

longdistancefriend gojo! who’s just barely conscious as you as him if he’s okay. “y-yeah why wouldn’t i be?” he asks in the most pathetic and shaky tone known to man, barely even noticing how flushed his face is or how much his other hand is struggling to hold his phone upwards. you tilt your head a bit at him, passing it off as him being drunk by how flushed he was. oh how wrong you were.

longdistancefriend gojo! who tries to hide his sigh of relief when you switch the topic to something else, just focusing on the sound of your voice before you mention him again. “oh toru that reminds me! you should come and visit me now that my roommate moved out, you’d have your own bed and….” he zoned out again after that. come visit you?? god dont suggest that or else he’ll book a flight right now.

“i’d love to…….just….tell me when…” he speaks slowly in order to not moan, still shamelessly stroking himself as he thought about spending time alone with you in your dorm, testing the waters on how loud he can make you moan without a noise complaint, how much he’ll struggle to get off you like a jack rabbit in heat. “what about next week?” you say with a smile.

longdistancefriend gojo! who nearly finished at how excited you looked. “mm let me hang up and get the tickets m’kay?” he says quick and smoothly, not even waiting for a response before hanging up and tossing his phone at the end of the bed.

as he stokes himself he imagines all the different positions he wants to have you in all over the dorm, his breath hitching as he feels his climax approaching. reopening his eyes he looks down at his length, the pretty pink mushroom tip leaking pre. he imagines you between his thighs, using your own hands or lips instead of just his hand.

“fuck…” he murmurs as his pace quickens, his teeth coming down to bite his bottom lip as he chases his release.

longdistancefriend gojo! who cums all over his hands and the bottom of his shirt, his chest heaving as he stares at the ceiling.

longdistancefriend gojo! who realizes…..holy shit. he’s gonna go visit you next week.

[lilangelbud]

Can i request something like ddlg he comes home after work to find her playing with herself on the couch, but she didn’t get his permission to, so it turns to spankings and maybe smuttier?

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice cut through the room like a whip, low and commanding, sending a shiver down her spine.

She froze, her hand still wedged between her thighs, her cheeks burning as she looked up at him. The front door was wide open, his briefcase still in his hand, and his tie loosened just enough to betray the long day he’d had. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp, focused entirely on her.

“I—I was just—” she stammered, quickly pulling her hand away and sitting up straight, her legs pressing together tightly. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the heat of his gaze on her, unrelenting.

“Just what?” he interrupted, stepping inside and closing the door with a soft click. The sound felt louder than it should have, like the echo of a judge’s gavel. He set his briefcase down and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Did I give you permission to touch yourself?”

Her breath hitched. “N-no.”

“No, what?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a warning.

“No… Daddy,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing even deeper. She hated how small her voice sounded, how it trembled under his scrutiny. But she also couldn’t deny the warmth pooling low in her belly, the way his authority made her feel both ashamed and… excited.

He straightened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he walked toward her. She instinctively scooted back on the couch, but he stopped in front of her, towering over her with that same unyielding gaze. “Stand up.”

Her stomach flipped, but she obeyed, rising to her feet on shaky legs. She couldn’t meet his eyes, so she stared at his chest instead, at the way his shirt clung to his broad frame. He smelled like aftershave and something faintly metallic—jet oil, maybe, from his job at the factory. The scent was familiar, comforting, and it only made her feel more vulnerable.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and she did, her eyes wide and pleading. His expression was stern, but there was something else there, something dark and flickering that made her breath catch. “Do you know what happens when you disobey me?”

She nodded slowly, her throat too tight to speak.

“Then why did you do it?”

She bit her lip, her hands fidgeting at her sides. “I… I don’t know. I couldn’t help it.”

“Couldn’t help it,” he repeated, his voice low and heavy. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You’re mine, aren’t you? Your body belongs to me. And if I don’t give you permission to touch it, you don’t touch it. Understand?”

Her pulse quickened, and she nodded again, her voice barely a whisper. “Yes, Daddy.”

He studied her for a moment, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. Then he stepped back, his hands moving to his belt. Her eyes widened, and she instinctively took a step back, but he stopped her with a sharp, “Stay.”

She froze, her heart racing as she watched him slide the belt free from its loops. The leather creaked in his hands as he folded it in half, the sound sending a jolt through her. He gestured to the arm of the couch. “Bend over.”

Her legs felt like jelly, but she obeyed, bending over so that her stomach rested against the soft cushion of the couch. Her skirt rode up in the back, leaving her exposed, and she could feel the cool air against her skin. Her cheeks burned, but the shame was quickly being replaced by something else—something hot and needy.

He stepped closer, and she could feel his presence behind her, his shadow looming over her. The first touch of the belt against her bare skin made her flinch, and she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.

“Count,” he commanded, his voice firm.

“One,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The belt came down with a sharp crack, and she gasped, her fingers digging into the couch. The pain was sharp but fleeting, and it was quickly replaced by a strange warmth spreading through her.

“Two,” she breathed, her voice shaking.

Another smack, harder this time, and she moaned, the sound escaping before she could stop it. Her body was reacting in ways she couldn’t control, her hips pressing forward, seeking friction against the couch.

“Three,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The belt landed again, and this time, she couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped her lips. Her fingers clawed at the fabric of the couch, and she could feel the wetness between her thighs, the heat building with every strike.

He paused, and she could hear his breathing, heavy and uneven. “Do you understand now?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpered, her body trembling.

“Good.” The belt dropped to the floor with a soft thud, and she felt his hands on her hips, turning her around. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading, and he cupped her face in his hands, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice softening.

“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered, leaning into his touch.

He kissed her then, his lips claiming hers with a possessiveness that made her melt. She clung to him, her fingers tangling in his shirt as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth. When he pulled back, she was breathless, her body aching for more.

“Now,” he said, his voice low and husky, “let me show you how to do it right.”

[creationkissed]

Paragon Stacks converted to SP. Durandal: 8/10HP 3SP

There is quiet anger in the way Durandal remains from where she last took stance, blue eyes taking stock of her allies—Mei, barely standing, and wounded; their shield and healer, out of breath and worn, yet still pushing himself to keep them all protected; Kafka, her blade still dripping with the last remnants of their fallen foe.

A slow exhale escapes Durandal’s lips.

“Kafka, Mei… and you, new friend.” Her voice may be steady, but beneath it hides her gratitude—gentle, worried, kind—as she turns her head just enough to give each other them a proper look and nod. “Take your rest. Thank you, everyone, for your support, and for watching over each other when we’ve been thrust into this without warning.”

Then, her gaze returns onto the last standing vagrant.

The axe-wielder is decidedly battered, his breath coming in wet, labored heaves, his cloths slick with his own blood. Yet still, he gripped his weapon with trembling defiance.

A chance of mercy, she had offered him. A chance of mercy, he did not accept.

Durandal’s fingers tightened around Abyss Flower.

“I will end this fight now.”

 Durandal: 8/10HP 3SP rolls 5 energy

Many have questioned how someone wielding such a massive lance could move so swiftly. Durandal’s answer never changes: when you have a mission, when there is something—an order, a mission, a promise—that you must fulfil, no weapon is heavy enough to slow a Valkyrie’s march to victory.

A flash of silver as she dashes forward, lance carving upward to tear through the eremite’s guard.

[1 Energy] Durandal: 8/10HP 3SP uses Normal Attack: Gladius Milites on Eremite Daythunder: 4.5/23HP  [Roll: 5 = Hit! -1.5HP] Eremite Daythunder: 3/23HP

 Eremite Daythunder: 12/23HP counterattacks with Axe Swipe [Roll: 10 = Hit! -2HP] Durandal: 8/10HP 1SP

His attempts at retaliation are near-negligible. His axe hits, but it hardly does anything on her battlesuit. 

She returns it in kind with a reverse swing, another pivot, the full weight of her lance crashing against his ribs with enough force to send him toppling. She watches as she coughs blood, knees bucking.

[1 Energy] Durandal: 8/10HP 1SP uses Normal Attack: Gladius Milites on Eremite Daythunder: 3/23HP  [Roll: 17 = Hit! -1.5HP] Eremite Daythunder: 1.5/23HP Eremite Daythunder: 12/23HP counterattacks with Axe Swipe [Roll: 17 = Hit! -2HP] Durandal: 7/10HP 0SP

She’s bleeding from the arm as well. But wounds as light as this, she is used to.

At the very least, she rewards him a moment to catch his breath, taking a few steps back as though she’s patiently waiting for him to collect himself fully.

She should give him mercy. A Valkyrie should always be merciful, after all. Forgiving, kind, gentle.

Her right foot slides back, grinding against the torn-up floor underneath her. The fingers of her left hand splay wide for balance, palm hovering parallel to the ground, while her right grips Abyss Flower tightly, lifting its weight up just above her shoulder.

She waits for him to speak, to apologize.

[1 Energy] Durandal: 7/10HP 0SP uses Normal Attack: Gladius Milites on Eremite Daythunder: 1.5/23HP 

When nothing comes, she finally moves; left foot planting onto the ground, a roar escaping her lips as she hurls the Abyss Flower forward—a perfect mirror image of how this battle first started. Like before, her lance tears through the air. Like before, her lance strikes true, piercing clean through the enemy’s chest.

He didn’t even have the chance to scream.

[Roll: 13 = Hit! -1.5HP] 

Eremite Daythunder Has Fallen!

Perhaps his swift death, too, is her way of showing mercy.

“Good job, everyone.”

.✧  ݁ ˖ when elegies are ashes

Spiral Abyss Team 10 ; Floor 1

[kittykatninja321]

My less popular opinion (and what I believe to be implied by the art in Lost Days) is that rather than waking up in a fully grown body Jason didn’t actually complete his puberty until after his Lazarus pit dip while he was on his murder tour. Imagine you’re tied up in a basement in Berlin getting interrogated by a teenager and his voice is cracking the entire time and if you laugh he’s going to shoot you