title: bedridden
pairing: leto atreides x f!reader
rating: r , explicit
summary: his eyes peel open , heavy-lidded as they rake down the salacious dip along your spine — oh , what a lovely sight to wake up to .
x-post: here .
content : leto is younger , probably in his 20s before he met lady jessica . non-canon , because canonically that man is hecking loyal to a fault . smut . mild angst . morning sex . sixty-nine . oral m!receiving . blowjob . oral f!receiving . v fingering . cunnilingus .
a/n : i be yapping again in my writing . sorry if this is such a mess , but i hope you enjoy nonetheless .
//
It is a disappointing revelation for someone like Leto to learn that he is not invincible after all.
He knew he should’ve called off the training sessions with the royal platoon, when the heavy rainstorm persists for weeks. When he finally falls sick, bedridden and stripped of any ounce of strength he has left in him to even wave for a sip of water — only then he yields; sulking in self-deprecation, berating himself on why he’d roughened it out in the pouring rain with his brothers in arms in the first place.
The only consolation he has as he writhes in his sweat-soaked bed, shaking off in vain the tremors that plague his body — is you.
You never left his side, constantly at his beck and call, big or small — for a sip of water down his parched lips, for a cold towel over his feverish head, for a warm body next to his shivering bones, for a soothing whisper to calm his delirious nerves.
You have spent sleepless nights next to him in his chamber, nursing him back to health. Until finally, this tempered morning, when his fever finally breaks, he stirs with a sleepy grunt, feeling the weight of your lithe body slither on top of his, his senses drifting awake to the soft, ebbing rainfall outside.
Usually, that would set him off, prompt him to spring from his bed and tackle the offender onto the floor. He would swipe the dagger hidden at the side drawer, and latch it onto their throat, stare deep into their eyes as rueful fear settles upon their face for even trying to usurp him.
Leto has been through enough training with his armed guards to lock himself in a constant fight mode, awakened his reflexes to protect himself from any potential threat that might befall the Duke of the venerable House Atreides.
Even in the weakened, drowsy state he is currently in, his body would rouse to attention, muscles taut and ready to fight back if he so commands.
But, it’s you — he recognises the sultry rhythm your body sways to, and the velvet glide of your skin against his. That comfortable weight that drags along his olive skin; not too heavy to suffocate him, yet enough gravitas to swaddle him snug like his nursemaid once did when he was just a babe.
You disarm him. You make him want to throw his hands up in sweet surrender. In fact, you can reach for the dagger and carve the sharp edges into the meat of his thighs, threaten to cut off his balls, henceforth severing the Atreides line forever — and he will let you.
The power you have over him, it is stronger than any mind games a Bene Gesserit witch can impose on him.
Only with you, Leto submits — as your thighs flank his forearms decisively, shackling him. As your naked crotch rubs against his chest, in parallel with his heart where it pulses mutedly under the radiating warmth of your cunt — a different kind of fever he doesn’t mind revisiting, over and over again.
He succumbs to your assertive hands sweeping up the length of his thighs, nimble fingers caressing the contours of his hipbones. He sighs in placid submission, as they slide between the mattress and his buttocks, and without so much as a struggle — none at all, lets you push his undergarment down his legs, blissful to the puffs of heated breath warming his cock, already twitching against the chilly air.
He keeps his eyes closed, pretending he is still asleep when he is already wide awake behind the shuttered lids. But, he is fooling no one — his hardon has already given him away, straining to attention of its own volition, waking up and keening to your slow, caring strokes as you rub him to a full, stiff mast.
Leto feels your lips rain kisses upon his slit, soft and soothing like the pitter-patters that rouse the pleasant smell of petrichor right outside the window — before your mouth closes over the tip, your quiet hums crooning deliciously around his girth, like you have just sampled the best foods the Caladanian chefs have to offer for the Duke’s favourite concubine — favourite lover.
His eyes peel open, heavy-lidded as they rake down the salacious dip along your spine — oh, what a lovely sight to wake up to.
He would gladly give in to whatever ailments that weaken his every sense, rid of his dominion of the Atreides armada, and render himself but a mere soldier on the brink of death — if this is what awaits him on the other side.
He basks at the sight of your plump arsecheeks moving in front of his face, brushing teasingly against the tip of his nose, riling him up to cup a feel, to touch you.
Go on, my dear Duke, you know you want to — you want him to.
So, he obeys — large hands gliding up your thighs to the globes of your cheeks, kneading lightly, firmly. You arch into his welcoming touch, pressing your crotch flush against his sternum, as you moan around him — a ricocheting effect that pulls a strangled gasp from his lungs, granting you full permission to pick up speed, to shove a few more inches of his cock into your mouth.
His eyes roll back, chin tipped skyward and nostrils flaring to grasp at the alluring scent of your sex. He can smell you now, beckoning him with a mouthwatering aroma that reminds him of seasalt but which he knows tastes like warm, sweet honey — greater than the coveted spice melange that rules kingdoms and peoples.
The mere thought of your slick hitting his tongue, it’s enough to elicit a ravenous groan from his chest, his fingers digging into your plush skin — clawing for more.
Leto hears you — gagging sloppily, so beautifully around his cock, as his fat, aching tip thrusts deeper into the heated cavern of your mouth. Your tongue is like soft satin, cushioning the base of his veined shaft. Your jaw like desperate shackles, squeezing him so lovingly when it hits the back of your throat — drawing from you a melodious choral that shoots sparks down to his belly, wringing fresh spurts of pre-cum down your throat.
Your one hand pumps affirmative strokes along the rigid length in gratitude — thankful for what he has gifted you. The other, expert fingers fondle the robust orbs, as you suckle him like the most devout, so very eager to please your Duke — your master.
Your tongue swirls in hefty stripes, stretching along his weeping cock. Your cunt grinds against his broad chest, heaving to the rhythm of his heartbeat — stealing for yourself whatever friction you need to dance to his song.
You whimper, when his hand drifts between the buried alcove of your thighs. And right there at the apex, his thumb traces reverence along your sensitive nub — softly, so terribly soft.
He feels you gush around his fingers, and with your silky smooth release, he smears coaxing circles around your clit, kindling a guttural purr against his stomach, where he feels your heart thrums with wanting ache — practically begging for the affirmation only he can provide to satiate you, make you feel seen.
Leto likes it when you beg. You rarely do that in court. You never ask for more than what you think you deserve, so stoically demure as your footsteps thread down the vaulted halls. Even when they carry you past the heavy doors into his chamber, where you look after him so diligently — in bed, in sickness and in health.
But, when you do beg, he can’t help but offer you in kind what he thinks you deserve for your loyal and honourable service — everything. He would’ve given you the world if he could. He would’ve married you tomorrow, made you his Duchess if the Mentat calculations proclaim you compatible. He would’ve loved you with his whole heart until the day he dies even if they don’t.
Alas. This is all he can give you — his fingers digging into your skin, prying open your arsecheeks for the glorious sight of your cunt, blossoming pink like the first springtime bloom in the courtyards of Castle Caladan; throbbing right in front of his eyes — calling out to him to touch you there.
So, he obliges — touches you where it hurts, eases two fingers into your puckered hole until the web of his palm kisses your lips, scissoring to spread you out like a sumptuous feast waiting to be devoured.
Your slick trickles down his wrist, your hearty moan resonates around his cock, squeezing a stringy groan from deep within him, as his eyes flutter shut to savour everything that you have to give him.
The wet, hot sludge of your pussy, dying embers rekindled around his drenched digits. And when they crook at that devastating spot inside you, massaging billowing circles with just a smidge of pressure, he feels your thighs tense up as you squirt so desperately to his come hither.
And the sound you make — mewling with your mouth so full of him, it’s ethereal music his Warmaster can never pluck from the strings of his baliset, talented as he is with the instrument.
It makes Leto want you more, frenzied fingers biting into the meat of your calves to pull you closer, until your knees are digging into his shoulders. His growing beard rutting abrasion against your inner thighs, his growling mouth finally coming in contact with your clit — he goes in for the kill.
You release his cock, crying out in sweet surprise, when his tongue nudges into you, lapping at your bundle of nerves without any ducal decorum. His large hand presses upon the small of your back, to hold you in place, pull your arched form into his labouring mouth.
He plants his feet flat on the bed, angling his cock right back into your gaping mouth, silencing your outcries to smothered whimpers. His undulating hips drive himself deeper into you, filling you to the brim as the leaking head rams against the roof of your mouth, making you gag and drool down your quivering chin in a muffling mess.
Leto hums hoarsely against your cunt when your teeth drag along the veinous ridge for purchase, for any sense of control, when you’re already squirming, already unravelling to his desired device.
He knows you are close. He feels your pussy flutter at his ministrations.
He buries his nose against you, heaving in lungfuls of your tangy scent. His tongue teasing you in a quickened momentum, slurps hungrily like a man deprived of food for days.
Your hips gyrating against his chest, matching the temptuous tempo of his fingers, prodding in and out of you —
Until you clench around him. Your whole body shivering and your nails scraping at his inner thighs as you cum. His tongue flicking at your overstimulated nub still as he carries you through the storm.
You let out a long, stifled drawl around his cock, and he harmonises with you a delectable shudder that hitches in his throat, as he drinks in every drop of your honeyed offering, like sweet medicine to cure him of this insatiable disease.
Then, he pulls away just to see your pussy dribble onto his chest, painting him a lovely sheen — making him yours.
Leto’s eyes flitter shut, as he slips his anointed fingers into his mouth, revelling in the syrupy taste of you. Your heady scent assaulting his senses, making him dizzy — damn near feral.
It is enough to galvanise him, rocking into your wailing mouth with such dire urgency, as if he’s thrusting his cock into that pretty cunt he’s just fucked till kingdom come with only his mouth and fingers.
In one little moment, it feels like the fever has returned. Hellfire burns through his screaming muscles, as cold sweat licks at his pores. The pressure low in his belly coils tight —
And then he is snarling under your captive body. Balls drawing up in your loving hold, and spilling white, hot ropes down your throat, working with such deep devotion as it bobs frantically to take in every drop he has to offer.
He hisses, fingers biting crescents into your arsecheeks, when you hollow your cheeks and suckle at his reddened tip. An encore to make sure you’ve wrung him dry without a straddling drop left.
Until you have had your claim of him — all of him.
Only then, the storm clouds pass, and the rain subsides to mere whispers. His skin cools, and the thunder in his ears dwindles — and all he can hear is the steadfast sound of your heavy breathing.
Leto feels your heartbeat normalising against his abdomen, your fingertips mapping haphazard trails along his bare legs. Pathways covert even to himself, but nonetheless surefooted in finding your way to his heart.
He turns his face against your inner thigh, impressing pliant kisses to your skin, as his hand mirrors your motion. Trying so desperately to pillage his way through the shrouded labyrinth, and finally come home to where your heart lays.
His hooded eyes keep watch of you, as you drop your head and hum against his softening cock — a song that is already fading, even before he can learn the notes, memorise the words.
In knowing that, tears brim in his eyes before he can stop himself. His hand slides up your body, rubbing soothing circles up your spine; dislodges himself from under you to align his naked form against yours — from the tips of your toes, to the curves of your waists, to the rounds of your shoulders, where he brushes his lips and tries to lay his claim of you — all of you; when in truth, he has barely enough of you to hold on to from the start.
Alexandra stretched out under the covers, tired but strangely restless. It was late - very late - and she'd closed out the bar and come home to put herself to bed, but now that she was there she found she couldn't sleep.
She rolled onto her side and buried her face into the other pillow, inhaling a lungful of not-her shampoo. It had only been a day since Cecil had slept there, but his scent lingered on the pillow he'd used.
She rubbed her cheek against the pillowcase while her body perked up in remembrance of his visit. After she'd taken him apart in the kitchen the morning after their date they'd napped snuggled together and then spent a lovely, lazy day smoking the surprisingly decent weed he had on him and exploring each other. She was starting to heat up just thinking about it.
She flipped onto her back and stretched, feeling her body tense and strain with effort and then slowly release back into the plush softness of her bed. She was definitely too keyed up to sleep now, but as images of her last encounter with Cecil danced across her mind she remembered that he'd given her his number. It was really late, but maybe a text wouldn't hurt. If he was asleep he wouldn't hear it, but if he wasn't…
Before she could think better of it, she grabbed her phone off the nightstand and sent him a quick hey, feeling a little silly as she did. It was late, he was definitely asleep, and now she was going to wait up for a text back that wasn't coming.
It wasn't a minute later that her phone buzzed, and buzzed again.
hye
yuo up?
Alexandra laughed to herself as she read his messages. The terrible spelling and nonsensical message were somehow incredibly charming, so she messaged him back: I am. Are you drunk?
A moment later her phone buzzed again.
Mabye
Yeag
Went.out wtih harry 2nite ans just got baxk
She hummed to herself as his messages flooded in, unsurprised. The stories he'd told her about his cousin were pretty wild, to the point that she was amazed that he could type at all if that's who he'd been with.
Have fun?
Her phone buzzed again, almost immediately after she hit send.
Yea
Woudl be morr fun of you were hrre tho
She bit her lip as she read his latest message. It was such a basic late-night hookup text, but even so, she could feel her heart beating faster in response. Before she could roll her eyes at herself for playing along she sent: Yeah? What would you do if I was there?
She watched a message bubble appear, then disappear, then pop up again. She should have expected the call when it came but she almost dropped her phone on her face in surprise when it rang.
“Hello?” she asked on autopilot as she accepted the call and held the phone to her ear.
On the other end, Cecil's voice was warm and low, curling through the speaker and into her ear in a soft, intimate tone. “Keyboard's too small, can't type for shit. Mmm, if you were here you'd be in bed with me. I'd kiss you all over…” He trailed off with a sigh.
She licked her lips, feeling her body's response to his words. Heat curled through her veins like sweet syrup and she gripped her phone a little tighter. “That sounds like fun, pretty boy. Are you in bed now?”
“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice fuzzy and more than a little drunk. It was easy to imagine him sprawled in his bed with the phone to his ear, his wild curls flopping over his forehead as he stretched out. “S’ comfy, but yours is nicer. You should come over.”
She laughed softly. “It's late, pretty boy. You'd be asleep by the time I got there, and then I'd be out in the cold all by myself. What else would you do if I was there?”
He'd started to protest, but when she asked the question he quickly changed tracks. He hummed into the phone and she heard rustling as he shifted against the covers. “I'd touch you ‘n lick you everywhere. You taste good, and your skin's so soft. S’ nice…”
“Oh, I'd like that,” she purred into the phone, her mind conjuring up memories of the way he'd touched her and the slide of his mouth against her skin until she had to press her thighs together to soothe the ache building between them. “You always make me feel so good, sweetheart. Are you getting hard?”
“Mmm-hmm." The quiet sound of rustling came through the speaker as he shifted on the bed. “Can't help it with you, just - schwing! You sure you don't wanna come over?” A whine crept into his low, half-asleep voice as he asked.
“Not tonight,” she said softly. She wanted to - she really wanted to - but knew that even if he was somehow still awake when she arrived, he wouldn't be for long. “But if I was there, do you know what I'd do?”
She heard a softly indrawn breath through the phone speaker and more rustling. “What would you do?” came Cecil's voice, eager and a little choked.
“I'd touch you just like you're doing now,” she replied silkily. Her hand slid down her stomach, sending pleasurable shivers rippling out in its wake. “But nice and slow and easy. Can you do that?”
His breath hitched in her ear, then let out in a slow whoosh of air. “Yeah, I can. Feels good… Mmm, but what about you?”
She hummed a pleased sound into the phone, equally enjoying how well he was following directions and how he asked about her pleasure. “Don't worry about me - I'm thinking about that talented tongue of yours. You've got me all wet, pretty boy.”
“Fuck…” he breathed.
She could hear him starting to pant, but the rustling sounds stuck to the lazy rhythm she'd asked for. “You're being a good boy, aren't you? Going nice and slow?”
“Nngh - shit, yeah,” came the immediate response. She could imagine the way his cock had jumped in his hand as she told him he was good and it was easy to hear the little shiver it had sent through him, coming out in his voice.
“Does that feel good?” she asked, letting him hear her breath hitch as she swirled her fingers through her folds, getting them nice and slick before running them up the centre of her pussy in imitation of his broad, flat tongue. With his soft voice in her ear she could almost pretend it was him, and she let herself repeat the motion again and again with his eager tempo. It made her heart race.
“Yeah, fuck. What're you -" he gulped. "- What're you doing?” His voice was breathless in her ear and she could practically hear the way he strained to catch more of her sounds.
“Touching myself imagining it's you,” she said easily. She let her fingers swirl over her clit the way his tongue did sometimes and shifted her hips into the motion. Her breath caught on a little hum and she did it again.
He groaned in response and the rustling got louder. “Baby, wish I was there - fuck - I'd treat you so good…”
“Yeah, I know you would. Why don't you do something nice for yourself instead, hmm? Maybe pull your hair a little,” she purred into the phone. Between the choked sounds he kept making in her ear and the feel of her fingers rubbing over her clit she was getting so turned on she could barely stand it.
“Shit, I love it when you pull my hair. S'like - like it goes right to my dick.” She heard him fumbling around for a moment before the sound quality changed and she knew he'd put her on speaker. A moment later he gasped and the rustling got louder.
“There you go,” she breathed. Her fingers rubbed over her clit a little faster and her hips hitched into the pressure, needing more. Every sound he made had tension coiling between her legs until she was shivering with need and saying whatever came into her head. “You turn me on so much. You sound so hot like this, touching yourself the way I told you to. You like being a good boy for me, don't you?"
"Fuck," he choked out in her ear. "Yeah, I do. Can I go faster? Fuck, I need more, baby. Please?"
She hummed a pleased sound into the phone. His pleading voice was turning her blood to syrup and she couldn't get enough. Ignoring his request for now, she let her voice go low and intent to ask, "Are you getting close, pretty boy? I bet you look so good - spread out in bed touching that big, hard cock, nice and slowly."
He whined in response, loud and clear into the phone. The rustling got louder and she imagined him shifting restlessly, his hips hitching up into his fist as sweat gleamed on his skin. "Baby, teasing me…" he whined, then immediately ruined the complaint by asking, "Fuck, keep talking?"
“I will, don't worry. Why don't you pull your hair again? You sound so fucking good when you do. Gets me so hot,” she panted into his ear. She was just saying whatever came into her mind now as the tension in her belly wound itself tighter and tighter with every firm rub of her fingers.
He moaned into the phone and immediately followed her order. She could hear him shifting on the bedding as he whined in her ear, clearly teetering on the edge. “Fuck, fuck, wish you were here - t-to ride me and hold me down and fucking pull my hair. God, I'd come so hard…”
She couldn't help the sound she made in response to his words and the images they conveyed - her taking that perfect cock deep inside with every stroke as he writhed under her, putting himself completely at her mercy and loving every moment of it. “Yeah, I want that too. God, you feel so good inside me, pretty boy - that cock of yours fills me up just how I need.”
He let out a choked groan into her ear. “F-fuck, I wanna just…” he managed to get out, and her mind filled in an image of him fucking his fist, pretending it was her pussy he was driving into. His breath was fast and shallow and it was clear he couldn't hold back much longer.
A terrible thought occurred to her and it caused such a jolt of heat to flash through her body that the words were out of her mouth before she could think better. “What if I asked you to stop?”
She heard a strangled sound. “Fuck - stop touching myself? Baby, don’t - please…” His words were pleading but his voice had an eager little thread woven through it that turned her blood to molten honey.
The idea had taken hold and wouldn’t be shaken loose. “Stop,” she commanded, putting all the authority she had left into the word. “Hands behind your head, pretty boy. I’ll know if you don’t, and I’ll be very disappointed.”
“Oh fuck,” he panted, and the hurt little whine he let out as he followed her order went straight to her core. The bedding rustled loudly and then stopped, and all she could hear from him was his fast, laboured breathing. “I did it. Please, baby…”
“Good boy,” she gasped. She rubbed over her clit in fast, firm little circles, driving herself closer and closer to the edge as his unhesitating obedience made her heart pound. He was letting her do this to him, letting her choose how and when he touched himself, and the heady power of that knowledge was almost enough to push her over the edge. She held back, but made sure he could hear how much she was enjoying her own touch while he waited for her permission to continue.
He whined softly, and it was easy to imagine how he looked - wild-eyed and hard as a rock, panting and shifting his hips into nothing as he forced himself to behave. He tried for a coaxing tone, but his voice came out desperate and needy instead as he begged, “Baby - baby - you’re teasing. Don’t … I’ve been good. Please?”
“Not yet. Fuck, pretty boy, you’ve got me so hot I can’t think. Ask me again - beg for it,” she panted into the phone, so close she could taste it - so close her thighs were shaking uncontrollably while her hips rolled up into her touch. She needed to hear him.
His response was immediate and desperate. He whimpered into her ear and followed her order, pleading with her in his soft, needy voice. “Fuck, baby - please, please, please - I’ll do anything, just let me touch it. I’m so close, fuck…”
It was exactly what she needed.
The tension within her snapped, and she barely managed to gasp out a quick command of “Do it,” before it pulled her under. She moaned, long and low as her body shuddered hard at wave after wave of bliss and her mind whited out.
Distantly she heard him moan loudly as he followed her order. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh god, oh fuck - I’m gonna, can I?”
“Yes,” she managed. His desperate, shaky plea to be allowed to come had her shivering even harder. It was the hottest thing she’d ever heard.
He immediately came, moaning so loudly in relief that she had to pull the phone slightly away from her ear to protect her hearing. His noisy exuberance was the perfect soundtrack to her own climax, and as she shuddered and worked herself through the waves she could hear him doing the same, pulling every last drop of sensation from his cock.
Finally he sighed in her ear and they panted together for a long moment, coming down from the heights of pleasure that the dirty phone call had driven them to. Cecil was the first to speak, humming a satisfied sound and stretching from the sounds of rustling, before saying, “Baby, that was… wow.”
The slow, wondering tone of his voice warmed her insides like a hot drink on a cold day. She laughed weakly, still shivering through aftershocks even as her body relaxed gratefully into the soft bedding. “Mmm yeah, that was fun.”
“Wish you were here so we could cuddle. You always feel so nice…” His voice was getting soft and fuzzy in her ear and she suddenly remembered how late it was.
“Me too sweetheart," she said around a yawn. “You’re so warm - my own personal heater.”
“Heat you up anytime,” he murmured.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she promised softly. Her body was heavy and her eyelids were heavier - finally, it looked like she’d be able to sleep. “G’night, Cecil. Sleep tight.”
“Night, Alex.” The words were barely breathed into the mic, so soft she had to strain to hear them.
She waited a moment, hearing his breathing start to even out, before she hung up the phone and set it on her charger. Snuggling into her bedding, she let sleep wash over her and slid easily into dreams of Cecil.
KDFHGIVAJEKRNHBOPJIFDK OH MY GOOOOOOSHHHHH!!!! ANOTHER FANTASTIC AND TASTY CHAPTERRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
OVERVIEW: Steven Grant taking care of his sick partner.
W/C: 631
“Love, you sound like a squeaky toy.”
You’ve been trying to convince Steven for the past half hour that you’re fine and that you don’t need him to stay home from work just to take care of you. Of course, your body refuses to cooperate and it just gives him more reasons to stay.
“I’m fine babe, I promise, it’s just a-“
You sneeze in the middle of your sentence, nose going back to being extra stuffy.
“cold…. Great. Now I can barely breathe again.”
Steven lays you down properly on the bed and makes you comfortable.
“I’m gonna make you some tea with honey, alright? It should help your throat hurt less.”
You blow your nose, the sides of it already hurting from how many times you’ve done it. Your ears are clogged, your nose is stuffy, your throat hurts like hell, and your voice is almost gone.
You look at Steven in the kitchen making your tea. You feel bad for making him stay here, taking care of you. He’s always ready to do anything to make you feel good and comfortable. Seeing you all sick and weak hurts him, he can’t stand going to work knowing that you’re this sick.
Steven walks towards you, cup with tea in hand. He sits down on the edge on the opposite side of the bed.
“Be careful, love. I don’t want you to deal with a burnt tongue along with all of this.”
You sit up and he hands you the cup and you blow air on it to cool it. After a bit, you take a sip.
“Blegh, this tastes awful.”
Steven puts a hand on his chest and acts hurt.
“That's the biggest insult someone has ever said to me.”
You both start laughing, but your laughter slowly turns into coughing. Steven quickly removes the cup from your hand so you don’t spill anything.
“You alright?”
You nod and put your head down on the pillow. Steven presses the back of his hand to your forehead.
“At least it seems like you don’t have a fever. Have you taken any medicine yet?”
“Yeah, none of them work though.”
He sighs and lays down next to you.
“Don’t get too close, I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I’m not scared of getting sick, I’ll stay close to you whether your nose is runny or not. C’mon, sit up, I’ll help you drink the tea.”
You sit up and he grabs the cup, you grab it and slowly but surely drink the tea. After you finally manage to drink it all, you wince.
“See, that wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Yes. Yes it was that bad.”
“At least you’ll feel a bit better, yeah? Tea with honey always helps a sore throat.”
He puts his hand on your head and gives you a kiss on your forehead, and then on your cheek.
“I’ll give you a kiss on the lips if you clear the mucus that’s dripping down from your nose.”
You chuckle and give him a playful shove, and get a tissue to clean your nose, and another tissue to clean your whole face.
He gives you a soft kiss on the lips and wraps his arms around you.
“Thank you, for staying here and taking care of me.”
“Of course, love. I’m doing the bare minimum for you. I’d happily take care of you everyday if I had to. You’re my whole world.”
Your cheeks heat up a little, you know he was right, he would give you the whole world. You put your head on his chest and close your eyes.
Despite the raging cold you have, and the fact that you can only breathe out of one nostril, with Steven, it seems as if you’re perfectly fine.
I'm sittin' in the railway station / Got a ticket for my destination / On a tour of one-night stands / My suitcase and guitar in hand / And every stop is neatly planned / For a poet and a one-man band
Llewyn Davis x Fem!Reader
author's note: hi! so so so so sooo sorry that i havent posted in so long :( summer break hit hard and suddenly im a fat chud all day but no motivation to write... also i hated part of this chapter so it took me extra long to rewrite itttt.. again most of this will make more sense if you have seen the movie!! i lwk hate the harsh transition of emotions but yk what fuck it WE BALL. Fic title from a song called "Homeward Bound" by Simon & Garfunkel.
word count: 2.9k
content warning: nothing really i can think of (but please lmk if im wrong lol) other than sorta fighting but i mean llewyn's a dick anyways
The walk to The Gaslight was nothing unfamiliar to Llewyn, even with the increased crowds roaming the streets of The Village. It seemed like more coffeehouses had popped up, the sound of folk music seeping into the streets as he made his way to the cafe. Shit, what would he even say to you? Jean’s advice wasn’t that helpful, he wasn’t that stupid to not think to just fucking listen to you. He listened to you plenty, why the hell would you choose now to run? Running was his thing.
Llewyn had already tried banging on your apartment door, but the only response he got was the muffled meow of Ulysses. Where the hell else would you be? The only other place that came to mind was the Gaslight.
So, here he was. Crossing the street and dodging a few people and almost tumbling down the steps of the Gaslight, he cupped his hands and pressed his face close to the glass of the door. Fuck, he wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to get in. Peering inside the dim cafe, it was hard to make out any clear shapes. The only giveaway that there was someone in there was laughter—one he recognized all too well. It was Pappi.
He knocked once, twice, three times, rubbing his clammy hands together as he waited to be let in. It didn’t take long for the door to swing open, Llewyn barely dodging it as he was greeted with the sight of Pappi.
“Llewyn! Long time no see, come in, come in!” Pappi laughs, less than gently patting Llewyn on the shoulder and hauling him inside. Before Llewyn can respond he’s tugged into the Gaslight, the soft chatter and laughter of a few people echoing through the coffee house.
“What brings you back to the Gaslight? Lookin’ for a gig? I’ve got a spot open tonight, courtesy of your little girlfriend,” Pappi nudges Llewyn with his elbow, leaning back against the bar counter with his arms crossed and looking at the few people in the cafe. They were all lingering near the stage, guitars and other instruments in hand, conversing with each other casually.
“She’s not my girlfriend. I don’t do that ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ shit.”
“Hey, I’m just saying, she certainly talks about you like you're her boyfriend.”
“Stop messing around. I just wanted to see if she was here.”
“Oh yeah, she’s definitely here. Sulking in the back because she got into a fight with her boy-toy,” Pappi leans in and murmurs to Llewyn, a grin tugging at his lips. “What’d you do to her? I don’t see her shaken up this often.”
Llewyn just shook his head, scoffing lightly at Pappi’s almost smug expression. Boy-toy? What the fuck? There’s no way you actually saw him like that. “It’s not that big of a deal. She brought up Mike and I..” Llewyn shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose out of frustration. “I freaked out on her.”
The older man just snorted, uncrossing his arms and patting Llewyn on his shoulder once more.
“She brought up Mikey, huh? Still sour over him?”
“No, no, I just—I don’t understand why the fuck she brought him up. We both said some dumb shit, she said I…”
Llewyn looked over at Pappi, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.
“Do you think I’m acting weird?”
“Yep. You’re weird alright, Davis. Never a moment when you're not.”
Llewyn groaned quietly, recoiling away from Pappi’s hand as it came down again to pat his shoulder. God, he wished he’d stop doing that already. He wasn’t here to have a fucking grand ‘ol time catching up with everyone, he wanted to talk to you. Pappi’s voice and low laughter brought Llewyn out of his thoughts. That, and his arm that was now draped around Llewyn’s shoulders as he looked around the cafe.
“Don’t be too hard on her. She’s attached, I swear. I remember seein’ you two—well, you two and Mike, very first gig at Gaslight. Almost like she wanted to be as close to you as possible. It was cute. You two were cute. And oh boy, don’t get me started on all the bitching she did while you were gone, I swear it was—”
“You said she was in the back?”
“Oh yeah, she’s in the back. Doin’ what, I’m not too sure.”
“Thanks,” Llewyn bit out sarcastically, pulling away from Pappi and starting to walk toward the back. This wasn’t a ”Let’s reminisce and remember how in love Llewyn and you were” moment. This was a ”I need to apologize before you ditch me too” kind of moment.
“Hey, no problem! Go get your girl before I do! Haha, seriously, I was considering it.”
Oh god, could he get any more crude? Was that just Pappi’s thing? Trying to get into the pants of every woman that steps foot into the Gaslight. The thought made Llewyn grimace, not even daring to glance behind him as he headed towards the back.
The hallway was even darker than the actual cafe—God, was there any good lighting in this place? The faint sounds of everyone conversing slowly faded into the background as he slowly walked down the hall. Llewyn peeked his head into each room he saw, but no luck so far. Random storage rooms, break rooms, offices, and yet you just weren’t there.
Ah. Shit. Maybe he should’ve thought to check the door that had light spilling from the cracks. It was at the end of the hallway, he would’ve gotten to it eventually.
Slowly cracking the door open, Llewyn stepped inside, and was instantly greeted with your figure sitting.. on the floor? Your back faced towards him, a crate of LPs and EPs in front of you, flipping through it slowly. Oh, great, sulking already.
He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly as he observed your sagging shoulders and almost angry, jagged movements as you flipped through the vinyl. He cleared his throat to get your attention, shifting from one foot to to the other.
“Sooo.. you angry at me?”
Okay. Maybe not the best thing to start off with.
“Why would I be angry at you?” You huffed quietly, the furrow in your brows softening as you turned to look at Llewyn.
“Oh, I don’t know,” He grumbled, rubbing a gloved hand over his scruffy beard. “You’ve just got that look on your face.”
Rolling your eyes, you turned back to the crate of vinyl you were sifting through, shoving it back into it’s place on the bottom shelf. If Llewyn didn’t feel guilt starting to tug at his chest, he would have found it endearing, seeing you like a pouty kid.
“I don’t have any look on my face.”
Llewyn just shrugged, walking further into the room to lean against the wall beside you. He went silent for a few moments, contemplating what to say. Hell, he wasn’t a really… vulnerable guy. He didn’t know how to have a heart-to-heart. He didn’t know how to address shit like this, he’d never had to before.
“C’mon, don’t do that,” Llewyn scoffed, crossing his arms and watching as you rose to your feet, dusting yourself off. He watched you scrub a hand over your face, as if trying to compose yourself before blowing up on him.
“I’m not doin’ anything. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”
“I can tell something's wrong. Don’t bullshit me.”
“I'm not bullshitting you, Llew. The only thing that's bullshit is you. I don't get why you're acting like this!"
Crap. So much for trying to stay composed.
"Like what! What am I fucking acting like, huh? Please, tell me. I'm dying to know."
"Like this!" You gestured wildly to him, motioning to his tired eyes and overall disheveled state. "You leave for two months and suddenly you're all mopey and sad—I don't know!"
"I was 'mopey and sad' even before I left, don't act like it's anything new."
"I know that! The thing I don't understand is the whole fucking quitting music thing! Seriously, where the hell did that even come from, Llew?"
"I can't even land a gig anymore! I hitchike to Chicago, all for some fucking guy to tell me I'd be better in some fucking trio. I'm not playing in a goddamned trio!"
"What the fuck are you talking about? You're throwing everything away because—what, you didn't get one gig? Are you fucking serious?"
"No! No—No, no, no. It's not just one gig. It's everything! I barely have any money to my name right now, not one single person has bought my stupid album, it's not like I'm new to this. I don't even have a place to fucking stay. So no, it's not about one fucking gig."
The air between you two had gone still, and suddenly the silence that washed over the room felt suffocating. Shit, was that too much? For now, there was no quick retort from either of you. No quick quip or pointless arguing, just uncomfortable silence and a weird, brand new vulnerability from Llewyn.
The anger that had furrowed both of your brows was slowly dissapating, leaving behind something akin to unfamiliarity. Not with the subject, no, the both of you had talked about and experienced this in different forms. Just… with different people. Never with each other. Llewyn avoided the topic because it made him feel like a charity case. You had simply avoided the topic because Llewyn never cared to bring it up.
Watching your shoulders begin to sag and your irritated posture and tone slowly fade, Llewyn shifted awkardly on his feet once more. He watched your mouth open and close, like you were trying to piece together a response, before you finally spoke. Your tone was softer now, almost apologetic.
"You could've told me, y'know."
"..I know."
And fuck, he does know. But what was he supposed to do? Just come knocking on your door again to ask for more money, again, after what, years of being friends? He wasn't a leech. God, he really tried not ot be.
"I would've helped you."
"I know you would."
"I'll still help you, idiot."
Oh.
Llewyn shakes his head, scoffing and trying to brush it off, as if this whole thing didn't start because he refused your help in the first place. His stance became more defensive, crossing his arms and standing up a little straighter. He opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off.
"It's not out of pity, Llewyn."
Oh. Shit.
"Then why?" He bit back, furrowing his brows again.
"Do I even have to have a reason?"
"That's not the point."
Holy fuck, this man. He could be so goddamn stubborn. You wished you could just squeeze some sense into those scruffy cheeks, maybe tug on his unruly curls and set his head straight. But you cared for him too much to do that, even if it sounded amazing right now. Oh so fucking amazing.
"Fine," You relented, huffing softly and smoothing out the crease between your brows. "Because I want to."
"Oh come on, be serious." He snorted back, rolling his eyes and letting his shoulders untense. At least it got a little laugh out of him, if you could even call it that.
"I want to help because you're one of my best friends. And becuse you're too talented to just give up on everything."
Llewyn scoffs like he's about to make a self-depricating comment, but you interrupt him once more. God dammit.
"I've heard your music, don't act like it isn't good. You just lack… y'know, the…y'know," You waved your hands around, gesturing to this imaginary thing that he lacked. Llewyn just raised an eyebrow, still keeping his arms crosed but letting his posture soften a bit.
"The what?"
"The drive," You snapped your fingers, pointing at him accusingly. "You're giving up too easy. It's like you've got the life sucked outta you."
Oh, great, again with the sad mopey shit. Llewyn knew he was sad and mopey, everyone knew.
"How the hell are you gonna help me with my.. 'drive'?"
Now you really paused, letting your eyes dart around the small supply room like all the answers were burried deep behind wallpaper and drywall. And then Llewyn saw it. He saw the way your eyes flickered to the crate of vinyls, and back to him, and then back and forth. His eyebrows raised slightly, his breath hitching as if he sensed exactly what you were gonna say.
"No, don't even think about it—"
"I'm dragging you back out to Chicago to whatever jackass rejected you and we're gonna get you that fucking gig."
Llewyn just groaned, letting his hands drag down his face in exasperation. He knew it. He appreciated the help, but he didn't expect this much help. And knowing you? You weren't joking around. If anything, you'd drag him to your car and be on the road before sundown.
When he looked up to meet your gaze, that stupid hopeful gaze like you'd just come up with one of the best ideas ever, he was surprised to see you actually.. sorta smiling. As if you were actually excited to help him. It wasn't exactly the 'kid opening presents on Christmas' sorta grin, just a 'you're my friend and I forgive you' smile.
"You don't have to do this."
A weak excuse. Knowing you, you'd help him regardless, even if the two of you fought every single day for the rest of your lives.
"I know."
"You're gonna do this shit anways, aren't you?"
"You bet your ass."
And like that, the worst of the argument was over. At least for now, Llewyn hoped. He knew you, he knew you weren't going to hold a grudge for too long. Knew you were sorry, and you knew he was sorry too. And so when you held out your hand expectantly, he didn't even try to protest. Just fake sighed dramatically, uncrossing his arms and taking your hand without a fight.
You dragged Llewyn out from the back of the Gaslight, down the dim hallway and into the main seating area. Soon the sound of distant chatter filtered into both of your ears, talking and the sound of glasses clinking accompanying it. It didn’t occur to either of you, to… y’know, let go of each other’s hands as you started walking back.
“There they are! Came back to the land of the living, eh?”
Pappi’s loud voice was the first thing they heard, accompanied by his laughter and the sight of his grin. Both of you glanced at one another, a grimace on your face and an exasperated look on Llewyn’s. The relief of the resolved argument between you two was instantly shattered as the mere sight of Pappi. Right.
“Yeah yeah, don’t throw a party or nothin’,” Llewyn groaned, his almost fond expression turning into one of annoyance. He seriously didn’t want to talk to Pappi right now.
As you two walked closer, the other man glanced down at your clasped hand, a smug grin now on his face.
“I was starting to think you two wouldn’t come back! Was starting to think Llewyn got lucky,” Pappi grinned, wiggling his eyebrows and elbowing Llewyn with a smirk. You weren’t sure if it was intentional, but Llewyn quickly let go of your hand, making no effort to acknowledge the gesture whatsoever. But you definitely noticed.
You cleared your throat, glancing around the seating area and to the stage, your eyes lingering on the other artists there. "Actually, we're going to Chicago for a few days. I uh, might need some time off."
The smirk on Pappi's face only grew wider at that, and the older man glanced between you two.
"What, finally going on your honeymoon? Never really thought of Chicago as the most romantic place on Earth, but you kids are so weird these days—"
"There's no goddamn honeymoon for Christ's sake," Llewyn interupted, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms in that same defensive stance he always did. "She's just helping me get back on my feet."
"I'm helping him revive his music career," You corrected, mimicking Llewyn and crossing your arms as well. It wasn't quite as defensive as the stubborn man beside you, but it was as smug and proud as the smirk on Pappi's face.
"Well good luck with whatever the hell you two are doing," Pappi laughed, his eyes lingering on you as Llewyn started to head for the door. Pappi's hand caught your shoulder before you could follow behind Llewyn, and he ducked his head to whisper lowly. "Go easy on him, will ya? You're the only good thing the poor guy's got going for him."
The thought made you pause, but you just murmured a small "Sure thing, Pappi," and hurried to catch up with Llewyn. Eh, you'd come back to it later. For now, the focus was Chicago. Hell, you didn't even know where the hell Llewyn went to to get rejected in the first place, but that detail would come eventually.
The laughter and sound of conversations faded behind you as the door of the Gaslight shut, and you and Llewyn were left to walk back to your apartment.
"So, we hit up my place, grab our stuff, and then hit the road?" You proprosed, already mapping out the bag you would need to pack. Clothes, money, toiletries, what else…
"..I need to go to Joy's house before we leave."
"..Ah. Okay, new plan, we can just take the subway. Easy as that."
Oscar Isaac Boys with Period, Endo and PCOS Reader HCs
Pairing: Multiple Oscar Isaac characters (Steven Grant, Marc Spector, Jake Lockley, Abel Morales, Nathan Bateman, Cecil Dennis, Laurent LeClaire, Basil Stitt, Santiago Garcia, Anselm Vogelweide) x AFAB reader
Word count: 2.2K
Dividers by: @saradika-graphics
Warnings: Periods, endometriosis, chronic pain, PCOS, non-specified shitty medical experiences, pretty much all fluff though douchebag Laurent mention sorry. No pronouns or body descriptions are used for reader.
A/N: I hope you all enjoy this! It's just fluffy blainrot because the endo/post-lap hasn't been great. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and appreciated! 🫶
Tagging: @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction
Steven Grant
Steven researches endometriosis, PCOS, adenomyosis and period pains. He learns about all of the different types of treatment plans. He learns about dietary changes that can help with inflammation and that other people diagnosed with these conditions have said have helped him. He goes down a rabbit hole of different PCOS recipes and dietary lifestyles, Steven ends up knowing of more PCOS blogs on every platform than you do by the end of that fixation.
He’s so sweet, there’s been many days where you’ve come home at the end of the day and been greeted with an endearing “Love, I found this new recipe, I thought we could try it for dinner? It has the PCOS and the vegan stamps of approval!”
Steven is also a great listener, it’s easy to tell him about how long it took to get a diagnosis, how much doctors don’t seem to care and are keen to dismiss you, to tell you birth control is your only pain management option or that you’re anxious and it’s all in your head. He’s horrified by this, he never judges or condescends and talking to him is always validating.
During your periods, he’ll happily cuddle up with you and attentively watch all your comfort shows and films, especially the guilty pleasure ones. He loves it. Steven finds good books and podcasts for you on the days of your period when you just want to stay in bed. He’ll read to you as a distraction, you find it cute, especially when it’s a mythology or historical book, his passion and excitement drips through more when he reads those books to you. He’s a sweetheart that’s always there for you.
Abel Morales
Abel will have every appointment of yours in his calendar, written in pen, he attends with you for support and as an extra voice to advocate on your behalf. Which he absolutely does. He has no issue speaking up if doctors are ever dismissive, especially when you’re met with a cold one. He’s spent his whole life trying to be taken seriously and to perfect his image. He knows how to use his eloquent words and charming people skills to get a doctor to do their job better and for you to have better healthcare. You both know that having him, a man in the room, makes it much easier for you and your pain to be taken seriously.
In the evenings during flare ups, Abel sits in bed and quietly holds you. He’ll press gentle and loving kisses to your forehead and the top of your head and rub your back in slow circles while you nap or are curled up on him in pain. He hates seeing you in pain but he knows being there is important for you and it’s also important for him as a partner. It never gets easier for him to see you in pain though but Abel will never complain about getting to spend more time cuddling you so tightly.
Nathan Bateman
When you first start dating you tell him you have endometriosis, it’s something that’ll come up eventually for any relationship that goes anywhere, even a casual one. You think it’s better to rip the band-aid off sooner than later. Nathan takes it in casually, like you’ve just told him what your favourite condiment is. It surprises you to say the least.
Nathan spends the next day scouring through numerous medical journals in order to become a human encyclopaedia on endometriosis and everything relating to the uterus and other reproductive conditions. If you’ve been medically cleared safe for a TENS machine, he doesn’t even spend a full afternoon building you one and it is the best one you’ve ever used, it becomes a regular essential in your pain management kit.
The highest ranking and most expensive medical practitioners in the field are flown out to the compound for every symptom and condition. The top pelvic physiotherapists come out, the gynaecologists. You want a dietician to try a diet to help with inflammation and bloating? They’re already on a helicopter. You want to try acupuncture? Again, they’re already on a helicopter. A massage therapist? Again, they’re already on a helicopter to the compound before you can even finish that request. There’s a room in the compound that he had modelled for you and these appointments to essentially be the fanciest hospital room you’ve ever been in. Nathan has no issue throwing money and technological innovations at any issues your uterus might give you, it’s a way of showing he cares, he’s arrogant and he can be infuriating but he loves you and will use his brain and bank account to prove it.
Jake Lockley
Whenever you have a negative experience with a doctor he happily offers to go down and take out that practitioner, sometimes he’ll make a scalpel joke even though he prefers a gun as a weapon. You’re not always sure if he’sjoking or not… Maybe it’s better to not know, plausible deniability and all.
He absolutely pampers you, every time you have a period, whenever there’s a cramp. Jake pampers you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, which is what you are to him. He makes you hot tea, soups, runs baths, puts on your favourite and comfort films. Jake offers to do things like brushing your hair for you and loves it. Jake pampers you! PAMPERS YOU!
Laurent LeClaire
Don’t. Just don’t. Sure, he’d be cute the first time you had your period and he’d happily offer period sex as a method of relief. But after the second period or flareup he’d attempt to gaslight you and say your symptoms or your pain being psychological. Then Jake Lockley would find a way to teach him a lesson.
Santiago Garcia
Santi’s long career has made him a master in observation and strategy, Santiago seemed to have a better understanding of your body than any period tracking app you’d tried to use, and not in a Tom Wamsgams baby-trap kind of way. More of a he was better at recognising the patterns, symptoms and remembering details than you were. Especially when the pain gave you brain fog. He picks up on the slightest details and after the first couple of months of dating you, he had a fine eye for pain. Whenever he spots the start of a flare up or painful period he goes straight into that mode, he checks in with you about pain meds, he gets heating pads ready for you and cuddles up with you on the couch or in bed while you curl yourself around one, runs baths and showers.
He has a plan in place for everything; when pain or a symptom is at a dreaded emergency department trip, when pain is flaring up. There’s a plan made for each appointment with symptoms that have been flaring up, objectives of what to get out of the appointment. Santiago learns what your boundaries and limits are, he’s big on pacing with you and not pushing yourself to do more than what you can handle or what will push you too far and lead to following pain days. He really encourages this for you, something he doesn’t do so well for himself and his knees.
Whenever Santi tags along with you to an appointment he’s great at asking follow up questions, especially if a doctor is being a dick. Sometimes it can feel overwhelming when you’re in appointments, especially when a doctor is talking, it’s easy to forget what’s been said as soon as you get home. Santiago always remembers every word that’s been said if you ever forget or want to double check. He’s an extremely practical partner and strong support.
Basil Stitt
Basil will have a panic attack, he’ll quickly google ‘period symptoms’, he doesn’t remember if people get cravings on their periods too or if that’s just pregnancy, or is it neither? Just something else he’s thinking of? No, he’s overthinking it.
During said panic attack, Basil will then do an uber eats order with several different types of chocolate and he’ll run to the kitchen to see what teas he has as Google mentioned peppermint tea several times. After checking the kitchen and making a mess in the cupboard and on the countertop during his search, he’ll order another box of it anyway just to be safe. Basil also is the guy who orders three different boxes of pads and tampons because he’s not sure what you prefer and he wants you to have options. Insert ‘What’s your pussy size, babe?’ meme, that’s Basil.
All anxiety evaporates from his body when you just want to cuddle on the couch with him, watch some weird movies and order pizza and drink tea. He smiles and completely lights up when you tell him you like the flavour of the chocolate he ordered.
Going forward there’s a cupboard under the basin in his bathroom filled with various boxes of pads, tampons, and he eventually gets to the stage where he confidently has your period orders down and preferences of products. He’s quietly but goofily proud of the fact that he now knows your pussy size.
Anselm Vogelweide
Anselm completely understands chronic pain from his own lived experience. You never have to apologise for a bad pain day, cancelling plans because your uterus is trying to kill you, when you need to spend all day in bed or in the bath to try and relieve pain and bloating. He completely gets that, he makes sure you have the softest and freshest pillows and blankets, bubbles, epsom salts, bath bombs etc. Whatever you could wish for to make you more comfortable. You no longer feel guilty for the things you used to before relating to having a chronic illness and terrible periods. You’re understood, seen but also pampered beyond what’s comprehensible.
Anselm immediately finds a team of the best professionals, new studies and treatments, both conventional and experimental, are quickly and quietly funded and greenlit. He offers you a world of treatment options you’d never considered or knew existed. Anselm always has his estate stocked with pain medication, all the drugs, drugs you’ve never heard of, drugs a normal prescription definitely wouldn’t get you. There’s medications and all the different options of treatment and pain management you could imagine available at the estate, hydrotherapy pools, massage chairs, massage therapists, sensory relaxation rooms, saunas, staff are there to cook all your favourite and comfort meals. Are you in pain and sad and needing cuddles with animals? Don’t worry, Anselm has a room being turned into a barn and a third cousin twice removed bringing a petting zoo over for any cuteness needs you might have. They should be there in five minutes.
And if there somehow isn’t something there that you want, don’t worry, you just need to ask if he doesn’t read your mind first and then it’ll be moments away because Anselm can afford anything and everything and he always knows a guy.
Marc Spector
Marc knew periods weren’t a walk in the park and were uncomfortable but it wasn’t until dating you and being around somebody with endometriosis and chronic physical pain did he realise how bad it could be.
The first time you had an endo flare up, it had really woken him up to that reality. He couldn’t help but grimace at seeing how you transformed from your usual self to being hurled over in pain. It freaked him out and his mind had panicked over the thought of this being your reality multiple times a year. It never gets easier for him to see you in pain or discomfort but he starts to find it easier to respond and be more present during flare ups.
He’s extremely observant, especially when it comes to you. He quickly learns how your facial expressions shift when you have a migraine, he closes all the curtains and turns the lights off. When you curl over on yourself in pain he’s there with a heat pad within minutes. When you screw your face up and say you’re nauseous he’s immediately there with a bucket on the side of the bed. During one of your worst flares when you’d been throwing up, he hadn’t even complained once. He’d helped you feel clean afterwards, there were no comments that made you feel bad and he cleaned the bucket out so it wasn’t something you’d have to worry about. Marc found it much easier to show up and do these acts than to be the verbally reassuring type, he shows up and these acts of service and care make you feel supported, loved and cared for.
Cecil Dennis
“Babe, do you wanna get high?”
“I read about cannabis and chronic pain, there’s honestly so many articles on the internet about it.”
Gets just as upset as you do when you're in pain, quite possibly cries more than you do whenever a flare up is happening. He'll watch films with you and he buys a CBD ointment and offers to rub it on your abdomen while you’re cuddled up in bed.
Description: Steven Grant asks you for help. (4.8K~ words) *Reader has superpowers/ "mutant" powers related to sleep and dream manipulation. This is part 3 of a series: 1: Sleep Well 2: Interlude
Warnings: Discussion of sleep issues / insomnia and treatment, coping. Swearing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~💤🌕💤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“What the fuck?” You swear quietly under your breath as you look at the man standing in front of your door. What the hell is Marc doing here right now? You have a very strict call or text first policy, which he is very aware of after the last time he didn't follow it. You pull the door open quickly, intending to chew him out for breach of social contract.
“I'm soooooo sorry that I'm late!” Marc says… in a British accent.
That shocks you into silence, your scolding words sticking in your throat. What the hell is going on? Is he in some kind of trouble and faking an accent to alert you that he can't speak freely? You nod once. “I’m expecting someone any minute now.”
His face falls. (When did Marc get so expressive, anyway?) “Oh god, I'm sorry! You probably have other appointments. If I'm too late for my time, I can reschedule."
Your eyes open wide with surprise. “Steven?” You ask hesitantly.
He adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “Sorry, yeah, I-I'm Steven,” he says, holding out his hand to you with a nervous smile. "Steven Grant."
You take his hand and shake it. “Steven. Right. You're not too late,” you say, forcing a small smile. “You…sounded different over the phone. Please, come in.”
You back up and wait for him to step inside before shutting the door behind him and locking it. Your palm rests on the door for a moment as you think. Why would Marc make a separate appointment with you under a different name and pretend not to know you? You take a deep breath to try to calm your racing heart before turning around and clasping your hands together. “Steven” stands awkwardly in your entryway, looking around curiously. One hand clutches the edge of a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. You've never seen Marc wear a patterned shirt or loafers.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” you ask. “Tea, coffee, juice?”
He spins around to face you when you speak. “Tea would be lovely,” he says with a grin. His fingers fiddle with his sleeves as you lead him to the kitchen.
“You can sit at the bar for now,” you say, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard.
“Thanks,” he says, sliding onto one of the barstools.
Not the same seat Marc always uses.
You set the tea options down in front of him. “Pick whichever you like. I have honey, sugar, and pretty much anything else you might want to go in it.”
His eyes go wide at the choices. “You've got at least a dozen different teas here! Do you work in a shop or something?”
A small smile lights your face from his excited tone. “No, I just like to make sure that my clients feel at home when they are here.”
He flips through the choices. "Hibiscus. Did you know that the pharaohs drank hibiscus tea? They didn't call it that, of course…"
Maybe he really isn't Marc; you can't imagine Marc getting this excited about tea. They could be twins…but with different accents? Although some people do pick them up if they live in a different place for a long time…
Marc Steven hands you his tea selection, breaking you out of your thoughts. "Are you interested in ancient Egypt?" you ask.
Steven's eyes go wide with excitement. "Yeah, yeah! I actually work in a museum. Well, it's just the gift shop, you know, but I'd love to be a tour guide one day."
The kettle is still hot, so it doesn't take long to prepare two cups. "Sounds interesting. So it's day shift, then? Do you work any other jobs?" You set his cup down in front of him carefully, then pull out your collection of add-ins.
"Oh, no, just the one. I don't know how I would get on with a second job. Honestly, I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep this one, what with the sleep problems and being late all the time. But my flat is my mum's, so I don't have to pay for it," he explains as he stirs his drink. He keeps shifting on the seat, hunching over then sitting up straighter when he catches you looking at him.
“Do you mind if we move to the next room? We might be talking for a while, and the seats in there are more comfortable,” you offer.
Steven nods, looking relieved. You lead the way to the sofa and sit in your favorite spot, while Steven settles in a plush chair across from you. His eyes track your hands when you pick up a notebook and pen.
“You told me some of your concerns when we spoke on the phone,” you begin. “I would like to ask you more questions and take notes, if that's alright with you.”
Steven nods rapidly, jostling a lock of hair into his face. “Of course, that's fine.”
“I don't keep electronic records, just one notebook, no name or other identifiable information about you. If you decide not to continue working with me, I'll send it home with you," you explain.
“You're quite organized,” he says brightly, sipping his tea.
“Thanks; I try to be." You shift in your seat, sitting up a little straighter for Question Time. “We got through most of the standard medical stuff over the phone. You said you live alone, right?"
"Yep, just me and my goldfish, Gus," he confirms.
"Have you been evaluated professionally for sleep disorders before?”
Steven sets his tea down and folds his hands together in his lap. “No, never; you're the first stop."
You pause and shift forward on the sofa. “How did you find me?” You ask curiously. “Who recommended me?”
“Uh, no one, actually. I…found your card in a book I bought last week. Not sure how it got there." Steven sounds almost apologetic.
You nod to show that you're listening, but you're completely perplexed by this whole situation. Most of your referrals come from local doctors or other clients, except for Marc (who never really explained how he found you). Did Marc somehow give him the card?
“Do you have a brother, Steven?” You blurt out.
His brow furrows with confusion at the oddly-specific question.
“Sleep troubles can have genetic components,” you say quickly to cover it. “Does anyone in your immediate family have symptoms like yours?”
“Not that I know of. My parents don't, and I'm an only child.”
“What about cousins?”
Steven shakes his head slowly. “No, no cousins.”
You take a sip of your drink and collect your thoughts. Maybe Steven and Marc aren't related; maybe they're doppelgangers. They do look a little different, especially with the hair; they have completely different mannerisms, too. Steven seems even more tired than Marc, if that's possible.
“Over the phone, you mentioned insomnia," you prompt.
Steven nods and begins to speak quickly, hands moving as fast as his thoughts. “When I read about it online, it seems to line up with some of what I'm experiencing, and there's also excessive daytime sleepiness, so I took the survey for that-”
You hold up your hand to stop him, and his face falls as if he's done something wrong. You smile reassuringly. “It’s good that you've done your research, Steven; let me clarify what I'm asking.” you say gently.
Steven brightens immediately. He sits up a little straighter and watches you attentively.
“Why are you so tired, Steven?” you ask in a tone of friendly concern.
Steven tugs at his jacket sleeves nervously. He's clearly thinking about how much he should say. He takes a deep breath in and speaks in a quiet voice, “Well I’m not getting much actual sleep, and the sleep I do get isn't very good. I'm… I'm afraid to go to sleep most nights."
You nod and hum sympathetically, but you don't say anything yet, giving him space to talk.
“I think I'm sleepwalking, and I'm worried about what I might do. I put tape on the doorframe before bed, so that I'll know if I've left my flat. Sand around my bed. And…” He clears his throat and folds his hands together in his lap, then looks down at his fingers. “...I bought a restraint, a medical one with straps on it, tethered it to a beam by my bed.”
Steven's voice goes very low as his cheeks blush. “I put that around my ankle before bed… wear it all night.”
You nod slowly. “That's a creative solution.”
Steven looks back up, eyes wide with surprise. “Do you really think so?” His voice is hopeful.
“Yes, I do,” you say with an encouraging nod and smile. "There's not really any wrong way to get sleep, if you're not hurting anyone. I've had clients find all sorts of weird tricks to help them sleep."
Steven relaxes a little, letting his shoulders fall back from where he had folded in on himself.
“Do you think it's helping?” you ask carefully.
“I'm…not sure,” he admits. “I haven't woken up anywhere weird lately, but I'm still exhausted. I still fall asleep standing up on the bus.”
Steven pauses, flexing his fingers together. “Do you think…you can help me?” he asks.
Steven's eyes lock onto yours across the small space; he looks so vulnerable, so much like Marc when he first came to you for help. You grip your own hands together tightly in your lap to keep from moving closer and running a soothing hand through his hair. This is Steven, not Marc. He just met you today, and he may not find the same actions comforting, anyway.
“Yes, Steven, I believe that I can help.” You give him a warm smile. "I'll certainly try, anyway."
Steven smiles back immediately, and the beauty of it stalls your thoughts. It's so purely happy; all of his relief and hope shows so clearly on his face. Have you ever seen Marc smile like that? Never, not even when you've helped him into a deep sleep. Your heart twists with the melancholy thought, and it's enough to bring you back to the present moment.
“The next step is to find out exactly what’s happening to you when you're asleep. We should start with a sleep study here, in my home. Based on that we can plan and test out adjustments, so that you can sleep better on your own. Does that sound alright?”
Steven nods quickly. “Yeah, absolutely!” He rubs his palms on his pants. “I'm a bit concerned about sleeping here, though. I don't want to go sleepwalking and cause you any trouble.”
You shake your head. “You won't, Steven. I've handled many, many instances of sleepwalking.” You open your phone to check your schedule. “I could do it tonight or in three days.”
“Tonight?” Steven echoes with surprise. “Hang on, don't I need to…pay you or…” he trails off.
Money, right. You were so distracted by the Marc question and Steven’s situation that you forgot. You scribble a number on a blank page before handing the notebook over to Steven. “This is my rate for all-night sessions, to sleep here and have me monitor you. I have several clients who come in a few times a month for that; it's like a hard reset for them, especially with insomnia.”
Steven is quiet as he stares at the number with a solemn expression, as if he's doing the math in his head and coming up short.
“I wouldn't charge you for the initial study,” you explain quickly, “just if you need ongoing services.”
Steven looks up sharply from the paper when you speak, then looks back down with a frown. “I'm pretty sure I will need ongoing services,” he says quietly.
You don't exactly need his money, but any night with a new client here is a night you can't take on anyone else, even in the other rooms. It's not safe to have your ability and attention divided like that, at least until you know what you're dealing with. “If the cost is a concern,” you say slowly, “then maybe you would be willing to help me test a new service I want to offer?” You raise one eyebrow.
Steven looks up again, this time with curiosity in his expression.
“After the study, instead of you coming here to sleep, I would offer you over-the-phone support. We’ll start with nightly calls, then we can work down from there. I need a trial run to see if it works and how much time I should budget, but if successful, I can help more clients at a time and charge less. Since you would be helping me test it, I wouldn't charge you.”
Steven nods and sits forward. “I could take notes for you on my end! It would be like a real scientific study!” His voice rises at the end, face lighting up with excitement. “Oh, well not a real one exactly, since one person is a terrible sample size-” He stops himself suddenly, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck.
You can't help but laugh gently at his exuberance. He's talking about this like it's going to be fun. Maybe with Steven, it will be fun. “I bet you take very detailed notes, Steven,” you say warmly. You check your watch. “Can you start tonight, then? I have everything you’ll need to sleep here.”
Steven’s eyebrows scrunch together as he considers. “Yeah, I can start tonight. I'll have to go home early enough tomorrow to feed my goldfish before work.”
You wave your hand. “That's no problem. I want to observe at least five hours of sleep on the first run, so we have plenty of time if we start now.” You tap away on your phone, then hold it out to him. “Enter the time that you normally wake up for work, and I'll take care of the rest.”
Steven tentatively takes your phone and enters a time on the alarm, then hands it back.
You stand up and walk towards the kitchen. “Have you eaten?” you ask over your shoulder.
“Yeah, a few hours ago,” he says as he follows you.
“You should get a snack before bed. What do you like?” you ask, reaching for the fridge door.
Steven stands at the bar and pulls at his sleeves. “Oh, you don't have to do that. I'm actually vegan, so I'm not expecting that you would have anything -”
You grin at his words and pull out a container of veggies and vegan hummus.
Steven's eyes go wide as you set it out for him.
“I have another client who is vegetarian,” you explain with a grin. “But feel free to keep underestimating my hospitality, Mr. Grant. Your surprise is satisfying," you tease.
He looks a little flustered. "Mister Grant? Not sure how I feel about that; most people just call me Steven, if they even get my name right."
You grab a snack from the tray and open your notebook on the counter. "Ok, walk me through your typical evening routine. You finish work, then what?"
"If the weather is nice, I have dinner with a friend on my way home. Once I'm there, I get changed, even out the sand around my bed, then put all the locks on the door and reset the tape." He pauses to take a bite of a veggie stick. "Then I try to stay awake as long as possible."
"What do you do, specifically?"
"Read books, mostly. I started listening to this podcast called 'Staying Awake'; they've got tips and tricks for things to try, like puzzles."
"What about when you're trying to go to sleep? Do you listen to music or ambient sounds?"
"A bit, if it's too quiet. I'm used to certain sounds, living in the city." Steven pauses. “Is it alright if we stop, for now? I usually call my mum around this time, before bed.”
You hesitate for a moment, surprised. Marc never mentioned any of his family, and certainly never anyone he was close enough to talk to every day. But this isn't Marc. “Of course, Steven. You can go outside if you want some privacy," you offer.
Steven flashes you a quick smile and walks towards your living room.
You're not eavesdropping. You're not.
“Hey Mum, it's me. Just calling to tell you goodnight! I'm staying at a friend's place tonight. They invited me over for drinks, but it's going a bit late, so I'm crashing with them, just to be safe. I'll call you in the morning. Laters, gators!”
Steven turns back around, and you have to pretend to be busy with your notebook. You look up when he stands at the counter.
“Left her a voicemail,” Steven says. “She screens her calls.”
You nod your understanding. “Ready for bed?” You ask brightly.
Steven nods. "You said you had some clothes I could borrow?"
You put away the food, then lead him down the hall to a closet. As you pull out sweatpants and a t-shirt, you try not to think about the fact that these are the same clothes you keep on hand for Marc. "You can change in the bathroom," you suggest as you hand Steven the neatly-folded bundle.
Steven takes it and holds up the shirt to himself. “How did you know my size?”
“I guessed that you were close to another client of mine,” you lie smoothly. "Meet me in that bedroom when you're done, ok?" You point to a closed door nearby.
Steven bobs his head in agreement before disappearing into the bathroom.
You stand in the hallway for a moment before taking a deep breath and pushing away your confusing thoughts. You need to stay focused. This is a new client, and however strange it is that he looks just like Marc, you know that Steven needs your help.
You open the door to the bedroom and step inside. Marc isn't the only client who uses this room, but you've already changed the sheets after the last visit.
Steven appears in the doorway while you're turning the covers down. He rubs his hands together nervously as he watches you.
"Come in, Steven," you urge him.
"Yeah, alright. I just…lie down, then?" he asks as he approaches the bed.
"Why don't you sit first, so we can discuss what you want," you suggest, pulling a chair closer to the bed.
Steven tentatively comes to sit on the bed in front of you.
"I usually leave a small light on, but if you prefer total darkness, I'll turn it off."
"No, the small light is fine," Steven says quickly.
You nod. "Do you want a fan or some music on?"
"I think I'll be alright," he says.
"Ok. I don't need to watch you the whole time, but I do need to be able to hear you. Some people feel safer if I stay in the room with them. If you prefer to be alone, I can leave the door open and come check on you periodically."
“It might feel a little weird to have someone just sitting in the room with me,” Steven admits. “Like I'm a little kid." He fidgets with his hands.
You reach behind you and open a drawer. Steven watches you with curiosity as you pull out a dragon plushie and a flexible fidget toy and hold them both out to him. "In case you need something to hold onto," you explain.
Steven accepts both items with a small frown. "Isn't it a bit silly to use a soft toy at bedtime?"
"Why would it be silly if it helps?" You counter. "I love having soft things in my bed!"
His eyes go wide. "Oh, I didn't mean to imply that you were silly-" He stops as you shift closer to him with your chair.
"Steven…you're really nervous, aren't you?" You ask gently.
He swallows hard and starts to bounce his leg. "A bit."
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," you assure him. "You're just going to sleep."
He shakes his head. "Yeah, but it's not really up to you, is it?" He taps his forehead with one finger. "It's all whatever happens in here."
Shoot, of course, he doesn't know about your abilities. "That's true. What do you think happens in there, in your mind?"
"I don't know. I really don't," he says softly.
You watch his serious expression, the way his face shows the dark path of his thoughts. "Why don't you go ahead and get comfortable? I'll stay until you're asleep, then I'll be awake in the living room if you need anything."
Steven shifts to lie down, pulling the blankets over himself and wriggling until he's comfortable.
You hold out a hand. "Can I try a hand massage? Many of my clients find it helpful."
Steven nods and holds out his hand to you. You take it and gently work along each of his fingers, pressing some of your power into his mind slowly at the same time. "You said you read to stay awake. What have you been reading about lately?"
That gets you a lengthy speech from Steven about farming practices along the Nile River, until he finally succumbs to your abilities and falls into a deep sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~💤🌕💤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first nothing seems strange about Steven's sleep. You can sense as he falls in and out of dreams. After a few hours, your abilities alert you that he's waking up. You walk into the bedroom to see Steven sitting up against the headboard, but he greets you in a familiar American accent.
“Marc?” You question in surprise.
“What time is it? How long was I out?” Steven says in Marc’s voice.
Something about the way he sits on the bed confirms in your mind that this is Marc, now. What if he doesn't know that he's acting like two different people? “Marc,” you begin carefully, “do you remember getting here last night?”
His face falls. “Shit, did I forget to call again?”
You swallow nervously. “No, you called, but you didn't seem like yourself when you got here. You had a lot of questions… like you hadn't really been here before. Almost like you were someone else.” You watch his face intently.
Marc’s expression goes cold and serious as he masks his emotions. His whole body tenses. “Sorry, I don't remember that. I must have been really tired,” he mumbles, looking at the wall.
He's obviously lying, which means he knows something about what's happening, so you don't have to tiptoe around it.
“You said your name was Steven Grant. Know anything about that?” you ask as anger creeps into your tone.
Marc shakes his head slightly; he still won't meet your eyes. He's breathing quickly and gripping the blanket like a lifeline, just like he used to after a nightmare-
Damn, of course! He's scared. Whatever is going on, Marc is terrified to tell you. Some of your anger ebbs away with that realization; you deliberately relax a little in the chair, opening your shoulders and placing your palms on your knees.
Marc is stubborn, sure, and sometimes challenging him directly works, but you know it won't right now. If you push him to a point where he has to choose, he will shut down or run, taking all of the answers for you, and for Steven, with him.
So you don't yell. You don't demand answers. You don't threaten to never help him again if he lies to you. It takes every ounce of your patience, but you wait for him to explain. You stay silent as the minutes tick by. Just when you think you're going to explode from the suspense, Marc throws back the blanket and shifts to sit on the side of the bed. He rubs his hands over his face, through his hair, then he sighs.
“Can I use your phone?” he asks quietly.
You unlock it and hand it to him silently. Marc taps away at the screen before handing it back to you; there's an article from a medical journal pulled up.
“Dissociative Identity Disorder,” you read out loud from the title. You glance up from the article to meet Marc’s dark gaze.
“Read it, please,” he says quietly.
As you start to read, you notice Marc stand up and pace from the bed to the wall and back. You skim the article quickly, then take a deep breath. Marc stops pacing and stands a few steps away, watching you with his hands on his hips.
“This is what you have?” you ask cautiously. “Steven is…”
“An alter.” Marc finishes your thought. “Look, it's not like the movies-”
“Most things aren't,” you mutter.
“-Steven and I have separate lives, for the most part. I need to keep it that way.”
“He doesn't know?” you ask. The hesitant look on Marc’s face confirms it. You close your eyes. “Right, so all the times he thinks he was sleepwalking, it was you taking over.”
Marc looks down at the floor and crosses his arms over his chest. He nods without looking at you.
“Did you send him here on purpose? He found one of my cards-”
Marc’s eyes go wide as he steps forward and grabs your hand. “No!” He shakes his head frantically. “That was an accident! I didn't want to mix you up in this at all.”
You look down at his hand on yours. “How do you want to do this, then? I can help explain it to him-”
“No, no no no!” Marc grabs your shoulders, pulling your gaze up to his face. His dark eyes look wild, like a trapped animal, and his expression is grim. “You can't explain it; you can't tell him anything, ever, understand?” He shakes you a little as he speaks.
Your heart races at the contact and his intensity, but you don't back away from him. “I'm not going to lie to him, Marc,” you say firmly.
Marc pulls away from you and turns towards the wall, growling in frustration. His fingers clench into fists at his side. "It's only going to hurt him if you tell him. He won't be able to handle it," he tries to reason.
“He won't be able to or you won't?” you ask.
Marc scowls. “There are things in my life, very bad things, that he shouldn't be involved with."
“But why do you get to decide that? Steven is his own person! He has separate dreams; I felt it.”
“Because I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy!" He snarls. "I definitely don't want Steven to deal with all that." Marc shakes his head and continues in a low, barely-controlled voice. “If you can't keep it from him, I'll disappear. I'll figure out a way to make him move to another country; I've done it before,” he says ominously.
There is more that Marc isn't telling you about all this. It's right on the edge of your brain, some kind of overlap in their dreams, but it keeps shifting away, scattering like sand in the wind every time you get close. You've always known that Marc was holding back most of his personal life, but it didn't bother you before. You take great care not to push into your clients' personal lives anymore than you have to; it makes it easier to keep them out of yours. Marc never even questioned your abilities, appearing to accept them as a convenient reality.
You intentionally relax again and soften your voice. "You don't need to run, Marc; I'm still going to help you." You stand up slowly and hold out a hand to him. Marc watches you warily as he reluctantly give you his hand. You take a deep breath, silently prompting him to do the same. "I know there's more that you aren't telling me; maybe you can't."
Marc tenses, hand flexing in your grip. You trace his fingers gently, trying to keep him grounded.
"You didn't intend for this to happen, but Steven is now my client, just as you are," you continue. "I won't tell him, for now, as long as you are both safe. If that part changes…"
Marc lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. His shoulders sag with relief. "Thank you," he breathes.
You wait for him to open his eyes and look at you again. "You're welcome." Your fingers continue tracing over his hand. "Now, can I help you get back to sleep? I don't want you to ruin my reputation with Steven on day one," you tease him with a light smirk.
Marc's answering smile is so genuine that for a brief moment you expect Steven's voice to answer you.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Marc assures you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~💤🌕💤~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tag List: @have-you-seen-my-sanity @ierofrnkk @mylittledelulucorner @quiet-night-sky-writers-blog @moonknightly @iolaussharpe-24 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction
contents/warnings: breeding kink, lactation kink, biting kink, consensual somnophilia, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), edging, teasing, masturbation (m.), knife play, fire play, use of sex toys, pegging, lmk if i missed one!
a/n: X is skipped on purpose!
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Very, very sleepy. Will cling onto you as he sleeps.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
His favorite body part are his hands. They help him dissect anything he wants, and can also use them to please you. His favorite body part for you are your lips. Loves the feeling of them running all over his body, loves hearing the sounds that he hears from them. He gets shivers thinking about it.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Prefers to always cum inside of you, in whatever hole his dick is in. When he’s fucking your throat, he’ll sometimes pull out and let it splatter all over your face and chest.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Has a separate journal that’s just about you, including multiple drawings, both clothed and nude. It has everything you like and dislike, and the various ways he fantasizes about you.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Experienced in the sense that he’s read everything about sex. Besides that, he’s not that experienced, but still knows what he’s doing and how to pleasure you.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Missionary. He loves seeing all of your facial expressions and then folding you in half when he’s close. All of his moans and whimpers spill right next to your ears.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He’s serious. Very rarely will you see him be giggling and laughing. Doesn’t mean he’s not having a great time, he’s just extremely focused.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Maybe a small trim once in a while, but besides that, he just lets it be wild.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Very intimate most of the time. He makes sure to worship you, takes his time to make sure you’re enjoying every aspect.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Jacks off in his lab when he's reaaally desperate and you’re not around. This happens frequently.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Lactation kink (cmon this one is SO obvious), breeding kink, somnophilia (consensual), biting kink. He definitely likes biting, whether it’s hard or soft, expect bite marks all over you. He likes being bitten as well! Don’t be afraid to sink your teeth into that smooth skin of his. Also likes being tied up/tying others up.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
In his room on his bed or in the tub. On occasion, he lets you give him head under the desk while he’s writing things down. Also on his operating table, but only if it’s mostly clean.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Teasing him. Tying yourself up and putting yourself on display for him. He’ll resist if he’s busy, but gives in sooner or later.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Sex with others. He’s possessive and wants you all to himself. If you dare suggest it to him, you’ll be tied to the bed for a week (whether it’s literally or figuratively is up to you).
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Prefers receiving (especially when you’re under his desk), but he loves giving head. Loves eating you out as you sit on his face, or sitting on his table, interrupting his note taking.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Usually slow and steady, but will go at whatever pace you ask him to.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Doesn’t like quickies that much. He prefers to take his time.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
This is Victor Frankenstein we’re talking about. Of course he experiments in the bedroom. Whatever you want, he’s up for it. Whether it’s something like knife play or fire play, he’ll try it out with you.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Two or three rounds most of the time, four if he tries hard enough to stay awake. If you still want more, he doesn’t mind if you do it while he’s asleep.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Has a lot of them, and he uses them all on you. Seeing how you react to them, what you like and don’t like. Butt plugs, dildos, vibrators, everything you can imagine. You can use them on him too, best believe he has a strap stored.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
He’s not the one doing the teasing most of the time, you are. He protests, but he likes it. Make him fall to his knees! He does enjoy edging you a lot as well.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Loud. Mostly whimpering noises and groans. Will sometimes stay silent if you’re teasing him too much about it, but will ultimately end up making the same noises in the end.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He’s a power bottom. My evidence? Just look at him.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Not very high. Sometimes you’ll go weeks barely seeing him, as he’s always cooped up in the lab. But if you bring up how long it’s been, he’ll have you right then and there.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Stays up at most three minutes afterwards, after that, he’s dead asleep.
Cecil likes belly rubs, at all moments of the day.
contents/warnings: fluff
a/n: this dude is like the epitome of a puppy. so obviously, he’s gonna love belly rubs
w/c: 417
It first started when you were both on the couch, watching some random movie.
Cecil was laying on his back, practically laying on top of you. You mindlessly moved your hand up and down his belly. Once you moved your hand to get something, he grabbed it and put it back.
“Keep doing that, it feels good.”
He looked sleepy, with a sloppy grin on his face. When you keep rubbing his belly, he falls asleep, and starts snoring shortly after.
Then, according to him, rubbing his belly to sleep is the only way he can fall asleep properly.
You two were in your bed, calming down after a very intense “workout” session. Cecil kept turning and moving around, which made it hard for you to fall asleep.
“Please babe, you can stop when I fall asleep. It’ll only be a few minutes.” He turns you around gently, and gives you his annoying puppy eyes. If only he didn’t have those big brown eyes, maybe you would have more willpower.
You roll your eyes. “Fine. If it’ll get you to stop turning around so much.”
He smiles from ear to ear and closes his eyes once your hand is on his belly. Like every time you do this, he falls asleep almost instantly.
Today, he’s washing the dishes (against his will), giving you a pouty look.
“You know what would make this better?”
You look up from your phone and raise an eyebrow. Cecil has a grin on his face. You can practically see his imaginary tail wagging back and forth.
“If you were behind me….. rubbing my belly. I wouldn’t be so pouty like you just told me.”
You groan, and put your phone on the counter and get behind him. You hug him from behind, putting your hands on his soft belly. He starts washing the dishes extra slowly, trying to make this last as long as possible. He starts to doze off a little, the sponge falling from his hand.
“Do not fall asleep. If you break a plate, you’re buying me a new one.” You pinch him, and he jumps and nods, going back to washing the plates.
With his love of belly rubs, you can get him to do practically anything if you even imply that you’re going to stop giving him belly rubs. Hell, you can probably get him to stop smoking if you tell him you’ll stop. Not beer though, he loves that almost as much as he loves you.
Summary: It’s been 5 months. 5 months and one week since he left you for the final time.
That is, until he decides to show up at your front door, unannounced, at 2:14 am, covered in blood.
~~~
Knock, knock, knock.
You wake gently, but ignore the sound, pulling the covers over your head as a feeble attempt to somehow ignore whatever lunatic is assaulting your door at-
The sound comes again. Louder.
Knock, knock, knock.
You groan, reaching out to the bedside table to scramble for your phone in the dim light. 2:14 am. Who on earth is knocking at this time?
Sighing, you drag yourself upright and shove the covers away, the last dregs of sleep slipping away as you then shuffle towards the hallway. Halfway there, you catch a shadow beneath the door. It couldn’t be…
“Marc?” You whisper before you can stop yourself, rushing to the door.
A low groan sounds from the other side. “Yeah”, he rasps. “It’s me.”
Your breath catches, and you stand in the doorway, frozen. It’s been 5 months. 5 months and one week since he left you for the final time. Or what was meant to be the final time - the memory hits you like a brick.
“I never want to fucking see you again”, You’d screamed in his face, hands shoving helplessly at his chest in rage, whilst he barely moved an inch.
“Sweetheart-”
“Who is she?” You yelled, sobbing.
His brow furrowed, confused or at least pretending to be. “Who is who?”
You were so sick of it. Of him disappearing for weeks without telling you anything. He’s told you he has a difficult job - some kind of ‘sketchy top-secret business’ or whatnot. You’ve always believed him. Now you’re not so sure.
“You’re wife. Why else would you be leaving me for weeks on end? With no warning, no explanation, no text-”
“Jesus, I’m not fucking married.” He seethed, stepping back in disbelief. “You always think I’m lying-”
“Just go,” You had whispered, gaze dropping to the floor. “Just leave.”
“That's what you want?” His voice was low and gentle, completely unwavering. That was what hurt more than anything.
“Yes.”
“Okay then.” He turned and walked out without another word. And that was it.
A strangled cough from the other side of the door snaps you out of your memories, and before you can think again, you undo the chain and swing the door open, just to see Marc standing there, braced against the wall, covered in blood.
Your stomach drops, immediately forgetting every reason you have to be mad as panic rises up your throat. “Marc-”
“Before you freak out… I’m fine.” He lies, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. You could almost laugh at the statement, watching as he sways on your doorstep, face contorted in pain.
“You’re not fine,” you snap, alarm threading through your whisper. You grab his wrist and pull him inside, leading him to the couch. He follows with a wince, stumbling across the floor, jaw clenching in pain.
Once the door clicks shut, he slumps against the floor, panting. “Sorry,” he whispers, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t know where else to go.”
You drop to your knees immediately in front of him, hands shaking despite how desperately you’re trying to keep them steady. No matter how much you may hate this man sometimes, and no matter how much you don’t want to admit it, you still love him. Despite everything, you never stopped loving him.
“Marc, look at me.”
He doesn’t. His head stays angled toward the ground, breath coming harsh and uneven. “It looks worse than it is.” He mutters through gritted teeth.
Frustration courses through you. “Please don’t do this, Marc. Don’t shut me out. You’re obviously not fine.’ You plead, hand rising to his face, fingers gripping his jaw so he has to see you. His eyes are blown wide, pupils huge with pain and adrenaline.
He lets out a broken laugh. “I just don’t want you to worry” he says, voice barely there.
“Well, too late for that,” you whisper, brushing a streak of dried blood from his temple with your thumb. “Let me help you. Please.”
For a second, he just stares at you, breathing hard, chest heaving, before he slowly nods.
“…Okay..”
Swallowing, adjust yourself on the floor so that you’re kneeling to the side of him, assessing his injuries. “Can… Can I see?” You ask, gesturing to his torso where the majority of the blood is.
“You don’t have to—”
“Marc.” Your tone is pleading and anxious, leaving no room for argument. “It wasn’t really a question. You’re going to bleed out”
He hesitates, gaze glued to the floor and jaw tight. Then he gives a tiny nod, and you peel the ruined jacket off him inch by inch. Blood smears across your hands and stains the floor, but you don’t even notice. You’re too busy staring at the way his under-shirt is sticking to a deep gash along his ribs.
“Shit, Marc.” Your voice is shaky, and he straightens as if trying to prove he’s okay, but fails miserably, groaning deeply as he does so.
“Not my best look, huh?” He grins, lopsided.
You ignore the comment entirely, fingers already slipping under the hem of his shirt before a realisation comes to mind. ‘Did you walk here?’
He just shrugs and huffs a broken, humourless laugh. ‘Didn’t wanna bleed out in a cab.”
You shake your head in disbelief. “You could have called me.”
“You wouldn't have answered.” He states quietly, finally raising his gaze to meet yours again, with a sad smile.
It’s not true, but you don’t bother denying it. He could have called you at any time, and you would have dropped anything and everything at the chance to apologise. But he never did.
Biting back tears, you rip a piece of crusted fabric away from the corner of the wound, and he flinches hard, gritting his teeth.
“Marc,” you whisper, softening instantly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just— I need to get this off.”
You work slower this time, gentler, easing the fabric away until the destroyed white shirt drops to the floor beside you. Underneath, bruises bloom across his ribs and toned stomach in dark purpling shapes, and the open gash along his side is still seeping blood. It’s massive, stretching at least 8 inches long
Your throat tightens painfully, and even more tears begin to well.
He senses it without even looking at you. “Hey.” His voice is low and rough. “Don’t start crying. If you cry, I’m gonna feel worse.”
You let out a shaky breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob, as you reach for the first-aid kit under your coffee table. "This is going to sting,” you warn quietly, opening an antiseptic wipe. “Probably a lot.”
He just nods, watching your face carefully as you unpeel the white cloth with unsteady, blood-stained hands, trying to look anywhere but the wound in front of you.
Finally, you dab the cut, and Marc exhales sharply, throwing his head back against the wall with a hiss, muscles involuntarily tensing.
You recoil back, afraid to hurt him. “Sorry–” you begin to apologise, but he only interrupts, firmly shaking his head.
“I’m fine.” He lowly reassures through gritted teeth
“Repeating it for the third time doesn’t make it any more believable.” You reply softly, attempting to keep your hand steady over the gash as you pat at the corners lightly, slowly working your way in.
His eyes flick to yours, dark and raw in the dim light, and for a moment he says nothing. Eventually, you press the antiseptic at the centre of the wound, and he flinches sharply again. Your hands jerk slightly in response, trying to steady him, but in the sudden movement, his hand shoots out instinctively to land on your thigh.
Both of you freeze for a moment, and his eyes go wide as he realises what he’s done, scared he’s crossed a line. “Shit-” He begins, voice rough and slightly embarrassed, afraid he’d crossed a line. “I didn’t mean–”
You let out a breath. “No, no… It’s okay,” You manage, dipping your head to hide the heat spreading across your face. God, you missed him so much.
Before he can reply, you begin working at the wound again, concentrating on applying the least amount of pressure possible whilst still being effective. Slowly, it becomes less and less painful, but his hand still never leaves your thigh. His grip softens, but he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.
You swallow, trying not to let your voice shake. “You’re doing well,” you murmur, more to fill the silence than anything else.
Marc huffs, shaking his head grimly. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”
Firmly, you shake your head, finally lowering the wipe from his torso, choosing to press your hand to his chest instead. “Of course I do. I want to. What happened before doesn’t matter right now; what matters is you staying alive. Sit still.”
His jaw flexes, but he obeys, slowly brushing his thumb along the inside of your thigh absent-mindedly.
You clear your throat, trying to focus on wrapping the bandage around his torso slowly, as carefully as possible.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “I know. Almost done.”
Marc shakes his head. “You don’t have to be gentle, it’s okay.”
“Yes, I do,” you deadpan, guiding the bandage along the curve of his side.
Just as you finish tying the end of the gauze against his skin, his hand guides your chin, moving your face so it’s inches apart from his own. His eyes are tired and sunken, exhausted from pain and adrenaline, but still filled with emotion.
“I’m being serious.” His voice is low and raw, cracking with emotion. “I never should have come here, not after what I did.”
You inhale sharply at his mention of the past, hurt flooding back. “I-”
“I left because you told me to.” He cuts in quickly, confessing, “You said you wanted me to leave, and I thought… I guess I thought walking away was the one thing I could do right.”
His words hit you in the chest, and you forget to breathe, guilt overwhelming you. “That's never what I wanted”, tears fully flowing down your cheeks now, voice trembling. “I thought you’d come back like always.”
His hand rises to your cheek, brushing tears from your face as he shakes his head softly. “I didn’t think I deserved to come back. Not after how badly I hurt you.”
“Marc,” You sniff, closing the last inches between you, forehead touching his. “You leaving is the worst pain I’ve ever felt. You leaving forever… is torture.”
He swallows heavily, letting the words you’re saying sink in. You wanted him. He spent the last however many months hating himself for what he did and how it ended.
“Really?” He murmurs, staring at you as if afraid you’ll suddenly change your mind and kick him out again.
All it takes is a slight nod of your head, before his lips meet yours with a startling force - months of regret, guilt and loneliness poured into a single kiss. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as you melt into his arms, the first aid kit falling from your lap onto the floor.
When he finally pulls back, his breath stutters against your lips. You’ve never seen him this emotional. Usually he’s so reserved and closed off, but now…
“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, his voice breaking.
You shake your head, thumb brushing along the same jaw you’d thought you’d never touch again. Yes - the pain of him coming and going is horrible. But maybe it’s the price you have to pay.
“You didn’t lose me.” You murmur.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“Maybe not,” you tease softly, touching your forehead to his again, “but I’m choosing you anyway.”
Daryl x pregnant reader during negan era (he’s not kidnapped) he’s all protective over you and bites at the saviours when they make advances, he fights with Rick over him letting Negan take food making everyone go on rations. He makes sure to keep you near or make sure you’re resting.
Holding what's left - Daryl Dixon
pairing: husband!Daryl × reader
warnings/tropes: stablished relationship, pregnancy mentions, Savior era
word count: 1.9k
a/n: I hope i pictured a little bit of what you asked, I'm sorry it took this long 😭 I got really stuck writing the Rick and Daryl conflict but I think it turned out just fine, maybe the whole thing was just a little bit more angsty than I meant it to, but enjoy!
Daryl was always protective, it was just the kind of man he was. He'd never let anyone lay a finger on you, even before you were together, if you got a single scratch on a run he made a fuss that you "got that looked at" until you were well patched and medicated.
When you found out you were pregnant it was the best day of his life, but simultaneously the most concerning news he'd ever gotten. He was relieved that your daily sickness wasn't a matter of your health, but absolutely terrified and mesmerized at the same time that you'd have to raise a child together in those conditions.
Daryl made sure you had everything you needed, even with your limitations. The food was being rationed? He gave you his share. Without a blink. You felt back pain? He made sure that you lied down and gave you a massage.
It was bad enough before the Saviors arrived, when they did, your belly already showed, a little bump, could go unnoticed if you looked fast, but you already had weird craves and needed to eat almost every hour.
The first time a Savior approached you, Daryl fantasized piercing an arrow straight to his neck. You had been standing inside Alexandria’s pantry with Olivia, sleeves rolled up while trying to reorganize what little food was left. The shelves were sad to see now, all that was left was scattered cans, half-empty boxes, dried beans measured down to the last handful. Every week Negan’s men came through those gates and took from you, more and more at every return.
Your lower back ached terribly that morning, if Daryl had a clue you were working while being in pain he'd immediately send you back to bed, the baby had started sitting heavier these past few weeks, enough to make every movement slower, every chore more exhausting, but you wanted to feel useful, so you held a pen and paper and took notes of Olivia's counts, hand resting against the showing curve of your stomach to ease the weight that killed your back. Then, Negan walked in, he whistled low the second he noticed you.
"Will you look at that." he curved himself back, drawing each word, his eyes dragged shamelessly over your stomach and breasts, enough to make your skin crawl. “I see someone's been keeping herself busy!"
You immediately looked away from him, jaw tightening, your knuckles white. Olivia went rigid beside you. Men like him fed off reactions. Keep it cool.
The Savior leaned casually against one of the shelves like he owned the place. “So, when you're due, now? I'd love to see the gathering. Little apocalypse family and shit.” You ignored him, grabbing another can from the box near your feet.
"Question is," he continued "who's the lucky bastard who managed to pick a pretty girl like you here, huh?" he leans in closer "'Cause I'm gonna tell you, sweetheart, I have seen nothing but loser men out here."
You felt it before you saw him. Daryl had been outside unloading crates with Aaron when he saw Negan make his way towards where you were. Aaron sent him a permissive look, one that said "Check on her, I'll cover you.". Daryl bolted out of his post to go after you, to find Negan hovering over you as mumbling nonsensical shit.
Negan felt that your gaze was glued to whoever was now standing behind him, smiling widely when he noticed that when he took a turn, he'd be looking at the baby daddy. He swings on his feet, turning curiously to stare the man on the face, ready to mock the pauper guy, facing Daryl, to his surprise.
"Doesn't this get even more interesting!" he shouts, facing Daryl inches away, then turning back to you. "So she's your girl! I gotta say, my man," he pats his back like he was an old pal "you got something right in your life, I'll give you that."
Daryl's shoulders tensed beneath the sleeveless shirt he’d worn threadbare. Dirt smeared his forearms, sweat dampened his hair at the temples, gluing the strands to his skull, exhaustion sat deep behind his eyes. He looked dangerous before he even spoke, choosing to ignore the Savior completely. “You alright?” he asked roughly, looking straight into your eyes.
Negan scoffed. “You guys are gonna give me a cavity out here.”
You nodded once. “I’m fine.”
The second time, it wasn't Negan, but another Savior, whose name neither of you bothered to learn. He was far less subtle about it. He saw your round belly, even bigger this time, a week apart from the first occurrence. He nudges one of his colleagues to say, unbothered if you heard it or not. "Wish I was the lucky bastard who impregnated this bitch." the others by his side laugh, gazing at you.
Daryl looked at him then, he knew he couldn't do what he really wanted, so he just kept his gaze pierced on the man. “Just congratulating you, man. Didn’t think you had it in you.” Negan shrugs, swinging back out the door.
This time, more people were in the room besides you and Olivia, Rick, their other Saviors, and Daryl. He didn't manage to hold back this time, crossed the room so fast the shelves rattled when he slammed the man against them.
The Savior cursed loudly as what was left of your very few cans crashed to the floor around them, but Daryl didn't flinch, he didn't care. All he could concentrate on was his forearm pressed hard against the guy’s throat, pushing out his knife merely inches away from the guy's eye.
“Say another damn thing 'bout her.” Daryl snarled. “See what happens.”
The other Saviors straightened. One of them reached for his gun.
“Daryl.” Rick’s voice cut sharply through the room. “Let him go.”
“Nah.” he grunts
The Savior tried to shove Daryl off him. “Get this psycho off me.” Daryl pressed harder.
“He keeps lookin’ at her.”
Rick stepped closer carefully, hands visible, posture calm in the way he only got when things were seconds from disaster. “They’re looking for a reason.”
“They already got one,” Daryl snapped. “They take whatever they want anyway.”
“Daryl.”
“You talk 'bout my wife again. Yer dead.” He threatened, and you knew he meant it.
The Savior swallowed hard beneath Daryl’s arm, finally losing some of that smugness. “Man, I was joking.”
“I don't give a shit!”
For one horrible second, you thought everything would collapse right there. A slit throat, shots, blood everywhere, Alexandria falling because one Savior couldn’t keep his mouth shut and Daryl would never let it slide. Then, Rick looked at you, you understood what he meant without needing words. Slowly, you stepped closer.
“Daryl.” His breathing stuttered for half a second. "Honey."
He looked at you instantly, belly round baring his child, ring shining on your finger, that he gave to you not so long ago. Too much to lose. Your figure pulled him out of wherever his anger had taken him.
“It’s okay,” you said softly. He knew it wasn't, you were shaken by what the man had said, he saw right thought you, still, he shoved the Savior away from him. The man stumbled back coughing violently, glaring murderously while adjusting his jacket. “Negan’s gonna love hearing about this.”
Daryl took a step forward again, Rick blocked him immediately.
“Out.” Rick ordered.
The Savior laughed bitterly under his breath before backing toward the door. “Congratulations, by the way.” Your husband looked ready to rip his throat out.
The second the trucks disappeared beyond Alexandria’s gates later that afternoon, Rick cornered Daryl near the armory.
“You cannot keep doing this,” Rick hissed.
Daryl scoffed, pacing like a caged animal. “He was talkin’ about m'wife like she's a piece of meat."
“And if you start fights every time one of them opens their mouth to say some shit, people die.”
“They’re dyin’ anyway.”
Rick’s face hardened instantly. “I’m trying to keep this place standing.”
“At what cost?”
“At least they’re alive.”
Daryl laughed then, harsh and humorless. “This ain’t livin’, Rick."
You stood nearby, rocking on a chair on the porch outside your shared house, listening.
Rick lowered his voice. “You think I like this?”
“I think you let ‘em walk in here an’ take whatever they want.”
“What do you want me to do?” Rick snapped suddenly. “Fight them? With what?”
Daryl stepped closer immediately. “Better than bendin’ over every damn week. I have a pregnant woman eating scraps at my house and can't do shit about it! How do ya think I feel?"
Rick’s patience cracked. “You think I don’t know what they’re doing to us? Look around!”
“I am lookin’ around.” Daryl shot back. “People are starvin’.”
“We’re rationing.”
“She shouldn’t be! My unborn child shouldn't be! She barely eats enough. She gets sick every mornin’. Can’t sleep right. An’ every damn time they come here they strip more off our shelves."
Rick’s expression softened for only a moment. Exhaustion settled into every line on his face nowadays.
“I’m doing everything I can.”
Daryl walked away first, mumbling "It ain’t enough.” at he walked into the house slamming the door, you gave Rick an apologetic look before getting up and entering the house after your husband.
You found Daryl curled up on the corner of the bed, eyes teary, he looks briefly to you as you enter the room, opening his arms gladly to hold you while he let out hot tears that soaked your shirt on the stomach level, and you stroked his hair. He finally looked over to you properly after a few minutes, red eyes and messy hair, concern etched deep into his face. Daryl had always looked rough around the edges, but lately he carried something heavier. Like fear lived permanently beneath his skin now. You gently stroke his cheek, wiping a few tears off.
“I’m okay, darling. We're gonna be okay."
His eyes dropped immediately to your stomach.
You were showing enough now that even sitting down felt awkward some days.
“They keep starin’ at ya,” he muttered finally.
“The Saviors?” he nodded. "Like they got a right.”
You softened immediately. Fear always sounded like anger when it came from Daryl. You carefully laced your fingers through his. “They’re not gonna hurt me." his eyes snap back to your face "You don’t know that.”
“You can’t protect me from everything, Daryl." you whispered gently. "I'll do my best. For both of you."
His rough hands settled carefully against your stomach, the baby kicked beneath his palm. Every single time it happened, he reacted like it shocked him all over again, his face looked less tense.
It was rare now, seeing Daryl relaxed enough to look soft around the edges. But moments with the baby always did it. Like the world stopped being so ugly for a second. “Strong little thing,” he muttered quietly.
"Jus' like his daddy." you shift from where you stood to sit by his side, sighing deeply in relief when you feel the weight lift a little off your back.
"And his mama." He praises, pulling you to lean against his shoulder.
summary: marc is terrified of what your gift means.
warnings: none
word count: 785
now listening... for your babies by simply red
Marc Spector was unworthy of love. At least, that’s what he believed.
Many factors contributed to that perception. First of all; He was broken and unwell. He had issues and so much stuff going on. His multiple personalities, all the lives he’d taken as a marine and as a mercenary, the memory of his shattered family, his deceased mom and little brother. All of it just proved to him he was defined by his mistakes, by all the bad decisions he’d made, by all the times the world had mistreated him and he’d retaliated.
Or that’s what he thought until he met you.
What you two had going on was complicated. You’d never tried sticking a tag to it because you knew that was the last thing any of you needed. However, you two were definitely not on the same page. Marc thought of you as his confidant (whom he’d occasionally make out on his couch with), someone he could trust, someone who’d been by his side when his mom died and Steven first started showing up. And he liked you, he liked you very much. He just wasn’t sure that you tried feeling as little as he did. He wasn’t sure that, due to all of his issues, he would be ready to start taking your relationship seriously.
That was why he had frozen in place when you gave him a spare key to your apartment.
It happened just like that, as if you had been telling him how the weather was like. “Here, I want you to have them,” you had said, letting the key fall on his palm. He caught it on a relfex, and then stood there, with his hand opened, and the tiny aluminum artifact in his palm, motionless, like it was mocking him.
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t believe he was worthy of something like that. You were trusting your apartment to him, a place so personal and intimate. He started wondering. Was he really that much in love with you? You must’ve noticed he had gone quiet all of the sudden because you stopped talking too.
“You okay?” you asked.
Marc glanced at you, then back at the key, then back at you again. He’d gone speechless, something that didn't usually happen. Most of the times, he chose not to say anything from the beggining.
“Why…?” He trailed off, with a voice so weak it could be mistaken for a whisper. “Why would you want me to have these?”
“Oh, come on, Marc. It’s just the spare.” you replied, walking towards him. “I’m not proposing.”
“You might as well be.”
The suggestion made you pause before chuckling. “Why, that doesn’t sound half bad,” you teased him, knowing the thought of formal marriage made him hurl.
Marc shivered. “It does,” he stated, sighing wearily. “I’ll keep them. Just… don’t ask me to…”
“Give me yours? Don’t worry, I don't care...”
He stared at the keys on his hand, still clueless on how to feel about the whole thing. You were right. It was a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t do this. He could barely keep your casual relationship together and now you were asking him to hold something as valuable as your spare keys with him. Not just because the keys were expensive to make a copy of, but because owning those meant he could just walk into your apartment. Even if you weren’t home. It meant that he was welcomed into your world anyday, anytime.
Who was he trying to fool? It was overwhelming. He had every right to feel overwhelmed.
“Marc?”
The sound of your voice made him look up. He couldn’t help the slight lingering on his gaze. He was moved, to be honest. And he couldn’t stop overthinking it. The spare key. It was a whole new level. “Yeah?”
He didn’t even realize your hesitation. “... if you don’t want them then just say so.”
There it was. You’d given him the goddamn keys, and even though he’d never admit it, he was going to hold onto them like a lifeline. It was too late to back down now. He had the keys. He had your smile, which belonged to him and him only. He had your heart. And you sure as hell had his too.
“... I said I’ll keep them,” he insisted, putting the set away in his pocket.
You weren’t expecting him to lean towards you and press his lips against yours. It was chaste, short, and a little disappointing, but you took it anyway. Smiling, you raked your hand across his pushed-back curls. You were glad he’d said yes.
There's this blinding light in me, delicious crimes in me, creeping vines, strangling, rocking back and forth, untying me
Club!Blue Jones x Fem!reader
authors note: super rushed and i actually hate this butttt i rlly wanted to just get this posted... just like 2k words of straight bs bro... no smut but there will be next chapter I promise!!! this chapt is just moving the story along ok idk.. fic title from a song called "Enter: Dirty Girl" by Christina Navarro.
word count: 2.2k words
content warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs and tobacco, alcohol, reader has a (very brief) crappy boyfriend (anything else i need to add lmk)
“You’re kicking me out?”
“Yes I’m kicking you out, are you deaf?” Your boyfriend sneered, mocking you as he lay lazily on the couch. The apartment was filthy, his living habits were disgusting, and you should’ve been glad to get out of there. Except for the fact that it was the only place you had to stay.
“So, is that it? Does this mean we’re done?” You scoffed, standing in the living room doorway watching your boyfriend (or maybe ex-boyfriend) rot into the couch.
“If it means you’ll get the fuck out of here, then yes.”
You should’ve seen it coming. He wasn’t exactly the greatest in the first place, verbally belittling you and openly making lewd comments about other women. You’d been saving up what shitty money you had left over to move out and into a nicer area of the city, but now you’d been officially kicked out. Exiled. Cast away.
“You can’t just–throw me out, I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“Does it look like I care? Just get the fuck out of here,” he groaned, dragging his hand down his face in exasperation.
“Fine! This apartment’s a goddamn pigsty anyways.” you retorted, crossing the living room to enter your shared bedroom. Well, guess it’s not very ‘shared’ anymore. Snatching up a small suitcase from the closet, you begin to pack the essentials; clothes, a few toiletries, whatever personal documents of yours that you had filed away.
As tears streamed down your face, you couldn’t quite tell why you were crying. You hated your boyfriend, you hated the apartment you were bound to most days. You hated this life, so why did it hurt to leave?
Rushing back into the living room and into the foyer, you held your suitcase in hand, grabbing your purse and slipping on your shoes. You peeked your head into the living room to check if your boyfriend was paying attention, before plucking his car keys and dashing out the front door, slamming it behind you.
Clearly that got his attention, a string of profanities and protests could be heard as you rushed down the hall and down the stairs of your apartment building.
”You fucking bitch! I swear, you’re all the same, fucking whore! Good-fucking-luck finding someone else to take in your snobby ass!”
Snobby? You weren’t snobby. You just figured you deserved a little bit more than basic respect. But you didn’t exactly have time to dwell on that thought, instead trying to figure out where you were supposed to go now. The stairwell was quieter once you reached the lower floors, exiting out to the parking lot with your belongings clutched tightly in your hands.
Living out of your car was nothing new. You’d done it occasionally in your dad’s car in high school, when you just needed an escape from being at home. But you’d never done it for an extended amount of time, no, never for more than a day or two. All of your friends lived out in the city (you kind of doubted that you could still call them friends, you hadn’t talked to them in a few years), and your family? Yeah, no way in hell you’d willingly go back there.
It’d been almost a week now, and you found yourself rotating between sleeping parked in some shitty little grocery store parking lot, and other times you’d just park somewhere on the street and call it a night. You didn’t drive far, saving up what little money you had for food and using whatever you had left for gas.
Shifts at the smoke shop continued, your manager giving you a few questioning looks when he saw you sleeping in your car, but no real comment was made. No real show of concern. As long as you showed up for work, he didn’t care.
For the last few nights, you’d chosen to park across the street from Lennox. Just for pure convenience, you told yourself. It was within walking distance from the smoke shop, so why the hell not? And so you find yourself sitting in the car, practically freezing your ass off and trying to drown out your thoughts by listening to the music coming from within the club.
You’d parked there at 9 pm, about the time that Lennox started to open for the night. It was well past 11 pm by now, and you felt like you were going insane. At first the music helped. You didn’t.. recognize most of the songs, but music is music. It distracted you, until it didn’t, the loud yelling from inside the club and the occasional heated protests from guys who got kicked out. That was the first strike. The second was the actual smell of your now ex-boyfriend’s car. It reeked of those little tree car air fresheners. What the fuck kind of scent was black ice? It made you nauseous.
Reaching over the center console and into the glove compartment, you let out a soft, relieved breath as you found it. A small bic lighter and a pack of cigarettes. The brand you didn’t really pay attention to, you couldn’t bring yourself to be picky right now. Marlboros, Camels, they all left a crappy taste in your mouth and your hair smelling like smoke.
Smoking was never something you’d consider yourself doing enough times that it became a habit. Sure, you’d bum a few cigarettes off your friends in high school, sometimes you’d steal one or two from your (now ex)boyfriend. But the situation seemed fitting. Might as well start now, right when you feel like things couldn’t possibly get worse.
Lighting one up and taking a drag, you cracked open the window for some fresh air. Despite it being around the time you’d usually go to bed, it wasn’t hitting like normal. The loud music and ruckus from Lennox across the street wasn’t any help either.
Not long after you heard applause the song changed from inside, you saw one.. No, two men–bodyguards, the same ones that you saw at the smoke shop–emerge from the grand double doors of the club. Oh shit.
What the hell were you supposed to do in a situation like this? Start the car and just drive off? And then what, make it look like you were some kind of criminal? Especially considering you’re in possibly the worst part of town, you were outside a club that was a front for one of maybe the most powerful men in this area, and–oh shit they’re already at your car.
Knocking on the window, the taller of the two men gave you a look of suspicion. You kind of just sat there for a second, glancing between him and the windshield and the steering wheel. Taking a quiet deep breath, you slowly rolled the window down fully, cringing as it made a weak squeaking sound.
“You can’t park here.”
“And.. why can’t I park here?”
“Blue says you’re ‘scaring away the customers’. His words, not mine.”
You raised an eyebrow at that. Scaring away the customers? What, the gross 40 year olds that were constantly flowing in and out of Lennox? Yeah right, you thought with a mental scoff, I’m not doing shit to the customers. You were just sitting in your car. Albeit, yes, it was your ex’s car, and it was.. Old and beaten up. But that doesn’t make you a threat.
You let out a soft sigh, your gaze falling back on the windshield and thinking quietly. It was probably best to just park somewhere else. It wasn’t like you were busy or anything. But you’ve been through too much hell this week to just give up and roll over.
“Let me speak to Blue.”
The bodyguard gave you a look. Something that said "lady, are you crazy?” But it seemed to have worked, the man glancing out at his counterpart before stepping back to allow you out of your car.
“Today’s your lucky day, ‘cause Blue was hoping to speak to you too.”
You didn’t know what you expected the inside of Lennox to actually look like. You didn’t have much time to look around, one of the bodyguard’s hands wrapped tightly around your wrist as he pulled you through the crowd. It was a blur, really, people cheering and watching girls perform on stage, men laughing loudly and some openly wolf whistling. It was a club afterall, you shouldn’t be surprised. But for the brief, maybe thirty seconds, you were weaved between men and bottle girls, cocktail waitresses and hostesses alike, it was disorienting. The lights were low and you could barely see where you were going, hearing a few curses behind you as you definitely stepped on at least one or two of the patrons’ shoes.
It didn't last for long, for soon you were pulled somewhere backstage and down a dim corridor, before stopping abruptly in front of an office. The bodyguard that was gripping your wrist knocked on the door. You heard an “It’s unlocked,” faintly coming from the other side.
Your nose scrunched up as a familiar smell assaulted your senses, the warm air and distinct with the smell of a certain woody, leathery tobacco. Blue Jones, the man himself, sitting at his desk. A cigar in one hand, and a glass of whiskey in the other. The bodyguards pushed you inside, both of them gripping your shoulders and sitting you down on the chair in front of his desk. You plopped down with a soft huff, your eyes switching between studying Blue’s office and Blue himself.
“CJ, Danforth, I’ll take it from here,” Blue waves his hand dismissively, not even bothering to look up at the two men. “Go make sure things run smoothly.”
Blue’s eyes stay stuck on you as you hear the two men behind you exit the office, shutting the door behind them. He taps the cigar gently against the ashtray, slowly exhaling smoke that coiled up towards the ceiling, before fully setting the cigar down. Taking a sip of whiskey, his gaze stays trained on you, trying to read your expression.
You clear your throat softly, your gaze dropping to his lips, the way they curl upwards when he catches you watching him, before your eyes snap up to meet his. You speak up first, your fingers in your lap twisting the hem of your shirt.
“This isn’t really about the whole parking thing, is it?”
He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he looks at you over his glass, swirling the amber liquid slowly.
“No, actually, it is,” Blue smiled, something falsely comforting as he leaned forward. “You’ve been parked out there for four days. And I know that ain’t your car, sweetheart.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, watching Blue as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk.
“Who’s it belong to? Hm?” Blue tilts his head, his tone dipping into mocking as he studies you intensely. “ ‘Cause whoever it is, he’s been comin’ here for a few months now. Personally never seen the guy myself, but I’ve seen that car before, parked outside.”
That makes you even more confused—hell, even a little hurt. He was a shitty guy, sure, and yes he openly flirted with other girls, but him being so secretive about this place threw you off. It was just a club, why’d he have to go behind your back? He wasn’t ashamed about being unfaithful, so why start now?
“...Ex-boyfriend.” You murmured, deflating a little bit as you sink back into your chair. Lost in thought, you were quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to go about this without putting yourself in danger. “Kinda took his car when he kicked me out.”
“Kicked you out?”
Oh shit. You hadn’t meant to say that—
“..Yeah.”
You hadn’t meant to say that either. Maybe telling your living situation to a sketchy club owner wasn’t your smartest move.
“You need a place to stay, babycakes?”
No, definitely not. Sure, last week when Blue came into the smoke shop, you’d been curious. Curious about Lennox, about him. But now? Your situation was dawning on you, you’d just told Blue jones—who ”doesn’t mess around” as your boss put it—that you were basically fucking homeless. Way to go.
“Uh…I don’t have any money.” You mumbled, your head bowing slightly so you didn’t have to make eye contact with him. It was a weak excuse, you had money, but hearing the echoing of music and laughter through the halls of the club and through the walls of Blue’s office, you were beginning to rethink things.
Blue just laughed softly at your reply, downing the rest of his whiskey and placing the glass down on his desk with a loud thud.
“Money? Don’t be silly dove, I wouldn’t charge sucha pretty thing like you,” He smirked, as if it was obvious he was willing to take you in. “You’re gonna take a nice, hot shower. I’m gonna get a room set up for you. And then we’re gonna have a chat, okay angel?”
Well…You didn’t really have anything to lose at this point…And taking a shower did sound nice. So did sleeping on an actual mattress. With a lot of reluctance you nodded slowly, opening your mouth slightly to reply but snapping it shut when you hesitantly glanced up at Blue.
“Good. Now let me show you to your room, hm?”
any interaction is appreciated :) also happy valentines day! maybe gonna write the next chapter TONIGHT.. (stay tuned its gonna be smut)
MCU Marc Spector x female reader (hints of Steven Grant and Jake Lockley)
Summary: Now that Marc Jr. is one year old, Marc wants to get him to play an active part in the fun.
A/N: Happy Mother’s Day to those who are a father or play fatherly roles. May you know that we appreciate all that you do for us.
Warning ‼️⛔️⚠️: mentions of parental abuse and negligence. As usual, this story can be read with the reader interpreting their (hers and Marc’s) child how they want to (either taking more after you or Marc). Lastly, there are hints of sexual intimacy between the reader and the Moonboys. Albeit a dream.
Marc is currently working on plating the finishing touches onto your favorite breakfast as little Marc is hopping about in his baby walker. The boy focused on the television screen to Bluey. A show that he has been watching since the new year.
Normally, Marc would prefer not to have his son staring at a screen as soon as he gets up. Instead, prefer to have him play with toys or either of you to help him hit important milestones without the overconsumption of screen time
However, today was an exception as Marc needed something to keep your little munchkin entertained as he was finishing up the first part of Mother’s Day he had planned for you.
While last Mother’s Day consisted of Marc having a staycation at home, he wanted to ramp up his game.
Now that little Marc was over a year now, he could get the little one to participate in the festivities too.
Hence once he finished plating everything, he walked away from the tray on the island and made way to the living room where the boy was entranced with the colorful dogs talking on the screen.
Turning off the television, Marc puts the remote back down on the coffee table and steps in front of the little boy who looks up at him with excitement and reaches out for him.
“Shh…little guy,” Marc coos gently at the baby as he gets on his knees to get the baby out of his walker. “Can’t have mama know what we have planned for her, can we?”
As if understanding his father’s words, little Marc attempted to make a shushing noise as his fingers touched his lips.
Marc smiled. “That’s my boy. Now here is our plan, little man.”
_________________________________________
You and Marc are in the middle of a heated make out session with you on top of Marc in your shared bedroom.
Though you want to voice your concerns regarding where Marc Jr. is, your thoughts are interrupted by a two pair of hands massaging your back and hips.
Panicked, you frantically turn around but are shocked to find Steven and Jake out and separate from Marc.
“Steven? Jake?” You questioned. “How is this even possible? How are you two here in front of Marc and I?”
Jake smirks. “Does it matter? Unless you want Steven and I too leave”–
“No, please,” you interrupted as you gently took Jake’s wrist into your hand. “I’m happy you both are here. I’m just in shock.”
Before you can get to the juicy part of what is to come, a creaking sound breaks through.
You then open your eyes to find your son holding a bouquet of flowers out to you.
Smiling down at your son, you sit up. “What do you have there, little guy?”
As if on cue, little Marc moves the bouquet of flowers towards you. “Mama!”
“For me?” You coo at him, taking the beautiful bouquet to sniff the flowers.
After a second of enjoying the flowers, you’re about to put the flowers to Marc's side of the bed to help your little boy get up when low and behold you see your wonderful husband with a tray in hand.
“Happy Mother’s Day Beautiful!” Marc exclaimed. “To the best wife and mama in the world.”
Putting the tray to the side, away from accidents waiting to happen, to greet you with a good morning kiss.
Sitting himself on the edge of the bed, Marc picks up your boy and is leaning in to give you a kiss.
“Babe, I have morning breath,” you confessed sheepishly. “At least give me until I brush my teeth.”
Marc smirks. “Like I give a damn.”
“Babe!” You chided, your eyes moving from him to his carbon copy sitting in his lap.
Understanding what you are trying to tell him, Marc nods. “I know, I know. I just can’t help it. This little guy and I are so lucky to have you in our lives. We just want to celebrate with you on your day. Right, little guy?”
“Mama!” Little Marc shouts and claps excitedly. “Mama! Mama! Mama!”
“See?” Marc insists with a boyish smile. “Our little guy agrees.”
Not being able to resist your two fellas, you lean in to press a kiss to both on their cheeks. “You two are just too much.”
_________________________________________
Realizing Marc almost forgot the thing that was to complete this moment, he gets up from the bed with his son in tow.
Seeing curiosity grace your face, he responds. “We will only be one moment.”
Once you smiled and nodded, Marc and his son disappeared into the closet to grab two gift bags. One is your favorite color and the other is floral.
“Okay little man,” Marc says playfully with mock seriousness. “Operation: Second Mother’s Day is a go.”
Little Marc claps in response before Marc kisses his cheeks and gets out of the closet. Baby boy and gifts in town as he makes his way back to you.
_________________________________________
“Okay, mamas,” Marc starts when he’s back at the edge of the bed. “Here are our gifts from us to you. Hope you like them.”
“Babe,” you coo. “You didn’t need to get me”—
“Nope,” Marc interrupts. “Don’t even start that conversation again. Junior and I outnumber you. Don’t we, little guy?”
In response, the baby boy giggles and kicks his feet in excitement.
“Traitor,” you giggled out, sticking your tongue out. This only eggs on your cute little boy.
“Hey you two, knock it off,” Marc says without any bite. “Seriously baby, open them.”
Curious as to why your husband is eager for you to open these gift bags, you start with the floral one as your first to open.”
“That’s from, junior,” Marc told you, looking down to coo at little Marc.
Smiling, you take out the tissue paper to see a painted clay hand about the size of your baby boy’s hand.
“It’s a jewelry holder,” Marc pointed out. “ I saw it on Pinterest and thought it was a cute idea. You can imagine what it was like to keep him still for all of it.
“This is amazing… truly…” You smiled. “Thank you, sweet boy.”
You give your son a kiss on the cheek.
Marc pouts. “Babe, don’t I get a kiss? It was my idea.”
You playfully rolled your eyes. “Hold your horses. I still need to open your gift.”
Leaning back, you take the remaining gift bag into your lap.
Taking out the tissue paper once again, you are met with a little velvet box.
Opening it, you are met with a silver necklace with a charm that says, “Best Mama Ever”.
“Babe…” your eyes water, looking up at your sweet husband who is the best partner and father you could ask for. “I don’t know what to say…”
Marc smirks. “I’d be happy with a kiss from your lovely lips.”
_________________________________________
Hours Later…
After a day of being out and about, the three of you—-mother, father(s), and son—are in bed together.
All except the father is asleep.
For Marc is staring down at his world. You and little Marc.
The sleeping woman and baby boy who constantly remind him that his past is not only a distant memory but that his own mother was wrong about him.
Because how can someone who is supposedly evil incarnate create something so innocent with the loveliest, kindest woman in the world?
Marc then kisses your forehead as he lets his arm wrap around his favorite people in the world as sleep takes over.
cabin pressure , part 2 — r ; poe dameron x reader
☕ .
title: cabin pressure , part two
pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader
rating: r ; explicit
summary: “ like i said , commander ,” you breathe , straightening in front of him to pull your tank top over your head . “ the built-in was taken out for recalibration .”
x-post: here .
content: established relationship . humour . cheesy sexual innuendos . smut . sex in the x-wing . dirty talk . semi-public sex . oral m!receiving . oral f!receiving . clumsy sex . p in v sex . sex in the x-wing .
a/n: if fluff is what you’re here for , part one is all you need .
you can however jump straight for the smut from part two onwards if it so pleases you .
//
Your stomach lurches with the gravity shift when Poe banks a quick, abrupt left, propelling the X-wing into barrel roll after barrel roll across the stars.
“LOOK, BABY — YOU SEEING THIS?! WOOOOO!”
Thousands of miles back at the base, you squint at the crackling transmission blaring in your ears; your eyes tearing away from the relay tilting sickeningly on your datapad — spinning round and round and round.
Kriff, this man is going to be the death of me!
You swear to the Force that if anything happens to him, anything at all; tumbles off the axis and crashes himself into an asteroid field —
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” you grit through your teeth.
“Hey man, you’re the one who insists he goes up inebriated,” the ATC’s low chuckle buzzes in your headset.
For a flashing moment, you remember the argument you had with Poe back when the Resistance was evacuating D’Qar. He was dead set on heading up to the Dreadnought with a newly upgraded overdrive thruster. And you — you just didn’t want him to put his own life in danger, blowing himself into smithereens when the experimental booster overheats the system.
This time, you can’t even blame his trigger-happy temperament. You were the one who put him up there after a few too many celebratory drinks in the mess hall.
You’re just starting to rehearse how you would break the news to General Organa about her favourite Resistance pilot getting into a drunken accident in space, when the commslink bursts to life again: “Comm tower — I’m coming in hot!”
“Roger that, Black Leader,” the ATC responds curtly, his voice tinged with mirth.
“Oh, thank fuck,” the words come out ragged as your heavy legs carry you toward the bay entrance — where the relief dies the second you see that sonuvabitch whizzes past with another series of somersaults right in front of your eyes; the hull of his starship a mere breath away from the trees that line the perimeter.
“Kriff’s sakes — Poe!” You yell into the mouthpiece.
“Just in case you didn’t catch that earlier!” He laughs.
Your heart is still lodged in your throat when he finally eases the X-wing back into the hangar, and it is only after he has powered down the engine that you allow the fuel-drenched air to fill your lungs again.
“Not a word to the General — you got it?” you mutter at the ATC, your footsteps quick as you rush toward Poe.
“It’s like she’s never left base,” the ATC titters.
You reach the top of the airstairs just as the Transparisteel canopy peels open, and you catch Poe yanking the oxygen mask away, pulling his helmet off his head. His dark curls tumble free, matted on one side and standing at wild angles on the other — flushed with recklessness, yet aggravatingly dashing.
“How was she?” You gulp as he stares back at you with glazed eyes, like he just met with the engineers of the stars themselves.
He remains speechless, his breathing short and frayed; and you start to panic if the sudden break into atmo might’ve caused any brain damage —
“Wizard,” his voice is light as a big grin cracks his whole face open; flashing you that silly smile that you have grown to love every time he returns to base from a successful mission.
And just like that, your shoulders drop, and the vice around your ribs loosens. All the anxieties from seconds ago just melt away when you see him this — happy.
You exhale in a whoosh, shaking your head as you check off the list on your datapad.
“Did the thrust engine overload though? Because I thought the systems went offline for a sec—”
Your breath hitches when Poe reaches out to squeeze your hand.
“They’re all perfect, sweetheart,” his smile is soft like a dream as he brings your fingers to his lips. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome — Commander,” you blush, leaning in to kiss him; and rather instinctively, his hand slides up your face, moulds to the shape of your jawline as he pulls you closer.
The moment his lips meet yours, it hits different. The adrenaline is still singing in his veins, and when he deepens the kiss, every note is palpable, permeating through your bloodstream like a contagion.
His soft lips taste sweeter, and his tongue feels like satin; conjuring warmth that is hotter and a pressure that weighs heavier, curling in your belly — spreading.
“Kriff, you look so hot right now,” your stifled gasp edges with hunger, as your tongue breaches into his mouth; licking at his moans while your fingers claw at the collar of his flight suit for more.
He chuckles against your lips, and his hand rakes through the back of your head with equal eagerness. “Maybe we could —”
Before he even finishes, you are clambering into the cockpit, swinging your leg over his lap to straddle him. He can only watch you, mouth agape, as you press down on his waist in the confined space.
“H-Hey,” a dazed, lopsided smile blossoms upon his face, when his brain finally catches up.
You lean down toward him slowly, your heated breath ghosting temptation over his, as you whisper: “Hey yourself.”
He jumps in his seat when it jolts backwards, and you have to bite back your laugh as you release the lever at the narrow side of the seat.
“Like I said, Commander,” you breathe, straightening in front of him to pull your tank top over your head. “The built-in was taken out for recalibration.”
Your heart does an excitable flip in your chest, as you watch his pupils blown wide — feral at the sight of your tits, barely inches from his mouth.
“No, of course,” Poe swallows thickly, already cupping your breasts the moment you guide his hands there. “Gotta make sure it’s properly — calibrated.”
“Mmm-hmm…” you hum in agreement, matching his crooked smile before your lips collide for a fervent kiss.
//
Now, the generic cockpit in a T-70 X-wing starfighter measures at a width of just a little over 11 metres; you have the numbers ingrained in your head like a tale as old as time.
What you didn’t account for is the unaltered height of the cockpit when you’re positioned astride Poe, both of you wrestling to get his flight suit off from beneath you. The moment he raises his hips to shimmy out of his boxers, you jerk upward and clear the 1.92-metre limit — smacking your head against the canopy with a sharp “Fuck!”
“Oh, shi —” He wheezes, his fingers gentle as they probe at the side of your head. “You OK, baby?”
“Told you to go commando,” you groan, pouting dramatically back at him.
“Yeah, I can see now,” he drags his thumb across your lips to taper the frown. “Should’ve told me you’re planning on doing this.”
You tut, feigning exasperation as you press your jutting lips to his callouses.
“Then, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”
You keep your eyes fixed on him as you slide down the length of his body, until you are seated snugly in the narrow space between his legs — gazing up at him all doe-eyed.
Then — you close your mouth over his thumb with a riveted hum, your hands splayed up and down his thighs. His muscles tense beneath your palms as you hollow your cheeks, pushing him in and out of your mouth in wet synchronicity.
“Y-Yeah,” his voice cracks with his composure, as you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock; his hips already flexing impatiently to your light, preliminary pumps. “I’m uh — very, very surprised right now…”
You relish the sound of his breath catching as you increase the pace of your heavier upstrokes, before taking him fully into your mouth; sighing warmly against his velvety skin, as you watch his eyes flutter shut, and his head drops back onto the headrest, parted lips huffing with airy pleasure.
The built-in life support typically eats up one-third of the cockpit, but with it detached and the pilot’s seat reclined into the vacant space, you’re afforded the spatial buffer on the floor to suck Poe off without the control systems digging into your arse.
You’re able to do the things he enjoys whenever you find time to sneak in a quickie in the supply closet, or while lazing in bed with him on a Sunday afternoon. He likes it when you pack the tip into the back of your throat while you stroke at the veined length and give his taut balls a few fondling squeezes.
It is enough for him to lose control — his fingers tightening in your hair as he ruts into your mouth, chasing after his release until you’re gagging around him, eyes watering with spit and precum dribbling down your chin.
“Ugh — you’re taking me so well, baby,” his breathing fractures; hips stuttering helplessly into your mouth.
You glance up at him through your lashes; utter bliss smeared across his furrowed brows and slackened jaw, that corded line of his throat working as he gasps for air — Maker, if it doesn’t do things to you, seeing this beautiful man unravel like that.
You moan favourably, a fresh wave of arousal surging through you, soaking between your thighs.
You feel his balls drawing up in your nurturing hold, certain that at any moment he is going to cum fast and hard into your mouth — when he pulls you away from his cock with a resounding pop, a sticky string chained to your swollen lips from his reddened tip.
“Waitbabywait — hold on a sec,” he pants, his face flushed in deep crimson and looking so darn edible as he gazes down at you, bleary-eyed.
“What’s wrong?” You sputter, concern flickering through the haze as you push yourself up from the floor.
He instead meets you head-on with a brutal kiss, groaning at the taste of himself swirling in your tongues.
“Let me taste you, baby — I wanna taste you,” he husks, already coaxing you to move out of your spot to take his place.
With great difficulty, you trade spaces. Your stomach pressing uncomfortably against the cockpit wall as he rearranges your collective limbs in a kind of complicated dance; heated skin rubbing against sweat-slick skin — until finally, you settle in the pilot’s seat; whereas Poe, on the other hand, folds his bulkier form in a rather comical manner on the floor.
You have to pinch your lips to stop yourself from laughing, seeing him all crumpled up in an origami mess at your feet.
Even with the extra legroom, he barely fits with those wide Yavinian hips of his.
But, the moment he drapes your legs over his shoulders, and his tongue starts lapping hungrily at your cunt; the humour fades as your head tips back, your hips already canting to the heavy, torturous rolls of his ministrations.
“Kriff, you taste so good,” he grunts, nails digging into the meat of your thighs as his mouth sucks loud and lewd at your sex.
Within moments, you are teetering at the edge. The abrasion of his day-old scruff against your inner thighs shocks electric straight to your pussy. The contrasting softness of his tongue makes you throb at the accelerating figure-eights — winding you up tighter and tighter.
You let out a throaty drawl, your nails scraping desperately into his scalp.
“Hng-ughhh — Poe, I’m gonna — I’m gonna —”
“Fuck!” He pulls away sharply.
Your hand shoots up, just about to slug him across his candy pink cheekbones for leaving you high and dry like that — when you notice the grievance that knits his brows.
“Stupid flight stick is digging into my arse.” He grumbles, an arm twisted to his back nursing the sore spot between his butt cheeks.
Your frustration dissolves into a snicker instantly, and you’re now cradling his face as he winces into your palm like a wounded animal.
“Not expecting to be pegged on your birthday, were you?” You jibe, amused yet affectionate as he groans into your touch.
“No,” he scrambles up from the deplorable position until he is looming over you in the pilot’s seat; your giggles fizzling to a startled gasp when you feel his cock trail along your slickened folds.
“I’d rather be the one doing the pegging on my birthday,” his voice rumbles low against your chest, already reaching between your bodies to line the tip into you — sinking in.
“Peg you so good I’ll have you seeing stars,” his growling mouth envelopes yours, swallowing your delightful moans.
//
You both latch on to a rhythm that was never lost in the first place, merely put away within arm’s reach until you have one leg perched off the edge of the cockpit, while the other is straightened skyward against his broad chest.
Poe has one firm foothold on the edge of the seat, while the other braces at the sole on the floor; his hips rotating deftly, dragging his cock deep and delicious along your walls.
Through your feathered lashes, you watch him watch you — his darkened eyes revering at his cock thrusting in and out of you between your waxen bodies; then rising to catch your expression, ever shifting with the every move he makes as he hits that delectable spot inside you over and over.
You are nearing the precipice once again; your pretty whines ricocheting off the fogged-up canopy, the coiling pressure stretching low and taut in your belly — when at a rather terrible timing, your calf muscle seizes.
You surge forward at the sharp cramp, biting down on the crook of his neck, stifling your distress in a strangled whimper.
That confuses the hell out of Poe. He knows that this is not what you sound like at all when you’re close. Amidst the entangled chaos of sweaty limbs, his underfoot slips — connecting his left eye heavily into your kneecap; and his testicles punch down on the seat hard, knocking an agonising scream from his lungs.
“Poe!” You wince down at the top of his head, his face burning hot on your stomach. “You OK?”
“Yup! D-Definitely seeing stars now,” he grimaces; breath coming in sharp gasps as he lifts his reddened face to you. “Shit, this is harder than I thought.”
“Now you know why I don’t wanna fuck in the X-wing?” You groan as you lower your trembling leg from the edge.
“You alright, baby?” He rasps, strong fingers easing the muscle pull; sucking his teeth concurrently while he cradles his balls in his other hand.
“Yeah…” You sigh.
This is not going as smoothly as you have hoped. In fact, it is turning out to be even more disastrous than the handful of encounters prior.
There is a moment of reprieve as you both catch your breaths — you combing your fingers through his unruly curls, as he presses his lips to your leg to kiss it better.
You note the shift in him as he grows quiet. His jaw sets and his eyes go distant — that all too familiar look when he is running multiple scenarios through his head. Calculating odds, weighing risk, and a hard choice that may not be favourable to him but one he’ll make regardless — it’s endearing.
Before he calls off this whole fiasco, you slap him on his shoulder, drawing him out of his reverie: “Get up.”
He stares at you questioningly, but abides nonetheless as you take the reins. Another awkward choreography commences; twisted limbs shuffling here while the other overlaps with another there, before he reclaims his pilot’s seat — with your legs flanking his thighs, facing away from him.
You feel rather than hear his breath hitches, as you settle against him, your cunt stroking along the length of his cock, already twitching in response to the new angle.
You catch his eye over your shoulder, a sultry smile spreading across your face, as you watch his eyebrows shoot up, his beautiful brown eyes keening with anticipation.
“How about you steer this ship home — Commander?” You nip at your bottom lip, winking at him.
cabin pressure , part 3 — r ; poe dameron x reader
☕ .
title: cabin pressure , part three
pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader
rating: r ; explicit
summary: “ take us back to base — commander ,” you order , your voice harsh and keening ; smiling wistfully at him .
x-post: here .
content: established relationship . humour . cheesy sexual innuendos . smut . sex in the x-wing . semi-public sex . dirty talk . p in v sex . cock riding . rear . stimulation . sex in the x-wing .
a/n: if fluff is what you’re here for , part one is all you need .
you can however jump straight for the smut from part two onwards if it so pleases you.
thanks to everyone who’s read , liked , reblogged , kudos’d and commented so far — you guys have made my week ! 💛
//
You take your time with Poe, drawing out the minutes and the seconds as you settle down on his cock — slowly; savouring the every inch of the pleasurable stretch, and the every ridge of his hard length gliding deep into you.
His hands are firm on the curve of your waist, fingers flexing against your skin — waiting, until he bottoms out. You break from his darkened gaze, eyelids fluttering wildly as goosebumps race up the nape of your neck and down your spine; pooling molten heat in your belly.
“Fuck, baby — you fit me so well,” he groans, his hands tightening on your waist to hold you together; as he leans up and kisses you — searing and deliberate, indulging the passing seconds as much as you are.
“So fucking perfect,” his jaw clenches, hands sliding across your torso for your breasts, as he gyrates his hips up at you; the leather seat creaking rhythmically to his wet cadence, barely muffling your moans.
He shifts slightly, tilting his cock at an angle that when you push forward just a smidge, the tip drags along that unbearable spot that has you whimpering for mercy, fresh bursts of arousal wetting his cock between your thighs.
“There,” he grunts low and smug. “Right there.”
Oh, yeah — he knows what you like when you’re riding him nice and slow; like a pilot who knows his starship at the back of his hand — where the pressure needs to be, and how deep, and what makes you fall apart like you are now on his lap.
Before long, you are right there again at the cusp, teeth clinging to your bottom lip as your fingers dig into the sides of the cockpit for dear life. Your head bows and your brows crease; his ministrations getting harder, like an answer to the prayers you never needed to convey out loud.
“Cum for me, baby,” Poe grunts; he knows you’re close — he can hear it in your strained outcry, he can feel it in the way your muscles cinch around him. “Use my cock, take what you need.”
He has only to reach down and strum at your clit — and you’re a goner. Your whole body locks tight in his arms as the orgasm surges through you; your nails biting into the cockpit walls with such intensity you might’ve dented the Transparisteel make.
Beneath you, Poe slows his hips to languid rolls, riding you through the storm as you quiver so lovingly around him, your slick coating his thighs and trickling down the pilot’s seat.
“Mmm — you feel so good when you cum on my cock,” Poe murmurs against your exposed neck, hot lips trailing along the side of your head tilted back on his shoulder, hovering close to your mouth grasping for air.
When the stars have cleared from your eyes, you unfold your wobbly legs onto the floor, purring long and throaty as his cock slips out of you.
You feel the weight of his eyes on you even before you glance over your shoulder to catch them — dark and dilated and hungry, raking down your spine. You arch your arse up at him with a seductive wriggle, bending forward to lure him with the view of your cunt still aching where he was last, your thighs spread and smeared with the muted shine of your slick.
“Take us back to base — Commander,” you order, your voice harsh and keening; smiling wistfully at him.
Poe licks at his swelling grin as he shifts from the seat, crowding in on you to give your arse a cheeky grab.
“Fucking love it when you call me that,” he rasps against your ear; teeth finding your earlobe, sucking your skin a violent red.
Poe nudges your knees apart, spreading your legs until your thighs are pressing firmly against the cockpit walls for balance. You mewl as he bends you over, nestling his crotch pleasantly in the valley of your cheeks.
He slathers himself up, teasing you in the process — every slide up and down the cleft like a promise waiting to be fulfilled; before he pushes into you to the hilt in one fluid motion, tearing a throaty groan from the both of you as you fall forward, gripping onto the control systems — full.
At least in this position, there’s enough room for the both of you — but only just.
Poe fucks you rough, fingers digging into your shoulder; each rugged thrust punching the next breath out of you — bumping your crotch against the console, the flight stick digging into your stomach.
You can’t exactly say that it’s uncomfortable like his predicament from earlier. In your current position, it actually feels rather — sensational when the buttons and triggers catch so close to your sensitive bud.
You can actually use them to your advantage.
Every time he thrusts into you, you let the slight propulsion rock you forward, edging you just a little lower each time — until the wide, blunt head is pressing lusciously against your clit; a humming whimper slipping past your smiling lips as you revel in this — delightful stimulation.
“Shit, baby —” Poe growls, drawing you to his chest again.
Inside, you feel him stiffen — it’s fucking turning him on.
“That feels good — huh?” He croaks; one hand closing over your neck, and tilting your lips to lick into your mouth. “Ugh, the way you’re clenching around me — I know it feels so good.”
You can only moan back vacantly as he picks up speed — skin slapping and slick squelching between your legs; grinding you against the flight stick until your exhales leave your body in shallow spurts.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart — you know that?” Poe mumbles. “I’m gonna be thinking about you — rubbing yourself like that the next time I’m away.”
Your breath catches in your chest, tension building low and tight where the flight stick is probing at you.
“I’m gonna be jacking myself off to that beautiful sound you’re making right now, and how tight you are wrapped around my cock while you do — that,” his words taper to a feeble groan when he feels you gush warm around him.
Kriff — the image of Poe throttling through hyperspace masturbating in this very cockpit to the very thought of you; that is fucking turning you on.
“You think about me, Poe?” You purr, your hand twisting to the back of his head to bring his face closer to you, clammy foreheads touching and heated breaths mingling. “You think of me when you’re away?”
His laugh rumbles low against your back, his canines indenting the round of your shoulder — making you gasp.
“Always, baby,” he hums, licking at the salt on your skin. “Always thinking about you waiting for me, being so — naughty.”
“I’m gonna be thinking of us fucking — right here, right now,” his fingers bite crescents into your waist, his hips starting to lose rhythm. “Hnghhhh — this whole cockpit is gonna smell like you weeks from now.”
Then — Poe grabs the flight stick, his fingers latching onto the grooves, as he manoeuvres it to apply sweet, delicious pressure on your clit; while simultaneously from behind, his cock keeps its unfaltering punches into you — adamant in taking you apart.
Your head tips back onto his shoulder as heavy pleasure crests in your stomach, and your whole body seizes again as you cum with a laboured whine.
He follows seconds after you, a broken moan tearing from his throat as he propels you both forward across the control systems; sweaty hands clawing for anything to hold on to as you ride out the orgasm together — stars blooming behind your eyes.
//
You both collapse onto the pilot’s seat in a smouldering heap, drenched in sweat with blood roaring in your ears. You feel his cock softening inside of you, as his fingers clasp over your jaw, pulling your gaping mouth to his again for a deep, passionate kiss.
“Best — birthday — ever.” Poe croons, a smiling peck punctuating each word against your lips.
“Really, Poe?” You huff a short laugh, raising a brow at him. “I banged my head and cramped my leg, you kneed yourself in the misters, and you got pegged —”
“All worth it, sweetheart,” he chuckles, smiling goofily at you; eyes glazed with an afterglow that makes your heart swell. “It’s all fucking worth it.”
So — fucking — annoying.
You sigh, sweeping the damp curls from his forehead: “You really are incorrigible.”
“And you really do like me,” he murmurs back.
“Debatable,” you taste his smile against your lips; stealing his contented moans for yours, as his arms wrap around you tight to have as his.
“So, uh —” he starts, warm panting breaths caressing your cheeks. “Is it — better?”
You pull away, crinkling your nose. Your fingertip trails along the protruding veins on his hand draped across your stomach while you pretend to consider the question.
This really is better than the many times before, but instead of confessing —
“Need to go a few more times before I can be sure,” you whisper against his needy mouth.
He lets out a guttural laugh, capturing your lips again: “Not gonna say no to that.”
“Uhhhh — Black Leader, this is comm tower — over.”
You both freeze when the ATC’s wary voice fills the cockpit.
“On behalf of the whole Resistance base,” he clears his throat carefully on the other line. “Might I suggest that no — please don’t do that again?”
Your head whips around the perimeter, looking for the source — then your eyes fall on the control systems, and your heart drops.
By the flight stick, still shimmering with your slick in the low light, the commslink blinks a rapid red.
“Oh shit!” You yelp.
You must’ve accidentally flipped the switch when Poe —
“Or at least — wait till I’m done with my shift, for the love of the Force…” the ATC mutters before he ends the transmission.
You scramble from Poe’s lap to kill the switch; as if that’s going to make any difference now.
“OH — MY — STARS!” You bury your face in your hands, furious heat crawling up your neck.
Poe, in the meantime, has his face pressed up against the nape of your neck — wheezing.
You slap him: “Stop it!”
That instead makes him laugh harder, his whole body shaking against your back.
“Fucccccck —” you groan.
“Ohhhh, baby — I love you so much,” Poe laughs against your cheeks, peppering kisses across your face twisted in a wince.
When he finally catches his breath, he throws in: “At least he definitely knows I’m better now.”
You punch him on the chest this time — hard.
“That’s not even him!” You shriek, already laughing with him despite the violent blushes.
//
tag : @mysticalmoonb3ams @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction 💛
Summary: In the chaos of a mass-casualty call, your badges get swapped, leading to a quiet, loving moment with Jack as you switch them back.
A/N: I need more Abbot on my screen now! This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.
Masterlist
The page comes in while you and Jack are still tangled together in bed, limbs warm and sweaty under the blanket.
The sheets are twisted around your legs, your fingers brushing against his arm, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat through the warmth of his chest. His head is buried into your shoulder, and you watch the slow rise and fall of his chest. The softness of his hair grazes your cheeks, and the faint scent of his cologne lingers in the bedroom air.
Not one, but the two sharp shrills echo through the quiet, dark room.
For a moment, neither of you moves, letting the warmth sink into your bones one last time. You cling to the familiar weight of him, memorizing the feelings of being wrapped in his arms.
Then the blankets are thrown back. Clothes are shoved on in a rush.
“Train derailment,” Jack mutters, already reaching for his pager. “Mass casualty.”
You don't even answer, just nod; both pagers going off are already a serious clue that something big has happened.
It was barely ten minutes ago that you were in bed, still feeling the lingering warmth of each other's skin, but now you're both pushing through the ambulance bay doors as if you're late.
The emergency department is pure chaos.
Sirens still wail outside as paramedics flood in, wheeling stretcher after stretcher, while nurses move quickly between trauma bays. Voices overlap with orders and updates, and someone is shouting for more crash carts. Monitors beep in uneven rhythms, alarms screaming in bursts, each one pulling your attention in a different direction. The smell of antiseptic and blood cuts through the air. The noise is so loud it makes your head spin.
You toss your bag aside, almost forgetting it in your rush, clipping your badge on without thinking. Jack does the same. Neither of you notices the switch, too busy being swept into the utter madness. Somewhere in the noise, the warmth and intimacy of the morning feel miles away.
You barely see Jack after you split off. One second, he’s beside you, next he's being pulled into Trauma Two while you’re being escorted into Trauma Four.
“Doctor, over here! Males, mid-forties, chest trauma, hypotensive–” a paramedic sounds as you slide the stretcher into the bay.
You’re already moving. “On my count: one, two, three,” you guide the team as the patient is transferred over. “Get me a pressure bag and a quick exam.”
Hands follow your motions automatically, your mind running through the mental checklist without a conscious thought. Every movement is precise, every order sharp, every instruction crisp.
“BP’s dropping!” a nurse calls.
“Breath sounds decreased on the left—”
You don’t hesitate. “Prep for a chest tube.”
“I’ll assist.”
The voice is close this time. Robby.
You glance up just enough to see him stepping into the chaos beside you, already gloved, focused, moving with the ease of someone who has done this hundreds of times.
“Let’s do this,” he adds.
Everything narrows after that. Hands steady, orders sharp. No wasted movement. You work around each other seamlessly, like a well-oiled machine. Friendly and familiar even amidst the chaos, the unspoken trust between you is clear.
“Tube in.”
“Great. Watch his pressure.” Robby calls.
“It’s coming up.”
A brief sigh of relief floats through the room when the patient's pressure stabilizes. For a moment, the chaos eases, and Robby’s gaze flicks towards you.
Down.
Your badge.
His eyes linger for a second.
Fucking knew it, he thinks, internally laughing at how obvious it is now that you and Abbot are together. Another glance, just to be sure, then he looks back towards the patient as if nothing happened.
“Nice call,” he murmurs, already refocusing.
And just like that, what he saw is buried, under the noise, under the urgency, under everything else.
It wasn’t until you finally stepped out into the hallway that the adrenaline started to wear off.
You tug your gloves, exhaling slowly, the snap of latex echoing faintly as you toss them into the garbage. The chaos of the trauma room still rings in your ears.
Besides you, Robby is also pulling his gloves off, a little slower but more deliberate.
“Nice work, Abbot,” he says.
You frown, confusion washing over your face. “...What?”
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances sideways at you before lifting his hand, gesturing towards your chest.
Your stomach drops before you even look down.
But you do.
And there it is.
Jack Abbot, Doctor.
Clipped neatly onto your scrubs as if it belongs there.
Shit
Your fingers brush the badge, hoping maybe a simple touch could make your own name reappear. It doesn't.
Your mind races, shifting through chaos, the adrenaline, the exhaustion. Of course, it had to be Robby who noticed. He isn’t the chief for nothing. Your chest tightens slightly, not from embarrassment but from the knowledge that Robby finally knows your secret.
Robby lets out a quiet breath, a mix of hum and a suppressed laugh.
“I noticed back there,” he mentions, glancing back at the trauma room you both just came from. “When you called for the chest tube.”
You freeze. If he noticed that in all of that chaos…who else did?
“Figured I’d wait,” he adds, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You exhale, tension creeping in now, sharper than before. “Robby—”
“Don’t ruin this.”
You blink. “Ruin what exactly?”
“This,” he says, finally looking at you properly now, the grin breaking through. “This is too good.”
You cross your arms, trying to pull yourself together, even as your pulse picks up. “It’s a simple mistake.”
“Mmm.” He hums, unconvinced. “You just somehow happened to grab his badge? In the dark? Maybe while trying to get dressed in a hurry.”
You don’t answer. The silence already tells Robby everything he needs. His expression shifts from amusement to quiet satisfaction, the kind of smug certainty that says I knew it. The subtle lift of his brow, the slight ease in his shoulders. He was right. Always.
Finally, you let out a laugh, letting the truth slip out. He’s going to find out eventually; might as well just tell him.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “That’s what happened.”
Robby’s grin widened, triumphant and teasing but still completely warm. He’s not disappointed, god knows Jack needs someone steady in his life like you. He’s satisfied that his growing suspicion of you two has been proven right.
“I so knew it,” he murmurs mostly to himself, tilting his head, then adds, nudging you subtly, “Go find the actual Dr. Abbot and switch badges. Before anyone else notices your little secret.”
You shake your head, tired. “I hate you.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly pleased. “That’s what everyone says when I’m right.”
For the first time since the trauma room, the tension in your chest eases, your shoulder loosening. A calm, settling feeling washes over you at the knowledge that Robby's approval and teasing bring, right in the middle of the chaos.
You don't have to look very far to find Jack. He’s just outside of Trauma Two, speaking with one of the nurses, his voice low and steady as he goes over updates. His sleeves are still rolled up from working; he looks the same as he always does after something like this, focused, grounded, like the chaos never affects him in the way it does for everyone else.
You watch the way he nods, the way his hand rests on his hip, the way his weight settles more firmly on his left side.
The memory of how close you were just an hour ago, warm sheets, quiet breaths, his arms wrapped around you, rushes back. And now this.
Your chest feels full, content.
His eyes flick up and find you immediately. No confusion, just recognition, like he's been aware of you the entire time, even when he wasn't looking.
“Give me a second,” he says to the nurse, already stepping away and heading towards you.
You meet him halfway. The ED noise fades into the background.
You don’t say anything right away, but neither does he. Enjoying the little moment.
Then his gaze drops towards your badge.
He lets out a soft laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly as he tips his head down.
“No way,” he murmurs, tapping the badge lightly. “You’re kidding me.”
“We didn't notice when we got paged in,” you murmur back, a mixture of groan and smile.
“I can tell,” he says easily, still smiling. “Still funny, though.”
“Robby knows,” you whisper.
Jack pauses. Then a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips.
“I’m guessing that’s how you found out,” he says, glancing at you, “He noticed before you did?”
“Of course he did,” you admit.
Jack shakes his head lightly. “Yeah. That sounds like him.”
A quiet pause settles between you.
“We should probably switch them back.”
“Probably,” he agrees.
But neither of you moves right away, as if stepping back means breaking something.
Jack unclips his badge from your scrubs. Your breath catches, both simple and profound. You do the same, removing his from your chest. The trade is quick, charged, fingers brushing softly, lingering longer than necessary.
You feel the warmth of him through the contact, the rise and fall of his breathing steady and grounding. Neither pulls away.
Jack takes hold of your badge, glancing down at your name, your title, before looking back up at you. Something in his expression shifts. Softer. Loving. He leans closer in just enough to share the warmth in the bright hallway.
“One day,” he adds, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “that badge might say Abbot anyway.”
Your breath catches. Not from surprise. From the way he says it. As if these few months together meant everything to him. Something warm spreads through you, grounding you in a way the adrenaline never could.
“…Yeah?” you ask quietly.
Jack holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” he says, certain. In that single word, you feel the weight of everything he feels for you, how much he trusts you, how much he loves you.
He finally steps back, just enough to break the tension, but his gaze never wavers, carrying all of it without a single word.
Then, almost casually, he says, “Let’s get back to work.”
The words are ordinary, but the look that comes with them is anything but. It lingers in your mind, steady and warm, as you turn and step back into the rush of the hospital together, badges finally switched, side by side, knowing you’ll be back in bed together soon.
