#⌒⠀⠀whatever⠀⠀makes⠀⠀you⠀⠀feel⠀⠀better⠀

[rawme-price]

Hmmm thinking abt food aggressive simon and reader who likes to feed him.

He always grew up food insecure, not for lack of resources but because his old man deliberately withheld food. He learned to eat fast, became protective and aggressive over whatever food he was alotted before it could be taken away. Simon tries to hide it, and usually I works bc he is careful to eat alone.

But suddenly he has you, and you like to feed him constantly. You used to just share lunch spaces together bc u were insecure about eating around alot of people, but started to take note over how he would hunch over his plate, an arm slung in front as a barrier. Ur no stranger to eating habits caused by trauma, but you want him to feel comfortable.

So the next time you and simon eat together, you pack an extra bento box. Its rice, ham, and various veggies, same as yours. You silently slide it over when hes done eating his own meal, carefully casual about the whole thing.

It becomes a thing for u two. You begin to put some real effort into meal prep, researching how to properly balance macros and nutrients and everything else instead of just tossing together what u like. You also start carrying around granola bars and fruit strips, tossing them to the lieutenant whenever you happen to pass in the halls.

You wouldnt say he starts to fill out, but he definitely starts looking better, a bit plusher, more hydrated. His skin doesnt cling to his muscles anymore. Its nice. Feeding him, caring for him. It makes you feel warm that the guy you've grown so close to is doing better because of you.

He still clings a bit too tight to his plate, still hunches a bit, but hes slowed down to at least savor the food. Its fine, you still dont like eating in groups, but now you both can eat together.

Uhh...idk man I just wanna give him all the love he never had

(Pssstt I wrote a pt 2)

[gangplanksorenji]

Her (Risky) Invitation.

Pairing: Chuu x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,432

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This fic was supposed to be out as a BFH but I got busy so whatever haha. I feel like this should out in the draft hell since my folder's getting stacked and dusted (rip) but anyways, hope you guys like this pretty quick bit.

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The ebullient sounds of the audience roars around the stadium, and you contribute to it with a single percentile. The match is getting exciting at this moment, considering how a single home run changed the course of the game yet someone isn’t in the same boat as you.

“This is pretty boring, argh—” The girl is unfiltered, not giving a care on who may hear her despite her opening pitch earlier that made the crowd erupt in cheers.

“Don’t say that—a wrong word that comes out of your mouth could get you in trouble, Chuu.”

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, following a coy smile as you sigh in little disbelief.

She doesn’t care, and you couldn't care less—her pettiness is something you despise, an attitude worth removing with teaching her a lesson but that won’t even make her learn anything.

“What do you mean ‘so’?”

She brushes you off, looking at the distance, reeking with boredom, and with nothing much for Chuu to say right after, you just avert your attention back to the game where it’s getting spicy.

“You know what—whatever, I’ll go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You couldn’t care less even if she leaves the stadium (metaphorically, you do, yet realistically, you won’t let her) knowing how you’re getting more hooked with the game in front of you.

Letting Chuu by, you nod to her as she just looks at you and flashes out of your sight, through the door, then averted your attention towards the possible climax of this stupendous game.

“Hope this delivers an exciting ending.” You hope it does, and you’re looking forward to what happens in the next minutes.

---

Almost a home run, and the waves of cheers erupt as the pitcher poises himself to throw the ball until a buzz in your phone piques your attention.

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “come at the restroom rn plsss”

You at 5:59 PM - “why am i gonna go there with u?? something wrong?”

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “yeah, just come over pls pls”

The ephemeral conversation sums up: her needing your help on something, an immediate call for you, and possibly another game from her—you know how this can end and whatever the outcome may be, you would welcome it with open arms because it’s Chuu and you can’t resist her.

You’re quick to get off your seat and excuse yourself, not giving a damn if the game’s getting spicy or not.

“This better not be a waste of my time...” You’re optimistic it won’t be, rather suggestive or not, you’re in positive spirits with what trick she may have up her sleeve.

---

You’re an easy bait and no one can blame you for that—like earlier, you can’t resist Chuu, not even in public places like this and you doubt anyone would care if something may happen here, the eruption of cheers that quakes the stadium says otherwise.

“It’s pretty compact here, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t look like it—” Chuu’s eyes wander around the bathroom, sensing possible dangers to unveil such profanities. “Besides, this is the perfect place.”

It was all part of your plan, and hers—it was all an act out there, because deep inside, the both of you want to discover the thrill of the underlying threat of being observed, but you’d love to keep all of what’s bound to happen for you and you only.

You’d make it clandestine, a secret that will be locked just between the both of you.

“Can’t wait any longer~” Chuu’s tone teases you, legs uneasy as you could sense her wetness beneath such a hot pair of jeans that accentuates the fine build of her ass. You can’t let yourself die out of impatience, a cruel death that’s not worth as your hands did an audacious move—gripping her ass and pulling her closer to you.

“Me neither.” It’s simple, enough for Chuu to receive the message with clarity as your lips lock hers. An entangled mess comes right after, hungrily exchanging torrid kisses with tongues dancing around gracefully with the aim to taste each other.

She’s insatiable and you can’t wait to just do the unthinkable. Knowing her patience is running low too, she knows this isn’t the reason why the both of you are alone together in a restroom.

“Been wanting this for a while.” Her breath blesses your face, just inches away as her seductive barrage of words comes after, not without her hand finding its way onto your clothed bulge that’s growing with every second that passes.

“Elaborate, Chuu.”

“Huh, you wanna hear the things I want to do with your cock?” She chuckles as you nod, Chuu then fixing her hair and tucking it behind her ear just to whisper these words: I want to stroke your cock until it leaks all over my fingers, then, I’ll suck it sloppily just like you always wanted, and then, you’ll cum all over my face, and it’s not just going to end there, because you’re going to pound me in front of this mirror until you drain your balls into me.

You’re fucked, and you love it. Chuu doesn’t just say it all because she wants to, because she’ll mark her words and she’ll fulfill her needs whatever it takes.

“So, you in?” Simples words as a smirk paints your face, then nodded knowing how much you fucking liked the dirty talk she’s escaped.

She doesn’t need to be commanded, because it’s in her nature to know what she’s an expert at, and she’ll show you why you won’t find a girl like her—she’s just that type of girl. She drops down to her knees, dexterous fingers coming right after, unbuckling your belt and undressing what fabric that just hinders her to her deserved reward. She can undress you with her eyes closed, and with just your boxers as the last bit of defense, she exhales and drops it down with one, swift motion.

Her eyes glimmer in lust and admiration, your erect shaft in sight for her to savor for the umpteenth time. She places her hand around it and brings shivers down in you, the coldness of her hand rivaling the emanating heat of your cock.

She strokes it, you wincing with that hint of pain until she spats on her hand and continues her expertise. “Just want it slow? Give you some room?”

As much as you want to tell her to pacen up her strokes, you want to savor every second of her dexterous talent, a pleasurable drive that’s downright commendable. “Like t-that, Chuu—god, your hands are a blessing.”

“Already stuttering? Oh my, I really did turn you on, hm?” Those doe-eyes that only have innocence as its façade, begs for your answer as she continues her work until the base of your shaft.

“What do you think, hm?” It’s rhetorical and you know it as her laugh says otherwise. She averts her eyes onto your already throbbing cock, leaking such a minuscule amount on the slit where her tongue laps the gifts, making your knees weak.

“I fucking love you—and this cock, god.” Her handjobs are just the side dish, because the main course is being delivered immediately, lips enveloping on a tight snug that earns a moan out of your lips. Her strokes on your base are continuous, massaging the hardness where it stands tall yet you crumble, and it's evident with her lips venturing deeper, almost taking half of your shaft to really test you.

If she’s not careful, she’ll knock down the architecture of your legs, and she’ll pick up the pieces once she’s done. 

She just swirls around your sensitive crown, dethroning your attempts to resist her utter control. She licks with passion unwavering, moreso, her lips sucking you off like a lollipop with a suction that rivals even a vacuum. It doesn’t end there, because she’s just starting this, and she’s not even bobbing her head frantically to the point where the both of you become a mess.

Well, speaking of that, she’s fulfilling her promises, one by one.

“Shit—that feels good, Chuu.” You’re hissing, a hand cradles her head, then your fingers running through her locks as she bobs with a pace that’s moderate, yet her experience shows evidently—her absence of gag reflex, her tongue licking wherever it lands, her hands fondling your balls and her lips that’s wringing out the best bits of pleasure from you. Her bobs are in this recurring pattern to die out the inevitable building inside you—slow, fast, slow—and it’s just perfect, because you’re moaning like you mean and encouraging her that she’s doing great.

“Keep sucking—shit, you’re really a filthy cocksucker, aren’t you?” You taunt her but it falls deaf onto her ears, continuous with her pace and what she’s great at.

Saliva seeps out of her mouth, dripping onto your balls that she’s taking care of, until such a hot pursuit was hindered, ejecting out and looking at you with delight. “I am your filthy cocksucker.”

Then she continues, only this time, she’s locking eyes with you as down she goes, relentless with her oral pursuit of greatness.

Her nails are digging deeper, gripping your thighs harshly yet not enough to mark you, as she’s bobbing more furiously, the saliva staining her orange top and the puddle of worthless clothing of yours—rather rendered as worthless, the intention of the commotion says otherwise. She’s slobbering all over your length, gawking with the succulence as her actions are repeatedly dangerous and rightfully audacious—she doesn’t care if her mascara runs rivulets onto her cheeks or she messes the clothing full of saliva, because all that matters is the fulfillment of the need.

She’s just bringing you down slowly, piece by piece until you break as she’s relentless, but she knows what her limits are, and releases such warmth out with a loud pop.

“Are you close? You’ve been throbbing more than before—like my mouth that much?” She’s igniting you, words that unlock a safe that’s your reservoir, slowly filling in and nearing the end. You’re not going to be under her spell, not this time, and as much as she thinks you’re lying, there will be a single answer to her rhetorical question.

“No and yes, Chuu.”

She’s stroking, wringing it out leisurely and you inevitably grunt as she does so, a mischievous smile directed towards you as she seems appalled with your answer. “Elaborate, please?”

She knows she’s fucking you up, barely got any space to genuinely articulate a sentence, what more about a simple elaboration? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because your earlier reply is enough to stroke her ego, and she’s giving it all, stopping the feverish pumps and letting her mouth do the job.

Let’s be honest, with the suction Chuu provides, the plumpness of her lips and her mouth complementing the shape of your cock, you’re not going anywhere far as the inevitable builds up quick on par with her pace. Albeit the lower ground, she keeps your lower body in check, ultimately powerless to move as all you can do is embrace the warmth she brings. You’re gripping those dark locks as a leverage, not restraint and decelerating her pace because this is the outlet you have to combat the pleasure she delivers.

You want to thrust and fuck her throat just to suffice the filthiness that’s orchestrated at your end, and with those doe-eyes glimmering with lust, she’s quick to assess the situation and nods as her lips just puckers at the tip of your cock.

“Do it—” She laps the drool that dribbles onto your underside, licking fervently as she continues her verbal approval. “—fuck my face—I know you’re dying to do that.” 

With her disheveled look begging to get your job done, you know it’s the green light. She doesn’t need a breather even if you ask her to have one, because she is that addicted to your taste that she can’t bear the vision of being depraved by it even for just a second. Your pace is immediately ruthless, and you wouldn’t give such an introductory act considering how she slobbered all over your length earlier without giving a damn with the mess she can make.

The pace dictated didn’t render herself useless, being used like a toy, but instead battled against your roughness as she bobs repeatedly alongside your thrusts, which makes her falter a little, gagging onto the rapid actions of filth. Your thrust, do a couple and she gags—it’s beautiful, all that pretty countenance just to be ruined within minutes as your control dominates her. Chasing the nearing high, your hands grip a handful of her hair, a leverage to muster greater pace, skin clapping and her repeated gags reverberating around the restroom. 

At this point, someone may suspect something suspicious between the both of you, and thank god her mouth is shut thanks to you because you know how much noise she can create in such a filthy session with you.

“Fucking like t-that, hm?” You tug her hair as she looks up at you with glee beneath the dishevelment, nodding with just those eyes as you continue your assault, yet she never resisted, only carving more.

You’re dying to paint her body with your cum, you really do—nobody can blame you for that, not when her outfit perfectly accentuates a godly figure. Despite that, you can’t just do that immediately when she’s still all dressed but just a mess.

Just a mess. Well, you should really fulfill her needs and add up to the monstrosity.

You pull out as the saliva-sheathed cock is throbbing relentlessly, as Chuu catches her breath but her words contradict her visible struggles.

“Hah—hah, I c-can—can take more of it—fuck me more, please.”

Her grip on your thighs weaken and ultimately, you’ll do what you need to do. 

“But I can’t, Chuu.” Your hand raises her chin, as she smiles and anticipates what you’re about to do. What she had in mind might be right, and you’d know it’s imminent. “Stay fucking there and make me cum.”

She does what she’s told to and does it with eagerness. You’re on your wit’s end as Chuu’s fingers wrap around them and muster a velocity unparalleled, slick with her drool and messing her up. She closes her eyes as she knows what’s about to come, and she embraces it.

White, pearlescent streaks paint her porcelain skin, splattering and coating almost every feature of her face as her awaiting mouth receives plenty of her reward. She hums in satisfaction with what you’ve given her, the warmth complementing the hotness the both of you are in and the succulent taste that she’s been yearning for quite some time.

This is far from over and she knows it, but for now, you marvel at the fruit you bear—an outstanding sight, her face covered with your cum and it’s filthy in all of the right places.

She parts her lips, hitches a breath and opens her eyes just to meet yours painted with utter satisfaction. Sweat forms on your forehead and it’s worth effort, ruining her in a space where risk lingers around the corner.

Even with the marvelous sight, you’re still not done with her, and she knows that.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You didn’t hesitate to outpower her, grabbing her by the wrists and flipping her over, facing the mirror. “And I’m fucking you up to get the job done.”

You meant it, and she gets herself ready.

Your eyes just darts onto her fine ass accentuated by those tight jeans (thankfully), its scrumptious volume allowing you to really test its integrity with a single, harsh spank that makes her yelp, and bite her lip. You see it in the mirror, a clear vision that she’s genuinely enjoying this and so you did another until you know to yourself that you shouldn’t play with your food.

You tug, she wiggles and you spank. It repeats for another time as the lust emanates the air the second that inviting face of hers exactly points out her reasons to fuck her—it doesn’t get any better than this and you know it, you’re damn impatient as much as she is. You undress her pants slowly, down to its ankles as your cock throbbed to the sight of a monumental wonder of nature and you’re glad to see it firsthand, nobody being blessed as much as you are. 

“Red ones, hm?”

“Like what you’re seeing? It’s your favorite shade.” Chuu knows you well, and you can’t lie. You just can’t help the fact that this looks like she orchestrated herself for you to fuck her publicly, anticipating with the right moment of the possible embarrassment to come and risk of being caught.

“You’re really a fucking slut—you did this intentionally, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you at this very day, hm?” More spanks wrings out cries at her end, a sweet disposal of the masked pleasure. She laughs and kept that gleeful face on hers, nodding because you debunking her sole reasons was just a piece of cake.

“You alwa—o–oh! Fuck, t-that’s great…” She grows weak, the second finger teasing the cameltoe formed onto those panties, feeling her wetness evident as her hands grasp the concrete of the sink and close her eyes.

“Keep d-doing that—oh!” 

“Grab the sink, Chuu.”

“What—ow!” You spank as your command renders deaf on her ears, the pleasure finally getting into her and she’s submitting slowly to you faster than you’ve expected.

“I’m fucking you with my fingers—be ready. Grab the fucking sink.” She does what she’s told to, gripping tighter as you plunge a finger, half with its depth and she moans in reply—that alone is the driving force to tease her, plunging another just to elicit that same, sexy moan you love hearing. 

You thrust in and out, a repeated process that orchestrates sounds in such a rhythmical and discordant pattern even with such a benign way of introducing yourself into her clit. You swipe and slowly make her descend down to her carnal desires, and your eyes sparkle with each passing second that passes, drooling with the fact how much it turns you on to see her dripping, glistening under the lights and her legs shuddering due to your own actions.

Guess you need to really start the show, for the better for both worlds.

Chuu knows you can’t contain it anymore, unleashing the beast, setting up the pace and going to “home-run” all over her backside—

“Fuck!” She swears at you, laced in goodness of what she’s feeling as your exposed lengths envelops another eventful paradise, plunging in deep and withdrawing with just the tip resting in it. The pace is sluggish, much intended for your comfort rather than hers, getting accustomed to her tightness that still surprises you until this day. You hold her hips and she holds the side of the sink tighter as your thrusts grow harsher and deeper, the profoundness driving you into insanity as Chuu spews profanities that reverberate around the puny restroom. It’s not just her dulcet tone that is an ear-candy, but also the clapping of your bodies against each other, a sound that adds to the erotic soundtrack that’s purely an abomination, your greatest creation.

She grows louder and it alerts you, so with an immediate action against it, the domination truly shows and it starts with you reprimanding her. “Shut y-yourself or we’re going to be fucked and you’re not gonna like it—do you understand?”

It’s surprising how articulate you could still be even with thrusts nigh-unbearable. Your other hand is occupied shutting her mouth up, letting her muffled screams vibrate on your hand as her eyes portray the sight of being satisfied, and it’s all shown in the mirror just to fuel you to take it into the extremes. It will be, but you’re still having the semblance of humanity left to just fuck her in a pace that she can take but if she talk right now,  you know that she’ll beg for more and she won’t break—the former, an absolute chant yet the latter can be debatable.

Thank god the cheers and the sounds outside rivals the absolute sinful cacophonies the both of you muster, and you’re thanking the blessing in disguise with that. With the climax of the game being evident outside thanks to the sounds of the audience, now brings the opportunity to bring spanks onto her butt that makes her grit her teeth in pain and pleasure.

You let go of your hand on her mouth to let those beautiful moans out for your ears to be blessed again, and she wails in pleasure with your pace and the harshness your hand makes contact with her ass. The sight of a rosy hue is the fruit of your efforts, and the events occurring in such a stingful session is a sight to see—a jiggle of her ass was enough to make you riled up even more.

You’re gripping her hips and you can foresee what can be her—

“Shit! Fuck, more, more! G-god, just fuck me real g-good…” Chuu is utterly fucked and she’ll thank you for it. She snapped and there she goes, you reading her like a book—she’s going to beg for more and with her numerous pleas that isn’t even registering in her head totally, you fulfill it anyways knowing it’s the route that you’ll inevitably pass.

“Fuck m-me—my ass—shit, more!” Your hips muster a velocity that is uncertain, but ultimately frantic and in for no-return. Her juices just stain the tiles and thank god you still have some time to discard her pants away to the sinful scene where her nectar will fall into, and at that point you know you’re breaking her apart slowly. At this point, Chuu is just blabbering with nonsensical jumbled pieces of existing words that will soon be more incoherent when you put the final in the coffin.

“You fucking like that, huh?” She nods in the mirror, those cum-glazed lips smiling after as she closes her eyes, savoring whatever that’s stimulating her and the pleasure you’re bringing all over her body.

“God, fuck! Ah, you’re crazy!” You pull her hair and make it as a leverage for you to fuck her truly. The pain stings but is translated as pleasure the second she feels it, and it’s evident because she’s been secretly talking about it and with the live reaction, oh, it’s all right there for you to hear.

You spank her and she bites her lip, you hissing at her remarks. “What did I say? Shut your fucking mouth.”

You’re vulgar and she didn’t care, even dropping the honorifics when you’re dropping her pants. You thrust repeatedly until burying it deep in her, making her moan so sultry and cry in pleasure, as lean towards her and whispered, “You want my cum again, hm?”

You slowly oscillate your hips, kissing her nape and ear as she replies an audible yes that enables the green light for the denouement of this spectacular show—spoiler: you did this before and you’ll never get tired of doing it again.

You pull yourself back, grab Chuu’s waist and run your hands towards her clothed tits, caressing it as she moans with your actions and cries once you return to your original pace. It went for possibly twenty seconds that felt like minutes on how heavenly she feels until you lean towards her again, this time, announcing the very thing she wants to hear again.

“I’m going to fucking cum, Chuu.”

You’re nearing the end and it won’t be in her pussy.

Well, here are the reasons why: firstly, you don’t want people to see your reward marked onto her pants and that would be unhygienic; second, she haven’t earned that luxury yet as per the situation the both of you are in; third, it’s a damn risk to it knowing it’s a sudden invitation by Chuu because you don’t want to risk these things; and lastly, you might just need to add up to the mess on her face you plastered all over her earlier.

Reasonable arguments, and it’s easier to be done than being said.

She doesn’t argue with your principles and wants, but eagerly obliges as she brings herself down to her knees again, stares at you with anticipation and her mouth agape. You know she really does know what she’s doing when she’s initiating the actions, stroking your cock frantically as your knees shake a little due to the pleasure her hands bring.

“Come on—cum on my face, right he—” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence when yours does, spurting strings and strings of cum on her already disheveled face, flinching whenever it gets on her forehead and savors with her hums when it gets on her tongue and lips. With the final orgasm that possibly lasted about ten seconds, she still wrings out the leftover cum in your slit, even licking it clean to savor your succulence, then smiling towards you because of the gratification.

“God, you still came a lot…” She still grips your length, admiring it as she slowly strokes it for good measure as an ending.

“It’s all your fault, Chuu.” You reply back, chuckling as the both of you exchange smiles. Chuu licks her lips and wipes her face full of your cum, the messy liquid being tasted by hers and she commends that taste, and you roll your eyes because of that.

Now, with the adrenaline diminishing slowly, the both of you are grasping the situation as the both of you get dressed up quickly, and Chuu is cleaning up the mess you’ve made on her face.

“Shit—I’m sorry, Chuu—was I too rough? Sorry if I came too much—”

“No, no, it’s fine—I can retouch and reason with them later. You got me pretty sore though.” Her bubbly smile takes effect and reassures you, and you trust what she can do to reason herself out of this mess. You got her ready and you know it’s still a risk even going out, even with the busy atmosphere around the stadium.

Chuu just smiles at you, smirking even with a single sentence that follows. “We should do these things again, I never knew it would be this fun…”

You’d be truly damned if it was to be fulfilled but you’re foreseeing the inevitable, and it’s just about when would be the next time such sin would happen.

[papayaem]

The Paddock Baby

Dad!Oscar Piastri x Sick!Daughter!reader

Summary: In which Oscar Piastrias daughter is unwell in the paddock but Oscar still has to attend to media duties but it's okay because all she wants is her daddy

Warnings: Mentions of stomach bug, fever, clingy, fluff, use of the names 'darling' and 'sweetie'

Oscar's heart was racing—not because of the usual tension of qualifying, or the anticipation of race day—but because of the little bundle of energy in his arms, the one that wasn’t so energetic today.

Three-year-old you, his child, were clinging to him like a koala on a tree. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, and your tiny little hands were gripping the collar of his shirt as if it were the only thing holding you to this world.

Oscar couldn’t help but chuckle softly as he glanced down at you, noting how you looked pale and slightly flushed from whatever bug had decided to strike you in the middle of a race weekend. You were still adorable in your tiny Mclaren-themed onesie which Zak had bought and insisted you wear at least once this weekend, your golden curls slightly damp from a nap he’d tried to coax you into. But now, the fever had set in, and all you wanted was your dad.

"Hey, little champ," he murmured softly, adjusting your position in his arms as he walked through the crowded paddock. “Feeling better?”

You sniffled into his neck, not answering, only curling in tighter. He could feel the heat from your forehead press against his skin, making his heart ache a little more.

"I know, I know," he said, trying to reassure you, though his own nerves were starting to creep up on him. The interviews were next, and there was no way he could skip them. It was one of the busiest weekends of the season, and he had to be at his best for his team and his sponsors.

He smiled as a couple of photographers waved at him, but when they saw the little one in his arms, their expressions softened. It was well-known that Oscar was a family man, but seeing him carrying his child in the paddock, his typically composed demeanor now a bit more fragile with a sick little one in his arms, was a different sight.

"Sorry, mate, she’s a bit under the weather today," Oscar said to one of the photographers who gave him an understanding look. He felt an unspoken wave of support and respect as they backed off, giving him some space.

As Oscar made his way toward the interview area, he could hear the voice of his team’s PR manager, Sarah, calling to him from behind. "Oscar, we're on in five minutes. Is she alright? Should we reschedule?"

He shook his head, trying to mask his concern with a smile. "No, no, we’re good. I’ll manage."

You let out a soft whimper, and Oscar felt his heart tug. "It's okay, darling. Daddy's got you." He whispered it over and over like a mantra, feeling like he was walking a fine line between being the Formula 1 driver everyone expected him to be and the dad he knew he was.

When they reached the media area, Oscar had to pause for a moment, adjusting your position in his arms so you weren’t pressing too hard against his chest. You were so small—he could easily hold you in one arm, but with how sick you were, you weren’t just heavy in weight, but emotionally heavy too.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. "Let’s get this over with.”

As he sat down for the interview, you rested your head against his shoulder, the soft whimpers still escaping your mouth as you tried to fight the drowsiness the fever brought on.

The first couple of questions were normal enough. The reporters asked about the weekend, the car, his thoughts on qualifying, but they kept glancing at you. It was clear the baby in his arms was taking more attention than the typical line of questioning.

"Looks like you’ve got some company today, Oscar," one of the reporters remarked, chuckling lightly. "Your daughter doesn’t look too well."

Oscar gave a half-smile, nodding. "Yeah, she’s not feeling great. Poor thing’s got a stomach bug. But she’s a trooper."

He adjusted you slightly as you let out a tiny whine, causing a few of the reporters to give each other concerned looks. One of them, a woman with a kind smile, spoke up. “Do you want to take a break? We can reschedule, Oscar. You don’t have to do this right now.”

Oscar paused, his eyes darting between the interviewer and his daughter, who had now settled into the crook of his arm.

He could feel his own worries surfacing. He loved racing, but you—his little one—came first. And this moment wasn’t just about him; it was about showing that balance between his career and his life as a dad.

"No," he said softly but firmly, "We’re almost done here, and I promised my team I’d be here. Besides, she seems to like being close to Daddy right now. I think we’ll be okay."

Another reporter asked a question, but Oscar was no longer entirely focused. His eyes were on you—your little face pressed against him, still hot with fever, but now calm in his embrace. His heart ached, but it also swelled with love. You were his world. You were the only constant in his life, even when racing seemed to take over everything.

He answered the next couple of questions with a professionalism that had taken years to perfect, but internally, his mind was a whirl of concern for you.

The cameras flashed, and one of the photographers caught a candid shot of Oscar gazing down at you, looking both tender and tired. It was a raw, unpolished moment. The kind of shot that would go viral.

As soon as the interview wrapped up, he stood and immediately took a deep breath of relief. Sarah, his PR manager, was waiting nearby. "You did great, Oscar. But seriously, let’s get her checked out. You can’t work with her like this."

Oscar nodded, already starting to walk toward the medical area. You were still in his arms, though now your eyes were closed, and your little breaths were more shallow, as if sleep was trying to claim you.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he whispered. “Daddy’s got you. Just hang in there a little longer.”

After a short consultation with the paddock doctor, they confirmed it was just a mild stomach bug, and thankfully, there was nothing more serious to worry about. They gave Oscar some fluids for you and suggested he keep you hydrated.

By the time they left the medical area, Oscar felt a sense of relief wash over him. You were still drowsy, but at least you were no longer too hot to the touch. He cradled you against him as he walked back to the team’s garage.

"I think someone’s ready for a nap," Oscar murmured, brushing a lock of hair from your face. You shifted slightly in his arms, now clinging to him in your sleep, but the tension had left your little body.

Oscar’s phone buzzed with messages from his manager and sponsors, but for the first time all day, he felt the weight of it all slide off his shoulders. As he walked through the paddock, he realized something. His world wasn’t just here in the garage, or on the track, or under the spotlight—it was also right here, in his arms.

His daughter.

His little champion.

The team would have to wait for a bit. He had the most important thing in the world to focus on right now.

Please to not copy or Translate without permission x

[novaimperia]

★ 3am frustrations with streamer!choso

“‘take…your…shirt off.’ what? no, guys, please stop asking me to remove my clothes. for the last time, they’re staying on.”

on balance, choso would say he enjoys streaming – he essentially gets paid to do the things he does for free such as play video games, eat copious amounts of ramen whilst watching true crime documentaries, and talk about his day. the freedom to choose his own schedule and make decisions for himself is priceless. especially since he’s got to prioritise his classes and see his friends and family. 

it took a while to get to where he is now. at first, when he was set on just displaying whatever game he was playing, he had only one or two viewers. but after an accidental click and a flash of pig-tails, face tattoo, piercings, of a shirtless torso, hard and sharp abs, the viewership skyrocketed. comically so. now, he earns enough to be able to retire. all his friends respect and envy him. one must admit he is living the life.

if he had to pick a flaw in this whole thing, however, he might hesitantly and reluctantly point to his followers. they’re both the greatest part about his side gig, what with their never ending jokes and support, as well as the worst; there’s no telling what they’ll suggest in his comments next. 

“chat, stop asking me to go through my underwear drawer. no, they don’t have holes in them.” he squints at the screen and makes a frustrated sound. “i am not going to twerk while naked. guys, what the hell is wrong with you all? just tell me how i can defeat this boss so i can get the materials to level up my venti…oh, thanks, ‘chosoismypuppyboy69.’ i’ll be sure to change my team then.”

sighing, he keeps tapping on the keys, spamming with no rhyme or reason. for a computing student, he’s not very good at these games, but it sure does entertain the twenty thousand people watching at 3am. seeing him fumbling about, flinching at the most harmless of things, and constantly dying is apparently what they’d rather do than get some good night’s sleep. not that he’s any better. the man hasn’t had a full eight hours sleep in years. or maybe ever.

“‘do you tickle your prostate?’ what even is that? alright, that’s enough for tonight. i can’t deal with you guys; you’re like gremlins – yeah, i know what that is; i’ve watched the movie. yeah, obviously i watched it with my girlfriend; you know i don’t watch scary movies on my own. it is scary! i am not going to debate which movies are scary or not. what the hell? stop asking me to flash my dick piercing, oh my god. i regret ever telling you guys about that. okay okay. night, assholes.”

and with that, he logs off and leans back into his chair, staring up at the sky and wondering if the thousands he earned in just a few hours was worth it. 

then, his hips jerk up and a dog-like whine leaves his lips. 

“aw, cho…are they being annoying again?” 

he looks down. the sight of you kneeling between his spread legs, mouthing at his throbbing cock like the cum leaking from his piss slit is ice cream and you’re soaked with the sweat a hot summer’s day brings. ring-clad, his hand falls on top of your head, petting to both push you off and keep you there. “y-yeah, they’re the worst. they never know when to quit. i can’t believe you -ah fuck don’t suck so hard- you stayed there the whole time.”

you shrug, fingers leaving the shadows cast by the desk, flying up into the air and landing on his awaiting, parted lips which sloppily suckles at the sweet juices dripping down your digits. “mmm, such a good boy…how could i possibly leave you to fend for yourself with those horny vultures? who else was going to listen and send you the answers to your questions, huh, cho?”

big hands grip the armrests. the chair rattle with the shaking of his hips. balls squeeze painfully tight whilst choso licks his bottom lip, searching for any remnants of your taste and moaning loud and breathlessly at the feel of your hot, wet mouth engulfing his entire quivering length. grunting, he asks, “did you h-have to choose that username though? it’s -hmm i’m close baby- it’s embarrassing being called a p-puppy boy.”

“you aren’t my puppy boy?”

“no. i am.”

smirking, you blow a kiss up at him. slowly and with an extra amount of mischievous intent, you drawl, “then prove it, cho-cho.”

in this moment, as he stares with lidded eyes at the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen, the kind that sports power that can bring him to his knees at the snap of a finger, he realises he was wrong – his followers aren’t the worst. you are. because they ask knowing they’ll never get what they want whereas you ask knowing you will. you never hesitate to wield that sword, like lady justice, except instead of scales it’s his balls you hold in your spare hand. 

and who is he to argue?

so, with a blush on his cheeks, he shyly follows orders. 

“bark…b-bark…now -ahem- please make me cum. making me hold it in for hours is mean…bark.”

[h-monk]

my reactions

Absolutely incoherent rambling about everything I didn't like about "Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl" by French philosophy group Tiqqun

As long as they're both consenting adults, sure whatever

The problem with the manic pixie dream girl is how it takes someone in a very vulnerable position and puts them on a pedestal. You have a girl who, like everyone in our modern world, is bombarded by messages about how she's supposed to look, how she's supposed to behave. This bombardment really messes with your head! Then you take a coping strategy that mostly only makes sense in response to this bombardment and even then it only works for a few people or more of us would do it, and say "Wow. Isn't this coping strategy beautiful?"

If you aren't also saying or at least implying, "Wouldn't it be better if she didn't have to have this manic-pixie coping strategy at all?" I guess I'm going to hate your movie? I mean, the nice thing about the OP premise here is you can bring in the divorced mom and go, "You know, there's a richness of how to cope and the different approaches of these women can be together in a beautiful romance that's also really hot." Or alternately tell the creepy version of that dynamic, I mean The Favourite (2018) exists, so please go for that.

I guess I'm saying please don't give us the bad dynamic and try to sell us on it being good. If you do that, why did you even bother making both characters women in the first place?

Anyway, sorry to interrupt your otherwise reasonable demands. Please feel free to resume your banging of fists on the table until the movie gets made.

okay now that we’ve a had couple lesbian blockbusters and milfs are having a romance moment, we need to bring back the manic pixie dream girl. she was never fuckin suited to fixing all the problems of some boring twenty year old everyman, but you know who could actually benefit from a quirky free-spirited blue haired girl with pronouns (she/they)? a newly divorced forty-something mom who’s trying to learn how to be herself for the first time in her life

[undyingdecay]

Hiiii so I was thinking something about Bob and premature ejaculation? And he’d get so embarrassed but reader holds him and tells him that’s ok—yeah some smutty fluff 😭

- 😼

bob is the poster boy for this t sort of thing — not cocky, not smooth, just desperate and overeager and too fucking sensitive for his own good.

it’s not supposed to happen like this though.

bob had all these stupid, sweaty, daydreamed-out ideas about how tonight would go. how he was gonna take his time. be slow and good for you. mayb even make you come first — prove to himself he could handle it, that he could be the kind of man you’d wanna keep around.

but bob’s never been good at controlling himself. not when it comes to you.

becaus the second you get him between your thighs — warm and slick and looking up at him with those pretty, heavy-lidded eyes — it’s over. his brain short-circuits, his breath catches, and suddenly he’s sixteen again, fucking his fist thinking about a girl who never even knew his name.

you moan his name — just a little breathy thing, soft and sweet — and that’s it. it snaps whatever fragile thread of control he thought he had.

his stomach tightens. his hips stutter. and then he’s spilling inside you before he’s even gotten a rhythm going, face buried in your neck with a broken, mortified sound that isn’t quite a whimper and isn’t quite a sob.

“fuck—fuck, i’m sorry, baby—”

his voice cracks around it. his hands trembling where they’re braced on either side of your head, too scared to look at you, already trying to pull out like he can undo it somehow.

“i didn’t—I swear i didn’t mean to, it’s just—you’re so fuckin’ pretty, and you were makin’ those sounds, and—are you mad? i’ll hold it better next time i promise, one more chance”

he’s breathing too fast. going red from his neck to his hairline, damp with sweat, eyes wet in that glassy, embarrassed way he gets when he thinks he’s fucked up beyond fixing.

but you’re already catching his face in your hands, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. pulling him down into you, keeping him there when he tries to pull away.

“hey, hey,” you murmur, lips against his temple. “it’s okay, bobby. it’s okay.”

and it is. because the way he’s clinging to you now — small, needy, too ashamed to even meet your eyes — is the whole reason you wanted him in your bed to begin with. it was never abot how long he’d last or how many times he could make you come. it was about this. about bob letting himself fall apart in your arms, about him trusting you enough to show you the parts he’s ashamed of.

you feel him shudder against you, the hot, damp weight of his body pressing into yours, and you run your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to get him to meet your gaze.

“was it that good?”

and it’s a tease, yeah — but a soft one. gentle, more fond than mocking.

he groans, hiding his face against your neck again, and you feel his mouth move against your skin. a barely-there “m’sorry,” and you shush him, carding your fingers through his hair.

“don’t be. you’re so good for me, bob.”

you can feel him relax, just a litle. hips still pressed against yours, his softening cock twitching where it’s still nestled inside. you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“c’mon,” you whisper. “we’ll go again. you’ll show me how good you can be.”

and you feel the little shiver that runs through him. because yeah — you both know he will.

[blasphemyandbackshots]

lingerie preferences —blue lock

yoichi isagi

material: soft mesh or sheer cotton. something gentle, like you. he’s obsessed with how innocent it looks even when your body says otherwise.

colors: sky blue, ivory, blush pink. the softer, the more dangerous. it plays into his favorite contrast.

coverage: just enough. cheeky panties, bralettes, thigh-highs that look sweet but slide down with a single pull.

what he does: stares. breath catches in his throat. he gets quiet, needy and reverent. kisses your inner thigh like it’s sacred, eyes wild with want.

“you don’t even know what you do to me. stay just like that. please.”

meguru bachira

material: anything playful, like heart cutouts, mesh, glitter, fuzzy trim. he’s not picky, he just wants fun.

colors: sunshine yellow, lime green, bubblegum pink. bright and chaotic, just like him.

coverage: random. sheer boyshorts with bows, a bralette with pom-poms, maybe even glow-in-the-dark pasties.

what he does: giggles. then pounces. he pulls your panties aside with his teeth and goes absolutely feral, praising between every breath.

“fuck, you’re so cute. no—hot. stupid hot. god, let me taste you again.”

hyoma chigiri

material: silk, satin, or high-end lace. he has a thing for elegance and wants you dressed like temptation itself.

colors: deep crimson, royal blue, or black. something that looks expensive and deadly.

coverage: garter belts, lace bodysuits, long gloves. a fantasy turned real.

what he does: breathes you in. lingers. worships you like art. he’ll drag it off slowly, letting each strap slide down while watching your eyes flutter.

“you’re perfect like this. don’t rush. i want to enjoy every second.”

seishiro nagi

material: whatever’s easiest to peel off, but he loves silky panties that slide when he tugs your hips closer.

colors: pale lavender, mint green, soft neutrals. he likes pastel against bare skin.

coverage: minimal. bikini panties, soft cups, thin straps.

what he does: mumbles about how annoying it is… while palming your ass and biting your shoulder. then pulls your panties aside lazily and makes you moan his name.

“so soft… so pretty. c’mere. sit on my face a sec.”

rin itoshi

material: black lace. always black. maybe leather if he’s in a mood.

colors: black. that’s it. maybe dark wine red if he’s feeling generous.

coverage: practically none. g-strings, cupless bras, chokers. the less, the better.

what he does: groans like he’s in pain. clenches his jaw. fists the sheets. then ruins you without saying much, just breathy grunts and a whispered “mine”.

“you wore this on purpose. don’t pretend. turn around. now.”

rensuke kunigami

material: cotton or lace. he likes comfort but still wants it to feel sexy.

colors: forest green, deep navy, or burnt orange. earthy tones that bring out your warmth.

coverage: classic matching sets, boyshorts, supportive bras. bonus points if you wear his jersey over it.

what he does: freezes. his jaw ticks. he drags you onto his lap and kisses you like a man starved.

“shit. you’re gonna kill me one day, dressed like that. you know that, right?”

sae itoshi

material: satin and sheer. elegance only.

colors: dusty rose, wine red, champagne gold. muted but rich.

coverage: garter sets, robes that slide off, balconette bras. old hollywood seduction.

what he does: watches first. like he’s drinking it in. smirks. then slowly undresses you, piece by piece, praising your body like poetry.

“you look like a gift. one i don’t deserve, but i’ll still unwrap every inch.”

michael kaiser

material: latex, rhinestones, chains. if it glimmers or clings, he wants it.

colors: sapphire blue, gold, black. he wants you to look like you belong beside royalty.

coverage: more like decoration than clothing. chain bras, jeweled panties, body harnesses.

what he does: flashes that smug smile. takes photos for his eyes only. pulls you close by your throat and whispers praise in german.

“mein gott, look at you. like a dream. mine. all mine.”

reo mikage

material: velvet, mesh, glitter. anything luxurious and soft to touch.

colors: lilac, silver, blush. indulgent colors, romantic as hell.

coverage: coordinated sets with bows and ruffles. maybe pearls. he’s obsessed with details.

what he does: twirls a strand of your hair, traces the strap down your shoulder, says something filthy in the sweetest voice.

“you knew this would drive me crazy, didn’t you? say it. tell me you wore it for me.”

ryusei shidou

material: leather, studs, anything slutty. he lives for lingerie that screams bad decisions.

colors: hot pink, black, blood red. chaotic colors for his chaotic mind.

coverage: barely any. pasties, crotchless panties, harnesses. he wants a free show.

what he does: loses his damn mind. immediately rips it off with his teeth or fingers, dirty talk pouring out of him while he pins you down.

“fuuuuck. you’re sick for wearing this. i love it. now open your legs, baby.”

shoei barou

material: fine mesh, embroidered lace, or silk. nothing cheap. you wear it for him, and he wants it worthy of his queen.

colors: jet black, royal purple, or ruby red. regal, bold, dominant.

coverage: high-cut lace panties, bustier tops, matching gloves. full power fantasy.

what he does: growls. stalks toward you like a beast. picks you up without effort and drops you on the bed, eyes dark.

“you belong to me. every inch of you is mine. and now i’m gonna prove it.”

[rawme-price]

So...healer!reader pt 5, shes already healed the guys individually, where will they go from here?🤭

It becomes a bit of a routine. The guys try not to ask for ur healing too often, they value u as a genuine member of the team and would hate for u to think ur just here for that. But, you do notice they all perform much better after you heal them. Plus, it kind of gets on ur nerves when they try to 'tough out' some of the minor pain, bc u can feel it radiating from them and now that you have healed them before there's really no reason for u to be shy about it again.

So, you make sure to heal them all at least once a week, sometimes more if they actually are hurt. Ghost goes all soft and pliant, simply enjoying the fact his chronic pain is gone for a bit. Price tends to take the time to smoke, hes learned that ur healing with smoke in his lungs feels devine. Soap doesnt have much constant pain besides mild tinnitus, so he and gaz tend to work out like hell beforehand bc it feels alot better when the magic has something to focus on.

But you never seem to ask anything in return. Its frustrating. Especially considering soap has explicitly offered you to bed and all you've done is turn him down with a small smile. Needless to say, the guys are concerned. Gaz calls a team meeting between the four of them, a furrow in his brow.

"Do you think we're taking advantage?"

Its a long and serious discussion. Price thinks they are, they all have some sort of power dynamic over you (some more than others). Ghost doesnt think so, hes seen you punch a guy's lights out for looking at you the wrong way, if you didnt want to do something then you wouldnt. Soap seems mixed, he trusts your decisions, but he doesnt want to have accidentally coerced you into anything. The discussion gets them nowhere, so finally gaz calls you in.

U give them a confused look, but seem overall relaxed. "Uh- everything okay?"

Price doesnt mince words, "if you dont want to heal us. You dont have to. If you dont feel comfortable working in this team, give me the paperwork and ill approve it, no questions asked."

"What?" Youre honestly baffled, looking between them like they're crazy. "What on earth makes you think i dont want to heal you?? If I didnt then I wouldnt??"

So they explain they're reasoning, finally leading to the last point of u never seeking out ur own satisfaction. They don't want to make u heal them if u dont get some sort of satisfaction in return, it feels predatory or whatever.

You cant help it, you laugh. A bit from nerves but also from relief bc you thought you were being kicked out. "Oh my god- thats it?" You try to cover ur grin with a hand.

"the hell do you mean thats it?!" Soap retorts, a bit put off by ur sudden mirth "this is serious!"

"God! No- its- you dont understand-" you take a few deep breaths before calming down. Looking them in the eyes you shrug "im asexual. I uh- dont feel sexual desire. Like. At all."

Before they can freak out, you strike down whatever fears u know they're thinking "whatever sexual moments did occur were totally my choice. I may not get satisfaction like you guys do, but I like to see you guys happy, I like to help. Besides, all this healing has given me alot of practice with my magic, I really dont want to stop."

You and them have another, quite long discussion, and decide to keep up the arrangement. You get to practice magic, and they get to have the best damn orgasms of their lives. In fact, this probably means you can heal them more often now that you have permission to really experiment with ur methods.

(HA YALL THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A FIVESOME HUH??? WRONG!! anyways happy pride to all my fellow asexuals!! Also dw guys this is NOT the end of the series lol)

[taeeflwrr]

oh my god was this a rollercoaster of emotions #bringbackangst #imafeministdespiteallthethoughtsthatthisficmademeentertain #forgivemesinceitwashyuck

death by a thousand cuts | l.hc

“but if the story’s over, why am i still writing pages?”

💿now playing: death by a thousand cuts by taylor swift

❯ summary: If you get more than one love in a lifetime, why does your heart still beat for the boy who wrecked you completely?

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, second chance, cheating trope, smut.

❯ words: 9.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, smut, cheating (booo), exes, toxic relationship, a therapy joke, lots of angst, swearing, heartbreak, a whole lotta hurt, drinking, insecurities, jealousy, arguing, heavy petting, protected sex, nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), i can’t lie this is just 9k words of heartache and sex lol.

an: this fic will not be for everyone!! i do not condone cheating in any way, you’re a loser if you cheat. i just felt like writing something heart achey, and this is my favourite taylor swift song that inspires cheating fics whenever i listen to it.

“Give me that!”

Yeji snatches the phone out of your hand with the kind of urgency only a best friend possesses—the kind forged after too many years of watching you do the stupidest things when it comes to boys. Her eyes flare the moment she spots the familiar username. 

@ haechanahceah

“Oh my god. You’re kidding.” Her thumb hovers accusingly over the screen. “Y/N, it’s been a year. A whole year. Why haven’t you blocked Hyuck yet?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just tilt your head back with an exhausted exhale, reaching for the phone. Not because you want it back, but because it feels incriminating in her hands. Like a wound she’s now inspecting. And you don’t need her inspecting it.

“Because we’re okay,” you say, not entirely convincingly. “Mostly.”

It was just a like. On an Instagram post. Of him—with his friends.

(Some of them girls. Most of them girls. All of them tagged. And you definitely weren’t planning on clicking through their profiles in the middle of your best friend coffee date with your screen brightness criminally low. Definitely not.)

“And because we’re friends,” you add breezily. Then you pluck the phone from her hand and tap back into the app, your thumb moving faster than your brain, already leaving a comment beneath his photo.

Something flippant. Something funny. Something that screams: See? I’m a functioning, emotionally stable adult who can totally be friends with the boy who annihilated my heart while he gallivants around Europe on a boat with girls. 

Except probably subtler. 

Yeji stares at you like she’s witnessing a slow-motion car crash. “Oh, absolutely. And when that guy drove me home from the bar last weekend and told me I had pretty eyes, we were just friends too.”

You roll your eyes, swatting the air with your hand. “That’s different. Hyuck’s my childhood best friend. I can’t just cut him off now that we’re not…” you pause, the words catching in your throat like they always do, “you know?”

“No. I don’t know,” she says, arms crossed and chin lifted in that annoyingly perceptive way of hers. “Because you two are in a loop. An exhausting, toxic, ‘I-don’t-know-where-we-stand-with-each-other’ loop. And staying in touch with him is why you can’t move on.”

“We are not toxic.”

You are. 

But you’d already said it out loud like a reflex, before you even had time to make it sound believable. So, you try to fix it. 

“We’re just…”

You trail off, blinking hard like the answer might fall from the ceiling.

 “Co-dependent?” Lia offers helpfully. 

 You sigh. “Yes. That. Thank you, Lia.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Yeji says. 

You lean back in your chair, arms folded across your chest like armour. “Ugh. You wouldn’t get it.”

And they wouldn’t. They never have.

Because nobody gets you and Hyuck. Not Yeji, not Lia, not even the therapists you’ve paid a concerning amount of money to explain it all to you. No amount of therapy or psychoanalysis can remove the him-shaped hole inside of you. The way he exists like a second heartbeat.

How many times does a person truly get to fall in love? Not the practical kind. But the kind that rewires you completely. That makes you wonder how you ever existed before this person, and fear who you might become after. 

If love were fair—the answer would be simple. Once. Only ever once.

Because to love someone—truly love someone—is not just to hand over your heart. It’s to fold it delicately, wrap it in every part of your soul, and place it willingly in that person’s pocket. Trusting that they won’t ever give it back frayed or barely beating. 

And if they do (and he definitely did) well, what remains might resemble a heart, but it never beats the same again. You don’t think it ever will.

So yes. One love. One person. One boy—him.

Yeji calls it nostalgia. Says that since he was your first everything, it feels bigger than it was, and that’s why he’s taking up too much space inside your chest. She says you're scared of forgetting. But that’s not it.

You’d give anything to forget. It’s better than remembering everything. Of living in a world where he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where songs feel like him. Where movies feel like him. Where your own body sometimes feels like him because he’s marked it so damn much.

But if you did move on, if you could—you’d still have to ask yourself: where does all that breathless, foolish, all-consuming love go? 

The common consensus is that love turns to hate when it stays too long without being fed. But you can’t imagine a universe cruel enough to make you hate the very boy who made you believe in soulmates.

So you don’t hate him. Even though you should.

“Fine,” Yeji slumps back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that familiar fury she reserves exclusively for you—when you’re being like this. “You’re right. I don’t get it. I don’t get why you’re still in cahoots with the same boy who cheated on you and left you a complete mess.”

Lia gasps. “Yeji!”

But the thing is—Yeji has a point. And you know that. But knowing something and truly understanding it is two different things. 

You don’t understand how he put his hands on someone else. How his mouth touched a body that wasn’t yours. How he delivered that line—“I didn’t mean for it to happen”—with the kind of ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d practised it in the mirror before he had the balls to actually tell you. 

You didn’t understand, yet you knew all the same.

You were wearing his shirt when he told you. Still in his house. Still in the space you thought was yours too. And all you could think was: how many nights did he lie next to you like nothing was wrong? How many times did he touch you with hands that had already betrayed you?

He never told you when, or who. Just a sorry. A soft one. A useless one. And a vague promise that he’d do anything to fix it.

But there are some things sorry can’t fix.

You clear your throat, suddenly too aware of how loud your heartbeat feels in a room full of people who love you enough to hate him.

“Because we’re not in cahoots,” you correct. “We’re friends, Yej. Him and I have always been friends.”

It’s not a lie. Not exactly. 

You have been friends with Hyuck ever since he moved in next door to your family when you were six. And even then—when you climbed trees and shared crayons—you think your heart was already beating for him. So much you don’t know what life is without that pulse anymore. Without a hint of him running beneath your skin.

It’s why you plaster on a smile and say, “In fact, I even invited him to my birthday party next week.”

They look at you, eyes full of pity and sympathy. And that hurts way more than him breaking you ever did. Because now your friends are staring at you like you’re some sad, shattered, pathetic thing he left behind.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lia asks weakly. 

“You’re seriously a lunatic,” Yeji cuts in before you can respond. “You’re just dragging this out for yourself. Death by a thousand cuts and all that.”

“I am not a lunatic,” you say, shrugging her off. “It’s just... he’s still part of my life. It’s not like I’m inviting a stranger.”

“He fucked up your life,” she huffs, the words stinging. “He hurt you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “But I love him anyway, don’t I?”

And you do. Because some loves don’t end—they just rearrange themselves. 

Yeji yanks her chair back so hard the legs screech against the floor.

“He’s gonna hurt you again,” she spits. “How many times are you gonna let him rip you apart before there’s nothing left? Before you’ve sacrificed yourself and everyone else around you and you’ve got nothing left to give?”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck, because she’s right.

Lia reaches out, “Yeji—”

“If he’s there next week, Y/N,” she says, eyes burning over her shoulder looking from you to Lia, “then I won’t be.”

When Hyuck got a DM from the only girl he’s ever loved—two days ago, now—he sobered.

Which, if you asked Mark, was some kind of divine miracle. Because Mark had been watching his best friend drink himself into oblivion for the better part of a year. A slow, intentional kind of fucked up that was clearly a desperate, pathetic attempt to forget you.

But no shot, no spirit, no stranger’s skin pressed to his could ever do the trick. Not really. Because no matter how hard Hyuck tried, the hangover was always the same: he’d wake up, and you still weren’t his girl.

So when he saw your username light up his phone, he paused. 

Because the preview didn’t give anything away. It did that annoying thing that said “2 new messages.” No hint. No breadcrumb. Just a loaded gun of a notification staring up at him.

And, of course he clicked it. He had to. You knew he would. You’d sent two back-to-back messages on purpose—he’s certain of it. Because that’s exactly the kind of person you were. Always two steps ahead. Always orchestrating even your vulnerability. 

You wanted to see when he’d read it. 

And he did.

At 2:36 a.m. Because you’d definitely be asleep by then. And that meant he had enough time to draft the right response—measured, brisk, detached—like the past year hadn’t cracked him open.

He read it in the half-light of Mark’s living room, surrounded by people he didn’t really like and a bottle of something he couldn’t quite remember picking up.

hey. i’m having a thing next friday for my birthday—just a chill party. nothing major. 

you can come, if you want.

Hyuck stares at the two messages.

It’s not because of the party. He couldn’t care less about the cake or the candles. That’s not what has his heart in his throat. It’s the fact that—for the first time in a year—you actually reached out. None of that accidentally bumping into each other nonsense you two pull. No one buys that it’s an accident. 

At least, it’s not an accident on his behalf.

It’s not an accident when he keeps frequenting the same coffee shop you once claimed made the best lattes in the city—always at the same time. It’s not a coincidence when he drives through your favourite places on rainy days, just in case you need a ride and are too proud to just call him. And it’s definitely not a coincidence that makes him take the long way to your house. He does it deliberately. He selfishly takes more of your time than he deserves.

Because saying goodbye wasn’t an option for him. Not until it had to be. He’d take prolonged suffering. Death by a thousand cuts.

And it’s not his fault. Well. It is. All of the ruin, anyway. But in the twelve months since he blew it all up, you’ve still lingered. You always do. You always will. So he just keeps showing up in your life when he knows you need to move on. Because he doesn’t want you to. 

Because everything in his life is still half-yours. And he won’t board up the windows of that love—not even now. Not when some part of you still flickers inside it, and half of his heart is still in your chest.

Hyuck stares at your message again. He types something. Deletes it. Types something else. Deletes that too.

what kind of thing is it?

Too uninterested.

who’s gonna be there?

Too nosy.

sure, if you want me there.

Too honest. 

Everything felt like a trap—too much, too little, not enough to win you back, but equally too honest and would remind you of his actions that hurt you. 

How was he supposed to respond to the girl who once memorised every mole on his face? Who was the muse of every song he’s written? Who still makes his hands shake on the keyboard? Who he cheated on? Who he destroyed completely? 

Eventually he landed on:

might swing by, angel. happy early birthday, btw.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

11:27PM

Thirty-three minutes left of your birthday, but you’re not celebrating.

Instead, you’re sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with one leg dangling, the other tucked beneath you, whilst your dress wrinkles and bunches around your thighs because you stopped caring how ruined you looked an hour ago.  

You don’t care that your lipstick is all but gone or that your mascara is smudged under both eyes. You don’t care because he’s not here. 

You were supposed to be smiling by now. 

But he didn’t walk in. 

He still hasn’t.

And you don’t even know why you’re surprised. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not your baby. He’s not your Hyuck anymore. He doesn’t owe you a goddamn thing—not a happy birthday, or his time. You gave that privilege up the night you stopped being his. Or maybe the night he stopped being yours. You still haven’t decided which one came first.

Still, you hoped he would come. 

It was the only thing keeping you remotely sane—delusional hope that he might still show up. That maybe he’d walk through the door like he hadn’t betrayed you and still want you. You still wanted him. 

You hated that he broke you and still got to keep the pieces. Hated that even now, on your birthday, all you could think about was him. Hated that you still wanted his birthdays, his weekends, his forever. 

You take another drink. Cheaper vodka this time, and let it burn your throat as it goes down. You want the sting. You deserve the sting. Your eyes drift (again) to the front door.

Still nothing.

“You need to stop doing that,” Lia pads barefoot into the kitchen, coming right behind you to smack both her hands on your shoulders. “Stop watching that door like a hawk. Yeji would kill you if she saw you pining after him on your birthday.”

You press your lips together and glance away like you’ve been caught red-handed. Because, well. You have.

“Yeah, well. Yeji isn’t here,” you mutter, taking another sip—longer this time. 

Lia raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

You drain the last of your drink and look her straight in the eye. “Because I invited him.”

Lia looks at you expectantly. You know she hates being caught between you and Yeji, but it’s clear she thinks you were wrong to invite Hyuck tonight, knowing full well how Yeji would react.

And maybe she’s right.

That’s why you sigh.

“Look, he said he might come,” you say finally. “He didn’t promise anything. Yeji was overreacting.”

“He never promises,” Lia says gently. “And yet, you keep prioritising him like he’s still that sweet boy we both used to love, who used to buy your favourite cookies before class, or pick fights with the boys who made fun of you. But he’s not that boy anymore, Y/N. And he’s not yours anymore either.”

You flinch.

She notices. Regrets it. “Sorry.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t, not really. Because this is the first birthday he’s missed since you were kids. Since you were eleven and he showed up with a homemade card. 

It’s not fine because his absence would say something that the cheating weirdly never quite did—that he’s not the boy you fell in love with. Maybe he hasn’t been for a long time.

Lia leans against the counter beside you. “It’s allowed, you know? Being hurt.”

“I don’t get to be,” you reply, glancing at her. “He doesn’t owe me anything anymore. I was the one who didn’t want to forgive him that night. I said I was done. I don’t expect him to grovel forever.”

“No,” she agrees. “But you deserved something. More than a half-assed apology at least.”

That lands in your chest harshly. You press your tongue to your cheek, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry. You’re not drunk enough to cry yet. Give it another hour.

“Come on,” Lia sighs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into her side, “I’m not letting you stay in here staring at that door and giving him the power to ruin the rest of your birthday.” 

But even as she says it, your eyes flicker to that door again—still no him.

Lia doesn’t let go of your hand as she leads you out of the kitchen and into the living room, where people are scattered across the sofas and floors. They all feel like strangers at your own party because you’ve spent the whole night looking for one person who never came. 

“Y/N,” Lia says, squeezing your hand, “this is Hyunjae.”

You blink. The boy in front of you is pretty. Dark eyes, strong jaw softened by the curve of a perfect smile, black hair pushed back sexily. He’s holding a drink loosely in his hand as his eyes sweep over you. 

“Happy birthday,” he says. “You look—”

Please don’t say beautiful. Please don’t say gorgeous. Please don’t say anything he would’ve said.

“—pretty,” Hyunjae finishes. “Really fucking pretty.”

You smile. Or try to. “Thanks.”

And look, it’s not that Hyunjae isn’t nice—he is. You can already hear Yeji telling you to give him a chance. He’s the kind of boy who’d text back, who’s safe, who’d never leave you staring at a door wondering if he’ll show up on your birthday or not. Hyunjae is the kind of boy who wouldn’t cheat on you. 

But the truth is, you don’t know if you can be the girl who lets someone call her pretty and fawn anymore. Not without wondering if they’ll still mean it once they see someone better, shinier, hotter than you. 

Just like he did. 

You nod along when Hyunjae talks. You laugh where you’re supposed to. Play nice. Be sweet. But everything he says sounds like static. Everything he is feels like a placeholder. 

And then, you hear it. That deep, honey-smooth, familiar voice saying: “Happy birthday, angel.”

It slices through the room. Through you.

Because there’s only one person who ever called you that. One boy. Lee Donghyuck.

You didn’t even hear the front door open. Typical. But there he is, leaning in the doorway, all tan skin and messy hair. His hands are buried in his pockets, his jaw set tight—too tight, like he’s seconds from grinding his teeth into dust. 

But it’s not you he’s looking at. It’s Hyunjae. Sitting far too close. Arm tossed lazily behind you on the couch, thigh pointing into yours, almost grazing like he owns your space. 

And Hyuck notices. You know he notices.

His eyes narrow. Lips parting slightly as his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You know that look. You’ve seen it before. That blend of heat and hurt and possessiveness he has no right to anymore.

It hits your chest all at once—shame, hurt, lust—and you fumble. Your hand twitches with the red plastic cup still clutched tight. The drink tilts before you even realise it’s slipping. Cranberry vodka sloshes, causing sticky, cold liquid to spill down the front of your dress, dripping into the neckline. 

“Fuck—” you hiss, jerking upright as the cup lands onto the coffee table. You paw uselessly at the now soaked fabric, trying to blot it with the hem of your sleeve, but it’s only smearing it worse.

Hyunjae starts to reach for a napkin, concerned. But your eyes have already found Hyuck’s again. And the way he’s looking at you now…

Your throat goes dry. “I—I’m gonna go change.”

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re moving before anyone can stop you, heart hammering against your ribs because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

You barely make it up the stairs, breath coming fast, fingers trembling as you reach for the door to your room. You close it. But you don’t get the chance to lock it. Because the door creaks again behind you. And then it clicks shut. You spin around. And there he is.

You don’t say anything at first. 

Just stalk over to your wardrobe like it’s perfectly sane to have your ex-boyfriend—your ex-best friend, the boy you used to see every single day, the only boy you’ve ever slept with, the only person who knows all the tells on your body, the boy you still love—in your bedroom for the first time in over a year.

You wrench the closet door open. A pair of heels fall out and land with a little thud. You don’t flinch. You pretend to rifle through hangers, but you’re not looking for anything specific. All of it is just something to do with your hands, because looking at him right now would be a sick kind of torture.

“What are you doing here!?”

Hyuck doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, you only hear the soft thud of his shoes on your floor, the creak of your floorboard by the dresser. He’s closer than you want him to be.

“You invited me,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You spin around. “I invited you to my birthday party. Which started five hours ago.”

He lifts his phone, the screen glowing in the dark. “As far as I’m aware,” he says, tapping it once, “you’ve still got thirteen minutes left. So again, happy birthday, angel.”

You stiffen. 

There it is. That.

That fucking word. The one that used to make you feel warm and wanted. Now it feels like an insult wrapped in silk.

“Don’t call me that.”

That stops him. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he lowers the phone. Shoves it back into his pocket.

“I thought you liked it when I called you that.”

“I used to like it,” you spit. “Back when it meant something. You know, before you fucked someone else behind my back.”

His jaw tightens. Good, you think. The truth hurts; you hope it hurts. And maybe that makes you cruel. But then again, he was cruel first.

He rubs his jaw, then exhales. “We’re really doing this now?”

You laugh dryly. “Oh, sorry. Would you prefer we pencil it in for next week instead? Talk about it over brunch sometime, yeah?”

You turn back to your wardrobe, suddenly too irritated. Your fingers find the old grey hoodie you always loved. It looks soft. Comfortable. Definitely not party appropriate. But you don’t care because you don’t want to go back out there. Not after this.

You peel your dress off in one motion, leaving you in the black lace set you picked out this morning—because it was your birthday. Not for anyone else. Not for a boy. Certainly not for him.

Him. 

You forget for a moment that he’s still behind you.

It’s like your brain short-circuits in his presence. Like it still confuses this boy for the lifeline he used to be. Like your heart can’t shout loud enough to warn you: this boy broke us, this boy hurt us, this boy is bad for us. All it says is: this boy is Hyuck. This boy is sweet. This boy—we love.

You only remember when you hear him inhale—sharply—and turn around. 

He’s looking at you like that again. Like he did back when he loved you, and you loved him, and he hadn’t ruined everything yet. He looks hungry, and like the only thing that might satisfy him is you. 

That thought makes you clutch the hoodie to your chest. “Turn around!”

He does. Obediently. But then: 

"So, did you wear that for me?"

His voice is so annoyingly smug it makes you roll your eyes as you reply. “No.”

But your cheeks betray you. Hot. Guilty. Flushed. Thank god his back is still to you, because if he turned around now and looked at you, he’d know. Because he knows all your tells. Always has.

And from just a simple flush, he’d know that yes, you wore this set for him. That yes, despite pretending you were over him in his Instagram comments, your traitorous heart had hoped that he might come tonight and rip the set off of you.

And just in case he caught your second tell (the tremor in your voice), you twist the knife a little more.

“I wore this set for Hyunjae, actually.”

A silence. Then the fucker starts laughing.

Not a little laugh. A full-bodied, head thrown back, belly laugh. You hate how much you’ve missed that sound, how it still makes your stomach flip. 

“Five minutes ago, I might’ve believed that, angel,” he says, turning slightly. Just enough for you to catch the outline of his grin. “And it would’ve driven me fucking crazy.”

Your heart stutters when he nods toward your chest.

“But I wasn’t talking about your underwear,” he says, eyes dipping lower. 

You follow his gaze down to the delicate gold chain resting just above the swell of your breasts. The one with the tiny heart pendant. The one with the H engraving. 

“I was talking about that necklace. The one I bought you for your sixteenth birthday,” He cocks his head. Smirking now. “Did you wear it for me?”

Your fingers fly to it instinctively. You hadn’t taken it off. Not even after finding out. You always wore it underneath your clothes, tucked away like a secret, because Yeji would have a field day if she knew you still wore his necklace.

But in the heat of the moment, stripping down to your underwear, your brain hadn’t realised that he’d see it again. 

“I thought I told you to turn around,” you snap, furious with yourself.

He lifts his hands defensively. “I am turned around.”

“I meant your head, not just your body, Hyuck.”

And so he does, again. Obediently.

You pull the hoodie on. It swallows you immediately. The sleeves dangle past your hands, the hem skims your thighs, and it smells like dust and weirdly like…the boy behind you.

“I’m decent,” you mutter.

He turns around, eyes flicking down before he smiles. Not smug, this time. Just soft and… a little sad?

“That’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, tugging at the sleeves. “No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s massive on you. And unless you’ve got a secret stash of men’s hoodies in your closet, that one’s mine.”

You glare. “Oh yeah? And who says I don’t have a collection of men’s hoodies in my closet?”

“I do.”

 So fast. So sure.

You scoff, a single sharp laugh. “God, you think so highly of yourself.”

He crosses his arms—all tensed jaw and too-tight t-shirt—and it’s irritating, how stupidly good he looks whilst being smug.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “I do. Because, despite us being broken up, you still wear my necklace.”  He nods toward your nightstand.  “You still have a photo of us beside your bed.” And then, one step closer. “And you fucking invited me here tonight.”

You lift your chin. “I invited everyone. It was a mass text.”

“Funny,” he says, a fake smile forming, “Mark didn’t get a text.”

“Aww,” you coo, mocking. “You still talk to your friends about me, Hyuck? Christ. Now I’m gonna start thinking highly of myself.”

“You should.”

For some reason, those two simple words hit you like a slap across the face. Because no.

“You don’t get to do that!” you snap at him. “You don’t get to tell me I should think highly of myself when you’re the exact reason I can’t even imagine the top anymore, Hyuck!” You laugh bitterly. “I don’t know my worth because you had me. But you wanted something else.”

And in that moment—maybe it’s your tone, or maybe it’s accountability—a flash of hurt crosses his face, that makes him wince. 

“Y/N, angel…” His voice cracks a little on your name, as he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck! It was one mistake. You don’t understand—”

But you don’t want to hear it. You’ve already heard it.

You hold up a hand, stopping him from wasting his breath. “I don’t want to understand anything about the night you decided to fuck another girl, thank you very much, Hyuck.”

“Of course, I get that but—”

“But?”  you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Yes, but, Y/N,” he fires back. “Because I don’t know what you want from me. You say you don’t want to forgive me—and I get it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He’s pacing now. “But you string me along. You comment on my posts, you let me drive you home, you still have my fucking hoodies—”

His eyes flick down to the one you’re wearing now, oversized and drooping around the neckline to show that gold chain. 

“—you wear my initials around your neck, and you asked me to come tonight—you. And now you’re mad that I’m here?”

His voice rises and you swallow—hard. Like maybe if you keep swallowing, you’ll stop the tears from climbing all the way up your throat. Because it’s all too raw. All of it. Him. You.This.

He’s unraveling in front of you. And even though you know—deep in your bones—that he doesn’t have the right to be this angry, a part of you gets it. Because this awful, splintered, aching love you have for him is confusing. It’s contradictory. It fucks with your brain so much that it doesn’t matter that you’re hurting because he’s hurting too. 

And that’s all you can focus on.

It’s like you said:  nobody gets you and Hyuck. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, angel,” he says again, quieter this time. He takes a slow step forward. Close enough to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, like he used to.

His hand lingers.

“I don’t know what you want,” he breathes, “but if you tell me—I’ll give it to you.”

Your breath stutters. Your throat tightens.

And then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Because. I. Love. You.”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to. You don’t even mean to. But those three words wrap around you tight. 

“Don’t,” your voice cracks. “Don’t say that to me, Hyuck. Not after everything.”

When you open your eyes again, they’re full of tears. Angry ones. Bitter ones. Hopeful ones too—because you’re weak, and stupid, and still a little bit in love with a boy who shattered you.

“I mean it,” he says instantly. His hand twitches at his side—you see it. He wants to touch you. Wants to wipe your tears like he used to because he hates them. But he doesn’t know if he has permission anymore. (He does, but he doesn’t know he does.)

“I’ve always meant it.”

“Then why’d you throw it all away?” You spit the words out like poison. “Why did you ruin us for a quick fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he breathes, stepping back. “But I do know I hurt you. And I’ll hate myself for that forever. But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You laugh. But it sounds more like a sob. “You have a funny way of showing love.”

“I know.”

“You know everything,” you say, “except why you did it.”

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“You should go,” you whisper. “The party’s over. You’ve said what you needed to say. And I thought I could do this but I can’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes fly to his. He’s shaking his head, tongue in his cheek again as he sniffs.

“No,” he says again “I’m not leaving us like this.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“Liar.”

“Hyuck—”

“You want me to say it again?” he asks, voice rising just slightly. Not angry. Only desperate. “You want me to beg? Fine. I will. I’ll fucking get on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

And then, to your absolute horror, he does. 

“Hyuck, stop—”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything. For all of it. For her. For the lies. For shattering everything good we ever had. But I love you, Y/N. And I’m not sorry for that. I’ll never be sorry for that.”

You’re trying to stay angry. Trying to hold onto the rage but it’s slipping. Because you want him. You love him.

He’s still on his knees. Still looking up at you. Still pleading. You wish he’d just stand up. You wish he didn’t look so much like the boy you fell in love with instead of the man who broke you.

“Please,” he says again.“I know I don’t get to ask. But I’m asking anyway. I’m asking because I love you. I never stopped. I swear to God, I never—”

“Stop it,” you say, too fast.

It feels like your chest caves in. Because the thing about love is: it’s loud. Louder than hurt. Especially right now. You love him so much you could scream. But instead, you drop down to your knees. Right there in front of him. And before you know it, your hands are reaching for him. Stupid, traitorous things.

“Stop,” you whisper. “Please, stop.”

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

Because he’s Hyuck. And Hyuck never knows when to shut up.

“I know I ruined it,” he’s saying. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I wouldn’t forgive me either. I wouldn’t. But I can’t stop loving you. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard. I’ve kissed girls who weren’t you and I’ve gone home wanting to claw off my own skin.”

You suck in a breath.

“You don’t have to forgive me now. Or ever. Just let me prove it. Let me try. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you for fucking ever, I swear—”

You’re kissing him. 

You have no idea why, but it just feels like you have to. Because you physically can’t not. Because the love of your life, him, is bleeding out in front of you and you’re the only one who knows how to stop it.

And when your mouth crahses into his, it tastes like heartbreak and history and every stupid, selfish thing he’s ever done. But you keep kissing him. Because just as much as it hurts—it feels like home. Like you’ve finally been returned to the place you belong. Like his lips have been waiting for yours all this time. 

He’s kissing you back just as fiercely. Like he might die if he doesn’t. And maybe he would. Maybe you would too.

You don’t know who moves first. You think it’s you, but maybe it’s him. You’re both equally desperate—lunging backward until his back knocks against the foot of your bedframe and you’re straddling his hips. 

His hands find your waist, landing heavy and possessive around you. But you don’t mind, because your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth—and God, you missed that sound. Missed him like oxygen.

His mouth moves to your neck, lips skimming every slither of skin he can reach, greedily not wanting to miss a single piece of you since he’s trying to make up for all the parts he used to take for granted. And you tilt your head back, giving him that access, because you’ve never been able to deny him anything.

“Tell me you’re still mine,” he breathes against your skin, half-choked.

You should tell him no. Should tell him he doesn’t get to ask things like that—not when he gave himself away so easily. Not now when he’ll never solely be yours like you’re solely his. 

But your heart is so tired and so in love it’s ridiculous, so instead you whisper: “I never stopped being yours.”

And then he’s kissing you again—deeper, this time. Until he pulls away and his forehead presses to yours, and he pants against your lips. “Let me love you,” he begs. “Please. Let me love you right this time.”

He feels solid beneath you. It’s making your brain fuzzy. It’s making you whimper.

“Okay,” you pant, tugging harder at those soft brown strands, as your hips shift and grind down against him, making him groan lowly. 

His hands clamp tighter around your waist, dragging you down harder, closer, like he’s trying to fuse you to him. And suddenly your skin feels too tight. You’re too aware of the clothes between you—what little there is.

Because you didn’t put on pants. Just that hoodie of his over your pathetic pair of black panties—thin, useless fabric—and now your pussy is rubbing right up against the thick outline of him through his jeans, and it’s overwhelming. You can feel absolutely everything you’ve missed.

Heat blooms in your stomach and you roll your hips again. It’s so shameless. So needy. But you don’t care. Not when it’s been this long. Not when it’s his fault it’s been this long—because you never would’ve let it be anyone else.

And he meets you in it. Each grind matched with one of his own, more harsh than the last. Until his hips are moving on impulse, chasing you like a man starved. His head drops to your shoulder, and his breath stutters. 

“Fuck, angel, slow down,” he chokes, “You’re killing me.”

You press your lips to his temple, to his jaw, anywhere you can reach, and whisper, breathless, “You deserve it.”

He groans—louder this time—like he agrees.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers splayed wide, dragging up the warm skin of your back like he’s relearning it. 

“I can’t believe this is happening again,” he breathes into your neck. “You can’t be real.”

But you are. You’re right here. Straddling him. Shaking for him. Letting him touch you like he never stopped having the right to.

He kisses your collarbone. Then lower—your sternum, the tops of your breasts, the edge of lace peeking from beneath his hoodie. His hoodie. That fact alone seems to snap something inside him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then he’s pushing the fabric up and up and up, until it pools around your ribs and the cold air hits your bare stomach. You shiver. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs. “Please. Want to see you.”

You raise your arms, let him peel it over your head, and suddenly you’re half-naked in his lap—wearing nothing but that black set you wanted him to rip off, then didn’t, then did… and now, he is. Fingers working at the clasp, slipping the straps from your shoulders and tossing the bra aside in your room somewhere.

And then, he takes his time letting his eyes drag over you. Taking a sick pride in seeing his initial rest in the valley of your breast. 

���Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

And something about that word—still—makes your stomach twist.

Your arms fold over your boobs on instinct, shielding yourself from the one person you’ve always felt safest with. Because still means there’s someone else now. Someone he’s looked at. Someone he’s touched. Someone you had to beat—and somehow did.

But you shouldn’t have had to.

He notices the shift immediately—how your arms cross, how your body goes stiff, how the room, warm just a second ago, chills.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, brows furrowing. He cups your face, thumbs brushing just beneath your eyes. “Talk to me, angel. What’s wrong? What happened?”

You’re still straddling him, half-naked, kissed raw and dizzy, and yet you feel like you’re a million miles away. You try to speak, to explain, but the words choke you. How do you tell him something he’s never known? How do you make him understand? You’ve never done this to him before—and just knowing how much it hurts—you don’t think you ever could.

“I just—” your voice cracks. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

He flinches—just enough for you to know it landed. But he doesn’t pull away.

The thing is, he doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even mention her. Never has. But she’s here. Right here. In this room. Your room. In the silence. In his presence.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to wipe the thought away. “No. No, don’t do that. Don’t think about her. This—” his hands cup your face tighter, gently desperate, “—this is you and me. Always you.”

Your jaw clenches, your eyes sting. “Then why wasn’t it only me?”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips before flickering away. He doesn’t answer—of course he doesn’t. He never does. And that’s been half the war between you. He doesn’t want to tell you the why.

Instead, his hands drift from your face to your waist, pulling you in like proximity might somehow make up for his silence. Like touch could smother your insecurities. 

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in.“Forget her. Just for now. Right here, right now, it’s only you. Only us.”

You hate that you melt. Hate that the ache in your chest loosens its grip the second his hands coax your arms from where you’d folded them. Hate that even after everything, he still knows how to make you feel safe inside the wreckage he caused.

He’s infuriating.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “That it’s always only been you for me.”

His hands skim up your sides, thumbs brushing delicately beneath your tits. His eyes never leave yours—not for a second—as he kneads and explores and feels your body in his palm. And then his mouth follows.

Lips warm, slightly chapped, close around your right nipple. Your breath punches out of you. You can’t help it because his tongue flicks once, then again, then again until your spine arches and pushes the bud further into his mouth.

“Hyuck,” you moan, helpless, feeling the curve of his smirk drag against your skin.

His free hand trails up your other side, rolling the neglected peak between calloused fingers so deliciously because he remembers exactly what used to make you fall apart, and now he’s hell-bent on proving he hasn’t forgotten.

“God, you’re fucking unreal,” he murmurs against your skin, then bites gently, just enough to make you gasp. 

His words make you ache. Everywhere. Especially between your legs, where you’re still pressed tight against the thick, unrelenting shape of him through his jeans. And he hasn’t even touched you there yet, but it’s coming—you know it is. 

His mouth keeps going, warm and wet whilst he stays sucking just hard enough to turn your bones to water. And whenever you whimper he groans. 

“Please, Hyuck,” you plead. “Need more.”

He lifts his head, murmuring, “Yeah? You want me to show you how much I missed you?”

You nod, dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he groans and wastes no time lifting you off the floor like it’s nothing, carrying you to your bed. He lays you down gently, spreads you out beneath him like something precious. And then he peels off his t-shirt.

That tan skin—scattered with moles you’ve memorised, counted, traced with your fingers and your mouth—is on full display, just for you.

“I’ll give you everything,” he says, voice low as he drops to his knees, crawling between your legs. “Absolutely everything. As long as you don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”

Your fingers sink into his hair before you can think. “I won’t,” you whisper. “Couldn’t.”

And then he dips down.

His mouth finds the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed kisses dragging tantalisingly up your skin. He’s not rushing. He never does when he gives head. It’s his favourite thing to savour. You. On his tongue.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, nipping at your skin, making you gasp. “How many times I’ve had to stop myself from texting. From begging you to take me back.”

“Who said anything about taking you back?” You say, hips shifting, dying for friction, but he pins them with strong hands, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“I did,” he says, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “Am I wrong, Y/N? Because if I am, we can stop right now?”

“No,” you whine on a trembling breath.

He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”

Then, finally, finally—his mouth finds the place you need him most.

He licks a slow stripe up your center, groaning from the taste of you in his mouth. He does it again, and then again, until your legs are trembling and one of your hands fists the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging at it, just how he likes. Just how you like.

He flicks his tongue, circles it, moans when you cry out for more.

“God, you taste the same,” he says hoarsely. “Still fucking perfect.”

You try to respond, to say something, but then he sucks again, so hard, you almost shoot clean off the bed.

“Hyuck—please,” it’s half a sob, a half moan, one hundered percent completley ruined.

He growls, arms locking around your thighs to keep you still, mouth relentless as he licks and sucks and worships like this is his penance.

“Shit, Y/N,” he mutters between licks, “I missed how fucking responsive you are. Always so good for me.”

You whimper. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna,” he promises. “Not until you fall apart for me. Right here. Right now.”

He hums, the vibration making your stomach flutter, and you swear your heart forgets how to beat.

“Let me make you come,” he says, voice completely ruined now too. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Please.”

And you do. You let him. Because you want this. Want him. Still. Always.

Your entire body coils, legs shaking, hands clawing at the sheets as your orgasm crashes through you. It’s shattering, making you cry out, his name falling from your lips repeatedly. 

Hyuck doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally slumps back to the mattress, boneless and trembling. Only then does he lift his head, lips wet and shiny. He crawls up your body, kissing your thigh, your stomach, the underside of your boobs, your jaw. Everywhere. Until he’s hovering over you, and you’re staring up at him, glassy-eyed and overwhelmed.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing hair gently back from your face.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah. I just... I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I never really left,” he says. “Even though I know I should have. I’m too damn selfish.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up, tracing his jaw with shaking fingers. “I want you to fuck me, Hyuck.”

He blinks, then his eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

You pull him down until your foreheads press again and then whisper a soft, “Yes.”

Then he kisses you. Slowly. Passionately in a way you know this about to be more than just fucking. It feels like the before. The soft. His hands coming up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. Everything so tender and full of love. 

And somewhere between the kiss and the forgetting, his pants are off. His boxers too. He’s about to fuck you completely raw—like he used to—and for a moment, your body almost lets him. Because it remembers. The blind trust. 

But this isn’t then. And that’s why you reach out, fingers curling gently around his forearm. Stopping him.

“Condom,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you glance toward the nightstand.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this. Back then, you were on the pill. You were his. He was yours. There was no one else. But now? Now you’ve had to share him—with her. Maybe with others too. 

He freezes. And for a second, you swear he looks gutted. But then he nods.

Wordlessly, he reaches into your nightstand, gets one open and rolls it on his cock. He doesn’t protest. He never would. Because it’s not the condom that guts him—it’s what it means. It’s that reminder that everything’s different now. And why. A barrier he put there himself because he was reckless, drunk, stupid and ungrateful. A consequence he crafted with his own hands.

But he doesn’t let that thought linger too long. The past is the past—he hates thinking about it. It’s what wrecked him. What wrecked this. What wrecked you.

Now, all he wants is the present. Not even the future. Just this. Just you. Because you’re here. Beneath him. Asking him to fuck you. You’re his—if only for now. And that’s enough.

He slides back over you. And for a second—just one—you both just… look.

You’re looking at him like maybe this could fix it. He’s looking at you like he knows it won’t. Sex doesn’t fix anything. It’s what broke you two in the first place if you really think about it . But he’s still doing it. And so are you.

He pushes inside of you slowly and your breath stutters, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice tight and thick. “You feel like—”

“Home,” you whisper, beating him to it.

Because you do. And he does. And it’s pathetic. And perfect. And completely going to destroy you in the morning.

His forehead drops to yours and he lets out a shaky breath, like the kind that comes right before someone starts to cry. But he doesn’t cry—he moves. Gently. Tenderly. 

You cling to him, every nerve alight, oversensitive in that desperate, raw way that makes you breathless beneath him—letting him kiss you through it, through the pain, through the slow, aching stretch of him inside you. 

And in between those kisses and the thrusts and the way your fingers tangle in his hair again, he whispers:

“Missed you.”

“God, I missed you.”

“I’ll never stop being sorry.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to put you back together with every snap of his hips. And maybe he is.

So you let him.

You let him fuck you until you’re both a mess of moans and apologies and, fractured I love yous. Until you’re panting in time with each other. Until you’re cumming—together.

After, it’s quiet.

Not awkward or bitter or biting, but comfortable. You’re tangled in each other, limbs overlapping, as Hyuck brushes his nose against your temple. Eventually, he slips out of you, careful to not hurt you, but you flinch at the loss. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one to each cheek, and then he’s moving—disposing of the condom, finding his way back to your side. 

“Let’s shower,” he murmurs, thumb storoking your jaw. “Let me take care of you first. And after… we’ll talk, yeah?”

You don’t say anything—because you can’t. Your throat is raw from all the moaning and the whimpering. And also because you’re scared of the talking. Terrified, really. Of the hurting that’ll come with addressing it. 

So instead, you swallow and say softly, “I’ll be a minute. Just... need a sec before I move.”

He pauses, like he’s checking you over again, brows pinching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Not in the way he means.

“No,” you whisper. “Just… been out of the game for a while.”

He pauses but doesn’t argue. Just leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll start the shower.”

He slips out quietly, to the bathroom attached to your room. You hear the soft creak of the cabinets. He still remembers where everything is. 

And then—of course—his phone buzzes.

You glance over. You don’t mean to look. You really, really don’t. You know you shouldn’t if you wanna rebuild trust and whatever. It’s just…It’s on the floor, fallen from his jeans with the screen lighting up. 

It was taunting you. 

And anyway, he’s the one that broke your trust first. He’s the one that made you so paranoid. He’s the one who made you like this. 

Yeji

if i find out you went to that party tonight, hyuck, and didn’t tell her the truth, i will.

Your stomach drops straight through the mattress.

Another buzz.

Yeji

i’m serious. how long are you gonna keep it from her that it was lia you cheated on her with?

you’re ruining our friendship!

And suddenly you’re not warm anymore.

Suddenly you’re freezing. And hollow. And very, very awake and out of the afterglow sex haze. 

You can’t breathe.

You feel sick. 

Are you sick? Are you dying? Are you about to have a fucking panic attack?

Because it feels like something has clawed its way into your chest and is now eating you alive from the inside out.

Lia?

It all makes sense. It all echoes.

“That sweet boy we both used to love.”

“He’s not yours anymore.”

The door creaks again. Hyuck walks back in, towel slung low on his hips. Completely clueless. 

“You okay?” he asks, soft and smiling. “Shower’s warm.”

You don’t answer because your heart is hammering against your ribs and because you physically, viscerally, cannot breathe.

His smile falters, just a touch.

And then you say it.

One word. One name.

“Lia?”

You’re not even sure if you want to scream at him, or sob, or laugh—because how dare he. How dare he touch you like that, kiss you like that, look at you like that, when he knew—he fucking knew—he’d fucked your best friend and said nothing.

The same best friend who held you while you cried over him for a year. Who told you it wasn’t your fault. Who had her arms wrapped around you less than an hour ago trying to comfort you about him. 

You hold out his phone, pointing to the screen. “You fucked my best friend, Hyuck?”

He freezes. He lifts an arm reaching out towards you or towards his phone, you can’t tell. Probably the phone to see how much you know so he can spin it. Twist it. Try to manipulate this—manipulate you—again.

“Angel—”

“My name is Y/N.”

The words are a blade. His hand drops.

“Y/N,” he breathes, swallowing thickly, “it’s not what it looks like—”

But it is. You both know it. 

“Yeji seems to think it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

And then it hits you. All over again. Yeji knew. Your other best friend. She knew. 

Did everyone know? Everyone you loved? Everyone you trusted? Everyone you thought was safe? 

And suddenly your knees give out. You drop to the floor, spine hitting the edge of the bed on the way down, but you don’t even register the pain. You’re already somewhere else, hands trembling, vision blurry, gasping like there’s no oxygen. 

That fucking necklace around your neck—the one he gave you, the one you swore you'd never take off—isn’t fucking helping. So you rip it off. The chain snapping in your fist and you throw it. It lands at his feet. 

It’s the first time you’ve taken it off since you were sixteen.

“Y/N—”

Hyuck’s voice sounds panicked now. Hurting. He kneels in front of you, eyes wide, reaching for you—

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

You flinch so hard you nearly hit the nightstand. You can’t stand the idea of him touching you now, even though you know there isn’t a part of you he hasn’t touched.

He freezes. Arm stopping in the air. His face furrowed. And you know that face. The face from the night, the one carved from guilt and horror and regret—but it’s too late.

It’s so late.

You’re sobbing now. And it’s ugly—gasping and choking and curling up on the floor. 

“I—I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he whispers. “I never wanted to hurt you—”

You laugh. Actually laugh.

“You didn’t want to hurt me?” You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, spit and snot and mascara streaking your face.  “Hyuck, you fucked my best friend. And then you came here, tonight, and touched me like…like I was still yours.”

“You are—”

“No. No, I’m not!” You snap. “I don’t even know who I am right now. But I definitely am not—and never will be—yours again.”

“Please, Y/N,” he whispers. “Let me explain. It wasn’t—”

“You’ve had time to explain.” Your voice trembles, but the words are steel. “I gave you so much of myself. So much trust. So much love.” You swallow hard. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to fuck my best friend. And keep it from me. And somehow rope the other one into it too, so now—”

Your voice cracks.

“So now I can’t trust anyone.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to beg. But then he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you, regret written in every line of his stupid, beautiful face.

He doesn’t deny it. And that’s the last straw. You fold in on yourself. Arms wrapping tight around your knees as you bury your head and whisper: “I need you to leave.”

He doesn’t move.

You look up—eyes glassy, voice so quiet and weak.

“Get out, Hyuck. Now, please”

And this time, he listens. And you’re glad he listens. Because this time it feels different. This was it. The final fracture. Whatever you had with him? It’s dead now. You just wish you hadn’t kept it on life support for so long—wish you hadn’t clung so tightly to something already bleeding. 

That thousandth cut finally bled dry.

[powderpuff-divines]

pick a pile: what makes people's hearts flutter around you

thank you so much for the love on the previous reading!! i was so happy to see that so many of you enjoyed it. i hope that this one resonates too. once again, it is a general reading. only take what applies, leave the rest and please forgive any grammatical or spelling errors xx

pile 1 ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

(judgement, ace of pentacles, queen of pentacles, page of pentacles, page of wands)

there's just something intimidating about you pile one (you may or may not have a resting b-face) but there's also something about you that makes people want to impress you. whatever way you express your dissatisfaction- whether it's the way you curl your lips in distaste or scrunch your eyebrows- it sets people on edge. it makes them nervous but also very eager to please you.

you could come from a well to do family, like a long line or surgeons, etc. (if not, that's the vibes you give) or even if it's not wealth, it feels like you come from a very reputed family.

but regardless of your family, you have built have a very good reputation for yourself amongst your peers. your work ethic is also very good- you put your head down and get to work, and even that makes people's hearts flutter sometimes. you elicit awe and admiration quite easily.

capable. that's the energy i'm getting from this pile. someone capable who wants to work hard, who wants money, who wants status, who wants recognition. majority of the people from this pile are the go-getters, the type to want to work in student body councils or win a lot of trophies (i'm getting more academic/corporate achievement than sporty though).

there's also another section of people who picked this pile who wouldn't necessarily call themselves hard-working, they'd prefer to call themselves lazy even but regardless of how you label yourself, you just breeze through your work anyway. in the eyes of others, it looks effortless. the people around you take one look at you and just know you're going to achieve great things with your career

regardless of all this admiration, i don't think you're friends with many people. there may only be a few in your inner circle. there's something about other people wanting to be a part of your personal life so bad. i'm seeing this image someone who randomly posts a Instagram story of them surfing and the people viewing it are so shocked ("pile two surfs? i never knew that about them. that's so cool!") they're intrigued by you and want to know you better but you don't let people that close easily. you might just have really strict work-life boundaries and are very particular about who in your life gets to see how much about you.

and because of who you are, what you've accomplished and how you carry yourself, your approval means something to the people around you, especially if it's something you don't dole out to just anyone.

your approval; that's what gets their heart fluttering-- a nod from you when they show you what they've done, a pat on the back, a smile on your lips as you give praise, even if it's off-handed, it gives them something to feel good about for the rest of the day.

pile 2 ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

(chariot, 8 of pentacles , ace of cups, seven of swords, ten of pentacles) (oh my god 😭 who are you peopleeee. i would not be surprised if multiple people were crushing on this pile.)

pile 2, you're popular and you definitely know it to some extent too. this pile is a bit similar to pile 1 in some ways but still vastly different you could have lot of admirers and people who want to get close to you and i do see you engaging with these people, because you do enjoy the attention (nothing wrong with that), but i also get the feeling you're very controlling and picky over your image and how you come off to people. even while trying to channel the messages for this pile, the energy feels a bit reserved and doesn't want to give me too much.

there's one particular thing you could be known for, some sort of craft you've worked hard at or you're really talented at. this could be something like dance or music but that's where most of your popularity comes from. you have a good network of friends and people who you can pass time with.

i'm ngl, lowkey getting some player energy from this pile but not necessarily in the bad way. it's just some of you are aware of effect you have, and you have fun teasing people, toying with them, making them blush. oh, pile 2 you like making people's hearts flutter, you do it on purpose. you like knowing that you have the power to make people flustered.

what makes people's heart flutter is the rush they get when your eyes meet, the flirtatious lilt in your voice, maybe a smirk on your lips as you tease them in a very nonchalant manner, when you say something and playfully tell them that it's a secret only the two of you will know, when you make them feel like they are the sole focus of your attention. heart are fluttering left and right because of you.

i don't know if this pile will resonate with a lot of people or if the things mentioned here are too specific, but bottom line is that there's a very flirtatious and seductive vibe to your energy. you guys might be bored the majority of the time but man, when you're interested in someone, you tease and play with them until you get a reaction. even if you're not like this currently, you have great potential at charming people my pile twos.

pile 3 ˚ . ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

( 6 of cups, the empress, nine of pentacles, eight of pentacles, temperance rev)

pile 3, are you really uncomfortable with being perceived by any chance? i had the most difficult time channeling the energy of the people who chose this pile out of all three piles. i think you keep to yourself for most of the time but there's also this adorable energy around you, like that of a cat that just puts its head down and sleeps whenever it gets the chance to.

you could not like attention and maybe most of your days, you put your head down and focus on getting through. that's not to say you have a sad life. maybe you're not where you want to be yet, but you do have hobbies, things you enjoy and to pass the time with.

there's something casually cool about you. i cannot say what it is exactly since it's different for each of the people who pick this pile, but something about the way someone gets their drink from the vending machine? for someone, it's the way they hop over a gate. you have these tiny particular habits and methods of doing things that catch some people's attention without even knowing it.

i think it's your affection that makes people's hearts flutter.

this is giving me the energy of that one type of male lead/character (i'm just talking about the vibe, this could apply to you regardless of your gender) in anime that slacks off all the time but will randomly say something observant or serious that will have your heart skipping a beat. it's very endearing, i feel like you're very laid-back but still very straightforward and blunt with your affection. you'll say something simple but it'll be so earnest and the most romantic thing ever in the moment; it would exactly the thing the other person would happen to need to hear.

and it's not even intentional for most of you, it just comes naturally.

AHHH pile 3s, i get the feeling most of you don't think very highly about your work or aren't very comfortable with yourself but you should know that you're inherently a very chill and cool person. you aren't nearly as embarrassing as you think you are. be proud of your existence please!! and take up more space!!!

what makes people's hearts flutter around you aren't big gestures or big speeches, but it's just simply you in the rawest form possible. maybe it's you holding a cold soda can to someone's cheek and murmuring something that was just on your mind; a silly joke, a comment about a look on their face. it's your nonchalant affection that arrives so silently yet reassuringly steady every time. it's the way you unknowingly make the weight of the world lighter for others, even if just for a second.

this pile gives me maomao vibes? i haven't seen ad yet, just clips and edits but the way she just puts her head down and dgaf about anything except posion/her own thing and she's just inherently endearing and people adore her??? that's your vibe pile 3!!! also this is the second time anime has been referenced, so maybe that's a sign for some of yall

i love how much you can customise your tumblr post but the gradient text is just too stressful for me to do more than twice in one post lol. do let me know which pile you picked and on how it resonated!! in all honesty, i'm a bit nervous about it since i feel like i went too specific so i hope it still resonates with people.

[uhuhmaries]

Talk | H.S. — LHH

Harry’s your ex. You’ve been broken up for a full year but man…. A reunion never felt so good.

It’s your friend who notices him first.

You’re mid-laugh, clutching a half-empty tequila shot and feeling light from the salt, lime, and whatever it was she whispered in your ear—when her body tenses beside you.

Your laugh trails off, and you follow her gaze.

And there he is.

Harry.

The same Harry you’ve tried to scrub from your memories over the past year. Only now, he looks worse—better—than ever. Long hair curled at the ends. Broad shoulders stretching the seams of a black button-up. A few buttons undone, revealing the top of his chest and that stupid butterfly tattoo you used to trace with your tongue. Rings glint on his fingers. A drink in his hand. His other arm hangs loose at his side, inked and tensed, like he could crush steel if he wanted.

He’s already looking at you.

Your stomach twists. You inhale through your nose and lift your chin.

Smile. Cool. Unbothered.

But he starts walking over, and Maddie—your friend leans in close. “Shit. He’s coming.”

“I see that,” you mutter, downing the rest of your drink for courage.

Harry stops right in front of you. He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just lets his gaze roam—slow, greedy, infuriating. You feel every inch of it like heat sliding up your spine.

Your black dress doesn’t help. Tight, short, clinging in all the places you know he used to worship. You wore it to feel hot tonight. Now it just feels dangerous.

He smirks. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You lift a brow. “Didn’t expect to care.”

His smirk fades—just a little. “Still stubborn as ever.”

You turn to face him fully. “Still arrogant.”

Harry looks at you for a long time. Really looks. His voice drops low. “You haven’t changed.”

You lick your lips. They’re dry. “You have?”

“I went to therapy.”

Your heart kicks. You swallow. “Good for you.”

He tilts his head. “You didn’t.”

You smile. Sharp. “Never will.”

He huffs out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You hate that he still gets under your skin. That one look from him can turn your insides to static.

He leans in a little closer. “You look good.”

You shrug, glancing down his chest like it’s nothing. “So do you.”

But you both know it’s not nothing.

And later, after more tequila, more side-glances, more of Maddie’s not-so-subtle glares, you find yourself outside, fresh air trying to cool the ache inside your chest—and between your legs.

The door behind you opens.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

He stops beside you. Silent for a moment. The night is warm, but his presence still makes your skin prickle.

“I know you don’t want to talk,” he says softly.

You stare ahead. “Good. Then don’t.”

He hums, a low, dry sound. “You gonna keep pretending we didn’t look at each other all night like we wanted to fuck against the bar?”

You glance at him. “That what you want?”

His eyes flash. “It’s what you want too.”

You don’t respond. But your silence is loud.

He steps closer. “You want me to wreck you so you can forget all the shit you never say out loud. That it?”

You clench your jaw.

“You want to pretend it’s just sex. It never is with us.”

You turn to face him, stepping right into his space. He doesn’t move back.

“You want to talk about feelings,” you murmur, “I want to come so hard I forget yours.”

His mouth twitches. “Still such a brat.”

“And you’re still obsessed.”

He leans down, nose brushing yours. “Get in the car.”

You hesitate for half a second.

Then you do.

The second the door shuts behind you, his hands are on your hips, mouth finding yours with years of hunger behind it. He kisses you like he’s punishing you for leaving. For never changing. For not being ready. For not being him.

You moan into his mouth. Bite his lower lip. Tug his curls.

He groans. “You wore that dress to fuck with me.”

You grin. “You always were easy.”

He grabs your thighs and yanks you into his lap. “Say that again.”

You grind your hips against his, gasping when you feel how hard he already is through his jeans. Your lips brush his ear.

“You’re hard for me and I haven’t even touched you yet,” you whisper.

Harry’s hands slide under your dress, rings cold on your thighs. “You think you’re in control?”

You lean back. “Aren’t I?”

And then he slides two fingers into your panties. Just like that.

Your breath stutters.

He feels it. Smirks. “Soaked.”

You try not to whimper when his fingers start circling your clit. Slow. Torturous.

“You’re already dripping for me and I haven’t even eaten you out.”

“Harry—”

“No.” His fingers stop. “Say what you want.”

“I want you,” you pant.

“Not enough.”

You grind against his palm. “I want your mouth. Your cock. I want to be ruined, okay?”

He lifts you suddenly, pushes you back onto the seat, and kneels between your legs.

“Still don’t know how to say you miss me,” he mutters, “but you’re happy to beg to be fucked.”

He licks up your thigh—slow, deliberate.

“Maybe if I make you come on my tongue, you’ll find your words.”

He goes down on you like he’s missed the taste every night for a year. Tongue deep. Fingers rubbing just right. You cry out, hands yanking his curls, grinding against his face as he eats you like he needs it to breathe.

You’re close. So close—

And he stops.

“No—”

“You wanna come?” he growls. “You talk.”

You glare down at him, thighs shaking. “I need you. Please. I missed you.”

He grabs a condom, tears it open, rolls it on.

“Good girl.”

He slams into you hard and fast and you both moan at the first thrust. His hips roll, precise and filthy, filling you just the way he always did—like he knows your body better than you do.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Harry—harder—”

He grips your throat. Tight enough to make you gasp. Not enough to scare you. Just enough to say you’re mine.

“You gonna listen now?” he hisses.

You nod desperately, back arching. “Yes—yes, I’ll listen, please, please—”

His thrusts get harder, meaner. You’re almost crying.

Then he pulls out. Rips off the condom. Tosses it aside.

“Harry—what the fuck—?”

“I want to feel you. All of you.”

You freeze. Blink. You should say no.

But instead you whisper, “Yes.”

He thrusts back in—bare—and it’s like your body splits open. Raw. Skin to skin. Nothing between you.

You both groan. Loud. Uncontrolled.

He growls in your ear. “You’ve never felt like this.”

You sob his name.

He flips you, face pressed into the seat, ass up, his hand smacking you once, twice.

You whine. “More—”

He spanks you again, hand then sliding up your back, curling around your neck as he pounds into you, the car rocking with every thrust.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you need me.”

You’re almost delirious. “I need you. I need you, Harry—fuck—”

“You coming for me?”

“Yes—oh my God—yes—”

And when you come, it’s messy and loud and full of everything you never say out loud.

He follows seconds after, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and spills inside you—hot, thick, and claiming—your name breaking from his throat in a low, desperate groan against your skin.

You sit in silence after. Breathing hard. Still shaking.

Harry pulls his shirt back on. Looks at you.

“I still love you.”

You stare at the ceiling. “Don’t do this.”

“I want us again.”

You sigh. “You’ve changed.”

He nods. “Yeah. I have.”

You meet his eyes. “But I haven’t.”

He exhales. Nods again. “You could try.”

You give him a tired smile. “Maybe.”

But you both know it’s a lie.

You’ll see him again.

You always do.

[ay0nha]

When the Music’s Over | Dr. Jack Abbot

SUMMARY: Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something heavy, but the words caught in his throat and never came. Instead, he gave a short, quiet nod, like he was tucking whatever that was into his chest for later.

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 27, Prompt: "Even though the road to get here was long, at last I am home." (I reworded it to fit a little better sorry x) Color: Green

PAIRING: Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader (physician assistant)

WORD COUNT: 7.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled confessions, veteran affairs (I have OPINIONS on the care of veterans and today's political climate/military industrial complex BUT held back from making this political but fuck the government), group meeting/therapy, allusions to PTSD and what comes with being a combat veteran, prothesis/amuptation conversations, religious jokes-ish, smoking, mainly just all angst to fluff, NOT proofread so be kind, movie magic plot, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! This was really cathartic to write as it hits home some, so I hope you all enjoy. Thank you to @fuckoffbard for listening and helping. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED! THEY FUEL ME!

The clinic lights always tried to mimic the morning light, but it was always too sterile, too awake. There was no natural gradient to welcome you into a new day. Instead, it was the kind of light that made you feel like you hadn’t slept enough, and never would, even if you had.  

You were the first to arrive. It was hard to lose the habit, but it gave you time to review the backlog of missed calls. The quiet preparation was the only time you had to decompress before the day, but the rusted bell rang, knowing you never truly got reprieve. 

Not many came in this early. Certainly not without appointments. Most regulars were punctual, others late, flustered, avoiding eye contact like the entire hallway and staff were some kind of moral jury. 

Yet, this man was already looking at you. You turned, and there he was. 

You were met with an already long day’s worth of stubble, a jacket zipped halfway, and a UPMC badge dangling low like a relic from a night shift not long ended. His shoulders filled the doorway like he hadn’t quite committed to being inside yet. 

However, you recognized him immediately. Abbot, Jack. Early 50s. Transtibial amputation of rthe ight leg. Two canceled appointments in March. One in April. No follow-up scheduled. 

His chart was one of those you flagged mentally; he was the kind of patient who only walked through the door once a year, just long enough to keep his services active before disappearing for another twelve-month stretch. 

Jack cleared his throat, low. “You take walk-ins?”

You blinked. Technically…no. Not this early. Not without calling ahead. Not when it was a physical rather than an urgent medical concern. Yet, your mouth moved before policy could catch up. 

“Give me a moment to get you checked in.” You nodded, words automatic and practiced.  “First and last name?”

He looked like he might leave right there. But then he exhaled—just enough air to say: Okay. I’ll stay.

“Jack. Abbot. Had an appointment a while back…” He spoke like his confession would make up for wasted time and resources. “...couldn’t make it.”

You hummed, tapping the keyboard, pretending to scroll through the records you already knew by heart. 

“Well,” You stared, standing. “Third time’s a charm.”

Guiding him through the narrow hallway, your shoes hit softly on the tile, linoleum too thin to hide the grout lines from the floor beneath. The overhead lights buzzed in that tired, mechanical way fluorescent bulbs always do after too many years and too few replacements. You moved past mismatched wall sconces and half-peeling placards that still bore the faint imprint of a previous tenant’s brass plates.

This place used to be a law office.

You could see it in the layout; the corner turns that led to nowhere, the heavy wooden doors that didn’t quite fit the newer hinges. Even the break room still had a long strip of polished wood where the receptionist’s counter once stood. Someone had slapped a rack of patient forms on it. A forced transformation.

Rented-out facility. Government-issued furniture. Nothing quite fit. Everything was too small, too sterile, or too hollow. And somehow, that made it perfect for a VA satellite clinic. A place repurposed by necessity. Like most things touched by war.

Jack didn’t make small talk, and you didn’t push. Glancing back, you could see the way he moved, shoulders slightly hunched, but still alert. He walked like someone used to being in charge of emergencies, but bone-tired from them, too. Like the ground might shake, but if it did, he’d know what to do. He just didn’t want to anymore.

Exam Room One. 

You gestured him in, and he stepped through without hesitation. The room was small, cold in the way all clinics are. Pale blue walls, a single high window smudged with old tape residue, and an exam table that creaked when he sat on it, the paper crackling beneath him. 

You picked up the prepared clipboard. 

“Before we get started, any changes in your health since your last visit?”

Jack’s mouth twitched like he might say something sardonic, but it passed. He shook his head.

“Still breathing.” He gave a slight nod. No argument. No complaint. Just a quiet readiness, like someone used to being told what to do in a language he didn’t bother translating anymore.

“Good place to start.”

You ran through the intake questions like you always did, but you kept your tone light, measured. You knew better than to fill silence with something unworthy. Especially not with veterans like Jack; men who’d learned how to hear the things people didn’t say.

You moved slowly, on purpose. You’d learned, over time, that fast hands spooked the ones who carried invisible wounds. As you stepped closer to take his vitals, you noted the small details: the subtle shift of his leg as he adjusted, the way he sat still, like movement required permission now, but his gaze tracked you steadily. Quiet. Present. 

Different than most.

Most avoided eye contact when you got close. Looked at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Or the floor that looked like it had been washed a thousand times but never once looked clean. Jack didn’t. His eyes followed your hands, your shoulders, your breath. Not intrusively. Just like someone trained to read a room for danger. Or maybe reassurance.

You wrapped the cuff around his arm, checking the alignment. The Velcro hissed softly. He didn’t flinch.

“BP’s holding steady. Good.” You murmured more to yourself to note. Then, you glanced up at him with a touch of dry levity, “I’ll let you keep your driver’s license.”

That got a small exhale of amusement.

Encouraged by the break in tension, however slight, you reached for the stethoscope slung around your neck. The room was cool, and the metal already had that unforgiving chill to it. Out of habit, you rubbed your hands together briskly, trying to warm your fingers before touching him. The stethoscope, however, was another story. 

You curled the diaphragm in your palm to try and bring it to room temperature, but you knew from experience it would still be cold against skin. Jack didn’t comment, just pulled the thin cotton of his shirt up without being asked.

You stepped closer, moving to his left side, and placed the warmed back of your hand against his ribs first as a courtesy, a warning. 

“This’ll be cold.” You commented apologetically as you pressed the stethoscope against him. 

Jack gave a small grunt in acknowledgment, but didn’t pull away.

The chill made his skin prick instantly. You saw its trail along the slope of his side, pale against old scars and the faded outline of a long-healed abrasion near his flank. 

“Deep breath in.” You instructed gently. He inhaled. You listened. “Again.” 

The sound of his lungs filled the bell, steady, hollow, the faint pull of old tension sitting low in his chest. You knew what clear lungs were supposed to sound like, and Jack’s weren’t far from it, but there was something shallow in the way he exhaled. Something practiced. Measured, like he was holding back.

“Again.”

He breathed in deeper this time, like he wanted to prove something. You moved the stethoscope slightly, trailing it across the muscle between his ribs.

You were close enough to feel the shift in his posture, how still he went once your hand touched him. Not rigid. Just very aware. Another breath. Another exhale.

“Any shortness?” You asked, moving to his back, your hand brushing the curve of his shoulder blade.

“No.” He breathed out. “Just tired.”

You let out a small hum in acknowledgment, pressing the stethoscope to the space between his spine and scapula. The hush of his breathing filled your ears again.

He inhaled. You listened. Something shallow in the left lobe, but not worrying. Just tension. The kind that never really leaves the body once it learned the shape of impact. You noted the way his shoulders resisted it, like his ribs had forgotten how to fully trust their own expansion.

You placed the stethoscope lightly to the left of his sternum first, where the apex beat lived beneath the ribs and years. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath under your palm as you steadied yourself. The silence narrowed around you.

His heartbeat thudded into your ears: slow, firm, echoing.

“Heart sounds good.” 

Normal S1 and S2 heart sounds. No murmurs, gallops, or rubs auscultated. You knew he knew this. 

You pulled the stethoscope away gently, but your hand lingered, resting for just a second longer over the center of his chest. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you just wanted to feel it. Really feel it.

That was the thing about hearts. You could listen all day, but you never really knew what they were holding until they trembled under your palm.

You scanned his chart again, thumb grazing the line that made you pause the first time. Chronic low back pain. No follow-up. Recommend monitoring posture w/ prosthetic use.

Still unresolved. You moved behind him, palm resting lightly between his shoulders.

“Your last visit flagged some lower back strain.” Your tone was neutral, leaving space for more. “Flares up when you’re on your feet too long?”

Jack gave a faint grunt. “Sounds like something they’d put in just to make me come back.”

“Well—” You applied gentle pressure down his spine. “—if that was the plan, it worked.”

He didn’t respond, just sat steady as your fingers pressed lower, feeling through the tension under his shirt. When you neared the curve, you slowed, palpating carefully on either side of the spine. You knew where to look, especially with someone bearing the uneven weight.

“It’s important to check for overcompensation.” You continued quietly. “If the alignment’s off, you’ll feel it in the back long before the leg.”

“I’m fine.” Jack huffed, low. 

You looked up at him. “Do you ever rest the site? Or let it breathe?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Which meant rarely. You marked that silently.

“The hospital isn’t exactly known for scheduled rest periods.” He spoke, and you could hear the smirk in his voice even if he didn’t turn. “If I sit, it’s to chart. If I stand, it’s to fix something.”

You pressed your thumb a little deeper, just left of his spine, right above the sacrum. He flinched, just a little. The smallest involuntary grunt, like a breath caught the wrong way. You let your hand settle there for a moment. Not scolding. Just noting.

“Right.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt the faint shift in his posture. Not defensive. Not defeated. 

You made the mental note and stepped to the cabinet without a word, retrieving the otoscope. The instrument clicked softly in your hand as you turned on the light. It cast a warm glow between you in the still room, humming faintly as if to fill the space your fingers had just left behind.

“Ears, then eyes.” You spoke gently. 

Jack turned slightly, letting you tip his head the way you needed. Your fingers were light under his chin, at the hinge of his jaw. The otoscope glinted softly as you angled it toward his ear.

But while you worked, Jack watched you. You could feel it, his gaze not just drifting but reading. Like he was still deciding what kind of person you were. Still trying to place you.

“You new here?” Jack finally asked. “You don’t seem like the city type.”

“Bold assumption to make so early in the morning.” You teased, pulling the light back and moving to the other side.

“Just an observation.”

“I was born here, actually…” You answered the question you always got casually. “...left for a long time. Transferred back this year.”

“VA brought you back?” Jack tilted his head slightly. You checked his pupils next, flicking the light across his eyes as they adjusted, one at a time. He didn’t squint or shy away. Just let you look.

“God, no—” You cursed. And then, to cover what threatened to leak out around the edges: “—I just sleep better here. Can’t fall asleep without the noise.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch. “Most people say the city keeps them up.”

“I like knowing something’s still moving out there,” You laughed lightly through a huff. “Ambulances, garbage trucks, people yelling outside bars. Need to fall asleep to a world still spinning…”

Jack adjusted his scrub top absentmindedly, the material wrinkled from a long shift and a longer week. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, clinical, unforgiving, same as the ones he worked under most nights. But here, in this quiet exam room with your back against the counter and your arms folded, something about the hum felt less surgical. 

“Silence gets loud, y’know?” He’d said it like a joke, but you could tell it wasn’t one.

You tilted your head, watching him—not with pity, but with that quiet, observational calm some people wore like armor. He recognized it. Carried the same kind of thing into trauma bays.

You nodded, but said nothing. You knew better than to fill the pause.

He gave a faint, humorless huff. “Anyway, that’s why I stopped in. Better here than my apartment, staring at the ceiling with my ears ringing.”

“So this is a drive-by enrollment renewal?” You smiled softly. 

“Don’t act like that’s the worst thing you’ve seen in here.”

“It’s definitely in the top ten.” You replied dryly.  “Right between the guy who thought 'disability claim' meant show-and-tell, and the Marine who cried when I told him to hydrate.”

Jack didn’t laugh, not really, but something in his posture eased, like he was letting himself rest against the moment for the first time all day. Maybe all week. His hand brushed over his knee, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm, restless in that way only people wired for emergency ever were.

He watched you write like he wasn’t used to being on the other side of the clipboard. The subject instead of the observer. It wasn’t shameful. It was something quieter than that…displacement, maybe.

“You okay over there?” You asked, teasing just a little.

“Yeah. Just...weird.” He blinked like you’d pulled him out of a thought. 

“What is?”

“Being the one getting charted.” He nodded toward your pen.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get that.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Honestly?” You thought for a moment, tapping the pen against your thigh.  “I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor.”

That got a real look out of him. Not disbelief, just confirmation. That quiet, private awareness: Of course. You too.

“It’s hard…” You admitted. “When you’re used to being the one who knows the systems. Knows what they’ll say before they say it. Harder when you can’t picture someone on the other side knowing what to do with you.”

You watched him for another beat, then let your gaze drift to the clock. Not rushed, just reminded. You were still working. 

The rhythm of the clinic moved on, woke up, even when the air between you had stilled. Somewhere down the hall, a printer coughed. A phone rang and went unanswered. Staff clocked in.

You cleared your throat. “Regardless, everything looks good— I’ll send the go-ahead so your enrollment stays active.”

Jack gave a short nod, business-like again. Like a door had been pulled mostly shut, though not all the way.

You stepped away from the counter, your hand brushing the edge of the sink as you crossed the room. He rose at the same time, out of courtesy and instinct. 

“I’ll walk you out.” You held the door open for him.

The hallway outside was waking up,  the liminal space between morning chaos and whatever came next. Jack walked beside you, not hurried, not tense. You both moved like people who’d learned how to conserve energy in sterile places.

You waited until you reached the corner near the exit, the spot where patients usually asked about paperwork or turned around to remember they’d forgotten something.

Instead, you spoke up, “We run a group. Off the books.”

Jack glanced sideways at you.

“Thursday nights—” You went on, like you were reciting a neutral fact. “—across the street, at the church. It’s in the community room. It's unofficial. No sign-in, no rank, no talking if you don’t want to. Just people who prefer the noise.”

Jack said nothing, but you didn’t mistake silence for disinterest. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure out the angle. But there wasn’t one.

You didn’t fill in the rest. Didn’t say for people like you. Didn’t have to.

He nodded slowly. Like he didn’t know what to do with the information, but he understood it wasn’t being handed out lightly.

“I know you work nights. It probably doesn’t fit your schedule.” You couldn’t help but encourage, continue. “But in case it ever, you’re always welcome.”

Then, you pushed the front door open, holding it just long enough for him to pass through. The morning was bright out there, harsher than the lighting inside. He squinted against it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He answered finally, voice quiet but deliberate.

As he stepped out, you said, without ceremony, “You already did the hard part.”

He turned halfway, brow raised. “Which part was that?”

“Walking in.” You made it sound so simple. Maybe it was.  “Letting someone see you before you’re bleeding.”

Jack stood there for a breath longer, the door propped open between you. You were close enough to see the small shift of his jaw, the ghost of tension at the corners of his eyes, like something flickered through him and caught behind his teeth.

He nodded, then he left.

—

The room smelled like burnt coffee and whatever detergent the janitorial staff bought in bulk. One of the folding chairs was broken, so you’d leaned it in the corner, hoping no one would try to use it. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, indifferent. Outside the windows, dusk hovered like it wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

You were halfway through introductions when the door opened.

Late. Not by much—seven minutes, maybe—but still, you glanced up instinctively, ready to gently redirect whoever came in. And then you saw him.

Jack Abbot.

He was still in scrubs, jacket thrown over the top, collar slightly wrinkled like he’d wrestled with whether or not to come and only won five minutes ago. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him, older somehow, even if it had only been a few weeks.

He hovered in the doorway, one boot inside, the other not. Caught between the hall and the possibility of something uncomfortable.

You felt the shift in the room. The group noticed him how he carried himself. It wasn’t just his build. It was the posture. That straight-backed, high-alert bearing you only ever saw in two kinds of people: soldiers and people trying very hard not to fall apart.

You stood slowly. Smiled like you weren’t surprised to see him, even if a small part of you was.

“Hey.” You were warm.  “Come on in.”

Something in Jack’s shoulders eased, just slightly. You turned to the rest of the group, your voice calm, unforced.

“This is Jack. He’s joining us tonight.” No last name. No backstory. Just the gesture of arrival. That was enough.

A few nods, murmured hellos. One guy said, “Welcome,” like it was a rule. Jack gave a chin-dip in return.

A man, Martin, shared first,  talking about how his daughter stopped calling in March. Two others chimed in with variations of the same wound. The room did what it always did: it stretched itself to hold whatever pain it was given, without fixing it.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget either. He sat still, eyes forward, but not glassy. Listening. Taking inventory. And you watched him. Subtly, out of the corner of your eye, like you weren’t waiting for the moment he’d stand and say he didn’t belong here because you could feel it.

He looked like he was scanning every word, every crack in the ceiling tile, trying to make it make sense. His eyes occasionally drifted to the door. His hands stayed in his lap, steady, but his foot tapped once—twice—before stilling again.

He wasn’t unsettled because it was a group. He was unsettled because, for the first time in a long time, no one needed him. No one was coding. No alarms were beeping. No one called Doctor Abbot.

He was just Jack.  And that didn’t feel like enough.

So, he didn’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Instead, Jack sat like he was made of poured concrete: solid, unswayed, unmoved. But the stillness wasn’t ease. It was maintenance. A posture that said: Don’t look too long or you’ll see the cracks.

The others took turns with practiced vulnerability. Another veteran, Lisa, talked about the baby next door who cried at night and how it sometimes made her want to knock on the wall and scream. 

Someone else recited their weekly mantra about how small talk at the gas station kept them tethered to the world. Every voice added weight and oxygen to the room in that strange way group therapy worked: no one fixing, no one solved, but everyone surviving, together.

You didn’t push Jack, but when the lull came, when the air went quiet in that half-second of unclaimed silence, you turned to him. Not a spotlight, not pressure, just an open door.

He shifted, as if preparing to run, though he didn’t. His fingers rubbed the side of his leg, slowly. You saw the muscle clench in his jaw before he spoke. “I traded my shift to make it here.”

It came out simple, but the effort behind the words was unmistakable. He paused after that,  long enough for it to seem like he might leave it there.

Yet, he exhaled, glanced toward the window, and you could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, searching for a safer way to say what he meant. Something polite. Digestible. 

And then he gave up on that,  letting his tone drop into something flatter. Colder. Not harsh—just clinical, like he was delivering bad news to a patient’s family through a closed curtain.

“This isn’t a waste of time.” He started defensively, scared to offend your effort. “But sitting… idle like this for something I can’t even name… feels wrong.”

A few people looked up. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes now. He kept speaking, as if he didn’t let the silence in, he wouldn’t be so measured.

“I don’t talk about things unless they have names. Symptoms. Patterns. Diagnoses. That’s the trade. You name it, we treat it. That’s how I work. That’s how I stay upright. But this…”

Jack trailed off again. Then shrugged, a short, tired motion.

“...this doesn’t bleed the same way.” He finished. 

The words didn’t land like a dramatic revelation. There was no gasp, no cinematic hush—just the steady hum of a room that knew the texture of what he meant.

Jack’s fingers stilled against the side of his leg. He looked down at his hands like he half-expected them to be covered in something—blood, maybe. Or purpose. But they were clean. Still. Useless.

“I spent my whole career knowing what to reach for,” he said. “Chest compressions. Epi. Clamp and cut. Even when it was bad, even when it was too late, at least I could do something.”

He leaned back slightly in the folding chair, the metal legs creaking faintly beneath him. The gesture made his prosthesis shift under his pant leg, and he winced, not in pain, but in awareness.

“But this?” His voice dropped, vulnerable now. “This is like watching a code slow down in real time and realizing you’re not the one running it. You’re just watching the monitor. And the line’s not flat yet, but it’s close.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking, but you could feel it hanging in the air: I traded a shift. I changed my whole night. I said yes to something I barely believe in. And this—this silence, this seat, this half-truth I just spoke—is all I have to show for it.

So, the quiet held. 

Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present. The way it got in that room—when someone finally said something so honest it didn’t need embellishment.

No one jumped in to reassure him. No one offered clichés. That wasn’t what this space was for.

You didn’t speak yet, either. You just sat with it. With him. The same way he’d done for the last thirty minutes. Like the room itself was trained to carry the weight for a while. He stayed, and that was what mattered.

Finally, Martin, the same man who had spoken first, shifted forward in his seat.

“I get it.” He agreed. “Post service, I became a firefighter…After I retired, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without looking for exits, looking for a problem.  Couldn’t sit in my living room without wondering what the hell I was doing just sitting there.”

Jack didn’t nod, but he didn’t flinch either. He just stayed where he was, breathing evenly, like the effort of being in the room was more taxing than a double shift.

Lisa spoke next.

“It took me a year to figure out I wasn’t broken. Just… not useful in the way I was trained to be. No one ever tells you how to exist when there’s no task in front of you.”

Jack swallowed, his throat working hard against nothing. He blinked slowly, then glanced your way, but only for a beat.

The group kept moving, circling. No one tried to fix him. They just laid their pieces down beside his. You waited until the conversation had stretched on, shifted. Until someone made a dry joke about how the snacks were always good, and the weight in the air lightened just enough to carry again.

Only then did you speak—quietly, but clearly to everyone in the room.

“Remember, it’s now always about coming here to feel better.” You didn’t pose the sentiment to be questioned. “You can always come to not feel alone while it’s bad.”

The rest of the session moved on. The others began to speak again, and Jack stayed silent for the rest of it. Not because he didn’t want to be part of it, but because that was his part. The kind of sharing that left your bones hollowed out afterward. Like saying anything else would cheapen the breath it took to get that out.

Even after the session, when the folding chairs had scraped back across the linoleum and the regulars had filtered out with their usual half-smiles and murmured thanks, Jack lingered. Not awkwardly. Just unhurried, like his body hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that the talking was over.

Lisa was the first to approach him. Extended her hand, firm and sure, and told him where she served. Jack didn’t flinch, just nodded and returned the shake.

Someone else, Curtis, Navy, chimed in with a timeline, a base. The names passed like currency. The kind of shared vocabulary that didn’t need to be explained.

You were still inside, tossing coffee cups into the trash, wiping down tabletops that had already been clean.

By the time you stepped out into the night, the group was gone. The lot was nearly empty except for your car and one old truck idling at the far end. 

The sharp chill of early spring hit your neck, and you hunched your shoulders as you reached into your coat pocket. Keys. Lighter. Cigarettes. A ritual, half-forgotten.

You moved toward the concrete steps at the front of the church, letting yourself exhale for the first time all night. You sat, letting the cold seep through your pants.

It was a habit, really—staying much longer than needed. No one around to clock you. No rules left to follow.

You tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slid it between your lips. Lit it with a tired flick of the thumb.

“Now that’s one hell of a sight.”

You startled. Jack’s voice came from the shadows, dry as whiskey left out overnight.

You turned to see him leaning against the stone railing, just out of reach of the yellow glow from the overhead bulb.

Then, you let out a soft huff. “It’s medicinal.”

“Oh yeah?” He nodded toward the cigarette. “What’s that treat?”

“Empathy fatigue.” You deadpanned. “And low-grade moral despair.”

Jack laughed, really laughed. Not loud. Not long. Real.

You glanced at him, surprised to see he was still here. Even more surprised by what his presence was doing to your posture, you weren’t standing straight anymore. You weren’t leading anything. You were just here.

You gestured to the space beside you on the steps.

“Come on then. You’ve already seen me sin. Might as well sit through the confession.”

Jack hesitated, then climbed the two steps and lowered himself beside you. He sat with the same precision you’d seen in the exam room, like even resting was something to be executed properly.

You flicked ash to the concrete. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“Didn’t want to go back yet.” He admitted.

You both looked out across the street, quiet for a moment. He didn’t seem rushed now. He was just untethered. 

“You know, this is the first time in five years I haven’t done a night shift.”

You turned to him. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were still on the street, jaw set like he’d said too much.

“It’s killing me—” Jack added. “—sitting still. Watching the hours pass without something bleeding or burning or breaking.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let the weight of the admission settle.

“You could’ve gone home.” You said eventually.

“I wouldn’t have stayed.” He looked at you then. And you saw it, clear in the way his green-hazel eyes softened; this wasn’t just a delay tactic,  it was survival. “Don’t know what to do with the quiet.”

You offered the cigarette pack, not pushing, just holding it out in case. He didn’t take one, but he didn’t recoil, either.

Jack scratched his head in thought, looking sideways at you. “I don’t mean to unload on you, I know you already—I’m just—

“Don’t worry, I stayed for the same reason.” You cut him off, unwilling to entertain something so wrong. “Company makes it better.” 

You looked at him in the glow of the streetlight, noticing how different he seemed outside the exam room, outside the group. How strange it was, seeing someone become real right in front of you.

His eyes flicked to yours, then, briefly, but steadily. A flicker of something like recognition passed between you.

“You’re different out here, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips quirking around the filter. “Different how?”

“No clipboard. No script.”

You huffed a little, dragged the cigarette again before flicking ash to the side. “You say that like I’ve been reading off cue cards.”

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing. Just—” Jack leaned back slightly on his elbows, letting the stone of the step press cold against his back.  “You’re quieter. Less… contained—wasn’t expecting it.”

“What were you expecting?” You gave him a sidelong glance.

“Not someone who needs to stay behind.”

That, more than anything, made something ache behind your chest. You looked away. Let the ember of your cigarette burn a little too long.

“Well…” You were gentle with the thought. “Not all of us know how to leave.”

You don’t continue  right away. Just let the silence sit between you, a low hum of nothing but the wind moving along the street, the overhead lamp buzzing faintly like a broken thought. Yet, Jack knew the thought wasn’t through.

“...out here, I don’t have to keep anyone upright” You’d never said it aloud, afraid the guilt it would bring, but it was so relieving to admit.  “...I don’t have to hold my own spine so straight either.”

Jack nodded slowly, gazing forward again. “That sounds nice.”

“It’s not.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, but sometimes honesty read that way. “It’s just true.”

Another car rolled past, headlights stalking across the sidewalk and over Jack’s boots. The beam caught the tired set of his jaw, the way his eyes had sunk slightly into their sockets from too many nights that didn’t end the way they should have. 

Still, Jack looked better in this light. He looked less sharp, less made of stone.

“You ever try to quit?”  He turned his head slightly, demeanor ticking in quiet acknowledgment of your cigarette.

“Ever the doctor.” You gave a dry laugh, slow and low. “Every other week I think about quitting, and then someone tells me they still remember the weight of the body they had to leave behind, and suddenly I’m outside again with a lighter.”

“Guess I should thank you for staying out here long enough for me to loiter.”

“Loiter?” You echoed, glancing sideways. “You’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

The lull between you had settled into something companionable.  A mutual endurance, like you were both learning how to be still in the same moment.

Jack shifted, like he had something else on the tip of his tongue but wasn’t sure how to give it shape. His gaze dipped to the cigarette now crushed out beside your shoe. Then, to your hands, your sleeves pulled down over your wrists like instinct.

“Gimme your wrist.” He cleared his throat.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He held out a hand, patient and palm-up. “Your wrist. I’m being serious.”

A smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. “Jack, you trying to hold my hand outside a church?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m offering you a free exam. Since you admitted it’s been years.”

You laughed, not quite believing him, even as your heart gave the smallest thud of something unexpected. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” There was a new wave of confidence as he spoke. “A licensed PA, going around telling people to take care of themselves, but too stubborn to schedule a check-up? That stuck with me.”

He flexed his fingers slightly, still holding them out. You let out a long, amused sigh—but gave him your wrist.

Jack took it carefully, cradling it like it was something breakable. His fingers were warm, steady. He glanced at his watch, brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

“You’re stalling.” You teased.

“I’m being thorough—

He kept counting. His mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk, but when he finally looked up, his eyes caught yours and something shifted in the air between you. It was heavy and new.

—If I’m doing your first physical in however many years.” He clicked his teeth. “No way, I’m cutting corners.”

The line landed harder than he meant it to. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second too long. Neither did he. Then, without fanfare, Jack released your wrist, like he was afraid of making it mean more than it already did.

Jack’s eyes skimmed your face, thoughtful, quiet. Not searching for a reaction, just weighing something. Whatever hesitation had held him off earlier was gone now, replaced by a kind of gentle stubbornness that to you felt more him. 

Jack lifted his hand again, slower this time, and brought his fingers to your jaw. He said nothing, just let the touch land carefully, fingertips warm beneath the edge of your cheekbone.

His thumb shifted slightly, pressing beneath the hinge of your jaw, then slid up toward the curve beneath your ear.

You didn’t move, not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to. There was nothing performative in the gesture, nothing flirtatious. It wasn’t about romance or pretense or asking for more.

It was just Jack, still trying to be useful.

You tilted your head without thinking, letting him trace the side of your neck. His thumb swept slowly beneath your jawline, feeling for your lymph nodes.

His movements were sure, practiced. Not clinical in the cold sense, but precise. Tactile. Like each step in the exam was tethered to something older than routine.

“You had to do all this in the field?”

Jack nodded, his touch moving to the base of your neck. “Every day. No machines. Just hands and instincts.”

You heard something shift in his voice with a quiet flick of gravity. That subtle weight people carried when they weren’t talking about the past so much as living in it again.

“Vitals were all manual. Pulse checks. Respiratory counts by ear. Skin temp by touch. No monitors, no steady beeping to tell you who was slipping.”

Jack’s thumb passed gently along the tendon at the side of your neck, and for a moment, you forgot what the street sounded like. You were suddenly aware of the shape of your body in space, of the parts of you he could feel ticking beneath his fingers.

“At night we worked in blackout conditions.” He murmured, continuing a ritual he’d never forget. “No headlamps. No lanterns. Just stars, if we were lucky. Used the North Star to orient when GPS failed. Checked pupils by moonlight. You’d learn to tell cyanosis from normal by feel, not sight.”

You swallowed, but didn’t pull away. His hand was still there, anchored lightly against your throat. Not gripping, not holding. Just witnessing.

“And you trusted yourself to get it right?” You asked, not doubting him, but wondering what it had cost.

“You didn’t have a choice.” Jack’s gaze met yours again. And this time, something flickered in it, something bigger than both of you.  “When someone’s slipping under your hands, you either learn the difference or you lose them.”

You swallowed again—and he felt that, too.

Jack moved to your collarbone, pressing lightly, checking along the line where lymph nodes would swell. Your eyes flicked up to him at that, but his gaze was steady on your shoulder, his hand still carefully mapping the shape of your body like it was a page he needed to memorize. 

“You’re tense.” His fingers paused at the base of your neck.

You let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

Jack pulled back slightly, eyes finally meeting yours.

“Could say the same.” He said. 

There was a stillness between you then full of something else. A thread tied between memory and presence. Between what he’d once done to save lives, and what he was doing now to feel human again.

You shifted, giving him a small, crooked smile. “This what you pictured for a night off?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on yours, thoughtful, like he was weighing how honest to be.

“Not exactly.” He confessed. His hand dropped from your collarbone then, the air between you still carrying the weight of his touch.  “But it’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.”

“My health that riveting?” 

Then, with a faint smirk, Jack returned to himself.  “You’ve got a hell of a resting heart rate.”

You pealed with laughter. The grin tugging at the corner of Jack’s mouth softened everything in him.

“That’s your fault.”

He shrugged.

You sat back a little, feeling your own body again; your neck still tingling faintly where his fingers had been. He hadn’t lingered to touch you, not really. He’d touched you because that’s how he knew people. That’s how he made sense of the living.

And tonight, for once, he wasn’t too late.

The streetlight above flickered once, then steadied. The night still buzzed faintly with the sound of spring creeping in, but the world, for a moment, had gone small; just the church steps, the two of you, and the unspoken admission that this, whatever it was, had been needed.

And maybe, you thought, that was what healing sometimes looked like. Not talking.  Not explaining.  Just letting someone check for signs of life and finding them.

There was a kind of reverence in that. And you hadn’t expected reverence tonight.

You rubbed your fingers slowly along the fabric of your pants, grounding yourself with the texture. The quiet stretched again, but softer this time. Less like the end of a conversation and more like the lull before the next thing.

Eventually, you straightened, reluctantly peeling yourself away from the cold stone steps. Jack’s movement followed yours like a reflex;he stood, not with purpose, but with you, shadowing your motion, the way people do when they’ve been through long shifts together. When the silence between them means something understood.

Neither of you said Let’s go. But you both started walking.

Down the worn church steps, your shoes thudding softly on old cement. Gravel cracked beneath your weight as you crossed the narrow lot. It had gone almost fully quiet, just the low hum of the power lines, the wind slipping through the trees like a passing thought.

Your car sat waiting beneath a crooked lamp, light flickering as if undecided. Jack’s truck was parked a few spaces down, dust settling on the hood like it always did when someone stopped moving long enough.

You stopped at your door, keys already out but untouched in your hand. You didn’t unlock it. Jack didn’t walk past. He hovered there instead, just close enough to share the moment, just far enough to leave you room if you wanted to step away.

He rocked once on his heels, then cleared his throat. It wasn’t a nervous sound—just a nudge. Something that bridged the quiet without breaking it.

“You think that group’s got space next week?” He asked, his voice shier now, like he didn’t want to spook the stillness you’d both earned.

“We don’t do headcounts.” You smiled.  “Just chairs. If one’s open, it’s yours.”

Jack considered that. Nodded once, brows drawing slightly inward with the thought. Then, a faint smile, tired around the edges, but real in the center.

“Alright.”  He murmured, agreeable. “Might do that.”

You leaned your weight gently against the side of your car, letting yourself rest into the shape of the night for a breath longer.

“You know, Jack—” You started confidently. “—you don’t have to wait for Thursdays to talk to me.”

His brows twitched in the faintest flicker of surprise and confusion. The kind he tried to swallow but couldn’t quite manage, the suspense too enticing. 

“I mean, if something comes up.”  You smiled subtly.  “Or if you need anything. Or just… if it’s late, and things are too quiet again….”

You trailed off and held out your hand, palm open. He blinked once, the weight of your words landing slowly.

 “Your phone. So I can give you my number.” You kept your tone light. Gentle. “I’ll type it in for you. Easier than calling the front desk and pretending it’s about a referral.”

Jack hesitated, just for a second, but reached for it. His phone was warm from his pocket. The screen was still open. You clicked into his contacts, typed in your name, and entered your number without comment. No title, no clinic.

Just you.

Before handing it back, you paused with your thumb hovering over the message field, but you didn’t text yourself. Didn’t give him that easy opening. You locked the screen and gave it back.

“There.” You said, brushing your fingers against his as the phone changed hands. “If you want to reach out, you can. If not… no pressure.”

Jack looked down at the phone in his hand like it might bite back. The contact glowed softly on the screen—your name, simple and unadorned.

“You’re giving me an out.”

“Or an invitation.” You shrugged. “Depends on what you do with it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just thumbed the edge of the screen, eyes distant for a moment. Processing. Weighing.

“You don’t give this to just anybody.” He realized quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You tilted your head. “Neither do you.”

Something flickered across his face and spread through his body. The road to something like this was never clean, and it sure as hell wasn’t straight, but this? This felt like rest. Or more like something unfolding, slow and tentative, in the center of his chest. A warmth he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something bold, but the words caught in his throat and never came.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long to be casual. Like he was still cataloging something he hadn’t named yet.

Not attraction exactly—but something adjacent. Something measured. Careful. Like he hadn’t let himself think about hope in a long time, and didn’t want to touch it too directly now in case it vanished.

You didn’t break the moment either.

Eventually, he stepped back, nodding once—not goodbye, just a shift in posture. A soft signal that he’d give you your space.

You watched him walk back to his truck. His gait was slower now, less formal than before. Shoulders slightly hunched, but looser. Like he’d left something behind on those steps and wasn’t sure yet if that was a loss or a relief.

You stood still until he opened his door.

He didn’t look back. But he didn’t rush, either.

And when the engine turned over and the headlights swept across the lot, you didn’t flinch from the brightness. You let it pass through you.

There wasn’t anything to say. Not tonight.

But the air had shifted.

Like something in the dark had turned to face the light again. And maybe next Thursday, you thought, when the chairs were pulled out again and the coffee burned a little on the bottom, maybe there’d be two people left sitting under the sky.

Still not talking. Still not explaining. But quietly, unmistakably—staying.

[lilywritingnook]

BREATHE, BABY

Pairing: g!p sophia x f!reader

Synopsis: In which sophia is all tired and done with her responsibilities,but her girlfriend knows her more than anyone and knows what makes her feel better.

Being a leader was already hard enough—especially when you literally had the most chaotic people on earth in your group.Sophia didn’t complain much—she was part of the chaos. But sometimes the noise got too loud, and she ended up with a headache most nights, even if she spent her day laughing to death with her members.

Today wasn’t any better. She entered your apartment, all tired and two seconds away from crashing. Her jaw was clenched, holding back whatever she couldn’t let out. The baseball cap on her head was crooked from the day's chaos, her shirt wrinkled.

But her eyes—God, her eyes looked so tired.

“Baby,” you immediately stepped beside her as she leaned against the kitchen counter, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and sipping from it. You watched her throat work as she drank, quietly standing by her side, giving her time to process. You already knew. You could see it in the tension in her shoulders, in the way she avoided your gaze.

“Baby, look at me.”

She didn’t.

You stepped in front of her and gently cupped her chin, guiding her to meet your eyes.

“Rough day?”

She nodded, wordless.

You leaned in and kissed her cheek. She finally relaxed, just a little.

“Let me help you unwind.”

Sophia didn’t get the chance to ask what you meant because you were already walking toward the couch in the living room.

She followed you without question.

“Sit.”

She blinked at you, confused.

“Sit, baby.”

She obeyed, leaning back on the couch, manspreading lazily in her sweatpants. God. Did she even know how good she looked right now? The cap barely hanging on her head, her exhaustion softening her usual edge—it made your heart ache and your body burn all at once.

You took the cap off her head and climbed onto her lap.

“Let me make you feel better.”

“What are—”

She didn’t finish. You were already pressing your mouth to hers—soft, messy, needy.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she kissed you back, and that was all the permission you needed.

You deepened the kiss, tugging at her bottom lip until she groaned into your mouth. You loved that sound.

Her hands found your waist, pulling you tight against her, but you stopped her, pulling back with a breathless gasp. A string of spit still connected your lips.

“No. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You slid off her lap, kneeling on the floor between her legs. The way her breath hitched made you smirk.

Good.

Without waiting, you tugged at the drawstrings of her sweatpants and pulled them down.

She was already half-hard, the fabric of her boxers tenting.

“You’re already hard?” you teased, palming her through the thin cotton.

She nodded desperately, already too far gone to speak.

You pressed your palm firmer, and she moaned loudly, arching off the couch.

“Shh, baby. I’ve got you.”

You pulled her boxers down, and she sighed in relief as the pressure eased from her cock.

You glanced at the thick, veiny shaft, licking your lips.

Sophia gripped the couch cushions so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Please, baby,” she whispered, her voice strained.

“Please what?”

“I… I need your— I need your mouth, fuck.”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “You want me to suck you off?”

She flushed at your directness but nodded quickly, needy.

You didn’t tease her much tonight. Maybe it was because she looked so close to falling apart. Maybe it was because you just wanted to comfort her—no games, no waiting.

You leaned in and kissed the tip. She groaned above you, her hips twitching.

“Fuck—”

You didn’t drag it out. You took her in, inch by inch, stretching your mouth to fit her. You choked a little, but you didn’t care. You wanted this. You wanted her to feel good.

Sophia didn’t grab your hair. She didn’t thrust. She just sat there, trembling under your touch, as you swallowed her down until your nose brushed her pelvis.

You paused there, feeling the weight of her cock on your tongue, her taste heavy on your lips.

Her hands clutched the armrests like she was holding on for dear life as you started moving, bobbing your head slowly, breathing through your nose. Your hands wrapped around what your mouth couldn’t reach, stroking her in sync with your rhythm.

It didn’t take long.

Her thighs tensed. Her breathing quickened. You sped up, wanting to pull every last drop from her.

And then she broke.

Her back arched, mouth open in a silent gasp as hot cum flooded your mouth. You swallowed—greedy, not letting a single drop escape.

You pulled off her with a soft pop and climbed back into her lap. She immediately wrapped her arms around you, pressing her face into your chest.

You hugged her tightly, fingers stroking through her hair.

“You did so good, baby. Letting go for me.”

She kissed your neck lazily, her body going heavy with exhaustion, and you pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“Sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And just like that, she laid down on the couch, pulling you with her, wrapping her arms around your waist and resting her chin on top of your head as she finally drifted off.

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ rafe defends you at the country club

he slams the door like he’s trying to wake the dead. you blink up from the couch, half-curled beneath a knit throw blanket with a cherry popsicle and an old rom-com playing on low volume. it’s peaceful, calm, your favorite time of day. until rafe storms in, yanks the collar of his white polo like it’s choking him, and mutters under his breath, “fucking doug.”

you raise a brow. “i didn’t know you hated old white men named doug. explain.” you bite your popsicle, staring at him like he’s your girlfriend about to gossip.

rafe looks at you like he forgot you were here. his eyes soften. “you look cute.” he melts when he looks at you.

“don’t pivot.” you chuckle, wiping melted popsicle off your fingers.

he drags a hand through his hair, all messy from golf, and paces around the room. the words are still caught behind his teeth. “he was talking about you.”

you frown. “who was?”

“doug,” he spits. “the one who always wears those cheap-ass loafers and thinks he’s the richest man alive.”

you set the popsicle down. “what did he say?” an uneasy feeling swirls through your stomach. you never liked half the men at the club. they always undressed you with their eyes and muttered nasty things under their breath.

rafe doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just begins muttering it like it tastes bad. “cameron’s got the right idea. keep a pretty one around, they stay quiet if you spoil ‘em enough. i used to have a girl like that. good for your ego. even better for weekends.” he mocks doug’s annoyingly high-pitched voice.

your stomach twists. your face contorts like you’ve eaten something rotten. rafe’s jaw clenches. you can practically hear his molars grind. “and you said…?” you murmur, mentally preparing for whatever bloodbath he’s about to describe.

“i said if he ever said your name again, i’d knock his veneers down his fucking throat.”

you stifle out a laugh and chuckle, “that’s my man” under your breath.

rafe shrugs like he’s trying to play it off. but you can still see the rage simmering just under his skin, warm and wild and utterly feral in its loyalty. “he tried to laugh it off. like it was a compliment. like you’re just,” he growls, “just some thing i let tag along for photo ops. some little doll i keep in the background so i don’t have to listen when she talks.”

you stay quiet and wait. rafe breathes out. his hands are fists at his sides. like he doesn’t know where to put them, only that they want to hit. “i hate that shit,” he mutters. “i hate when men talk like that. like they own women. like a girl’s worth is measured in how well she shuts up and smiles. like you’re disposable.”

you rise to your feet and he looks up. his eyes are dark with rage. his fingernails are bleeding from how much he’d bitten them. his hair is tousled like he was on some rollercoaster. you cross the room slow, until you’re toe-to-toe. until you can feel the heat coming off his chest and see the guilt still hanging in his eyes—not because he said it, but because he couldn’t kill the guy who did.

“i’m not disposable, rafe.”

he nods, quickly. “i know.”

“i’m not here to stroke your ego.”

“i know that too.”

“i talk back.”

“you don’t let me get away with shit.” he smirks. he’s not ashamed of it, he’s proud. he’d tell anyone that asked that—he’s not your boss. if anything, you’re his.

“and i never will.” the sides of your lips curve into a grin. pink floods your cheeks.

his eyes flicker, warm and wrecked. “good.”

you tilt your chin. “so what now? you start a feminist book club? throw hands in the locker room? get ‘respect women’ tattooed across your ribs?”

he smirks, faint. “you’d like that last one, huh?”

“i’d like not having to flinch when i hear my boyfriend’s name at the country club.”

he’s quiet for a beat. he looks at the ground. “i’ll never let them talk about you like that again. i don’t care who they are. money doesn’t make them right. and it sure as hell doesn’t make them safe.”

you hum, soft. “neither do country club memberships.”

he shrugs. “i grew up there. that doesn’t mean i have to become them.”

and that, right there—that’s what breaks you open a little. not the protective streak, or the fact that he came home furious on your behalf. but that, he doesn’t want to be like them. not for money. not for status. not even for safety.

“c’mere,” you whisper. he steps in like gravity, pulling you in by the waist, forehead pressing to yours.

“you’re mine,” he says, so quietly it barely counts as sound. “but not like that. never like that.”

you breathe him in, nod once, and press a kiss to his nose.

[starshideurfics]

Omega Steve crying on the bathroom floor next to a positive pregnancy test because he wants this baby so bad, but he never wanted to trap Eddie. He wants Eddie to stay for him.

vs.

Alpha Eddie who has had a ring box in his pocket for a month looking for the perfect opportunity to propose.

💍💍💍

Today’s going to be the day. Eddie’s decided that it has to be since he keeps overthinking it and chickening out. That’s why he went to get a pep talk from Wayne, a little reassurance that anyone with eyes can tell Steve will say yes.

He squeezes the little box in his pocket as he runs up the stairs to his and Steve’s apartment, and squares his shoulders as he opens the door. “Baby!” he calls, “I’m home!”

Normally, Steve would yell back or come to meet him, but the apartment is worryingly quiet. And the sour scent of a distressed omega fills the air.

Steve either can’t, or won’t answer him, so Eddie follows his nose, quickly finding his way to the closed bathroom door. “Baby? What’s wrong?” he asks gently, hand on the knob. He doesn’t turn it, waiting for an invitation, but all he hears are soft whimpers from the other side. His pulse jumps, worry winning out as he works the knob. “Steve?”

The knob stops short. It’s locked.

Steve never locks the bathroom door. He is a firm believer that if they live together, he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t poop. So at least Eddie can rule out Steve suffering through diarrhea.

It doesn’t make him feel much better.

Eddie taps at the door. “Sweetheart, can I please come in?”

Steve just whimpers louder.

“Please, baby,” Eddie begs, his own voice sounding watery, “I just wanna make sure you aren’t hurt.”

He hears a gentle shuffling, followed by a whimpered, “I fucked up, Eddie.”

“Steve, hey-”

“I really fucked up.” Now Steve’s crying hard, the kind of weeping that makes Eddie’s instincts howl. His omega is hurting—is scared—and he just wants to bring Steve to their den, to cuddle in their nest and keep his mate safe. Because that’s what Steve is to him, even if it isn’t official yet. So it hurts all the worse when Steve moans, “I fucked up, I’m sorry.”

“Steve, baby, it’ll be okay. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Just let me in, please.” Eddie futilely turns the knob again, smacks his palm against the wood of the jamb. He takes a breath. Panicking won’t help anyone. Then he takes a step back, prepares to kick the door open—he can replace a door, he can’t replace Steve—when he hears the lock click.

Eddie fumbles for the knob, his nerves getting the better of him, but he gets the door open, sour distress so much stronger as he moves into Steve’s space. He’s quick to look him over for injuries, hands running up his arms and along his back, up into his hair to make extra sure. At least Steve leans into the touch. At least he hides his face against Eddie’s shoulder as he silently weeps.

“It’ll be okay, baby, I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

That makes Steve cry harder.

Then Eddie sees it: the box in the trash.

Omega’s Choice Pregnancy Test - Results you can trust in only 5 MINUTES

He glances around, easily finds the little plastic stick on the floor near Steve’s feet, sees the pair of blue lines in the window.

“I fucked up,” Steve moans again, his words a little muffled by Eddie’s chest.

“You didn’t fuck up,” Eddie promises, rubbing small circles over Steve’s spine. “You’re perfect, baby.”

“I did! I trapped you!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“But I did!”

“Steve, it isn’t much of a trap when you’ve been very up front about wanting kids. And about quote, ‘I want you to come so deep inside me that it goes back in time and makes me pregnant a week ago,’ unquote.”

Steve blushes, tries to deflect. “That’s just sexy talk. Heat of the moment stuff.”

“We ran out of condoms two months ago and you told me not to buy more.”

Facing crumbling in pain, Steve shouts, “But now you’re only gonna stay for the baby!”

That hurts worse than a slap. But he knows how fucked Steve’s parents’ marriage is, how they made it very clear that they stayed together because of him. Not even *for* him. Trapped.

“I love you, Steve. Us having a baby just means I get to love you both. No one is trapped. I’m pretty damn sure I’m right where I want to be. Almost.”

Steve sniffles, finally looking at Eddie with red, puffy eyes. “Almost?”

Smiling, Eddie goes down on one knee, keeping hold of Steve’s hand. “Marry me, Steve.”

“No. Nononono. Eddie, see, I trapped you! You can’t ask me to marry you just because I’m pregnant!” Steve moans, feebly pulling his hand back.

Eddie holds on tight with one hand, reaches into his pocket with the other and pulls out the ring box. He flicks it open, revealing a simple platinum band with a single star-incised diamond. “I’ve been trying to find the perfect time to ask you since your birthday. You can ask Robin; she helped pick the ring. Or ask Wayne! He told me I’d better ask you today, or he’d do it for me!” Eddie smiles one of his crooked little grins up at Steve and places the ring box in his palm. “I’ve been planning to marry you ever since our first kiss. And I’ve been planning to give you babies just about as long, because you will be such a great mom. I can’t imagine a more perfect person for me, Steve, than you. I want *everything* with you, so please, marry me.”

Steve’s lower lip quivers. “Everything?”

“Everything and always.”

“Okay,” Steve says with a nod and—finally—some happy tears. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Eddie.”

Steve has Eddie slide the ring into his finger before he allows the alpha to stand, happily melting into a kiss when he does. “I love you,” he whispers against Steve’s lips. “Now how about we go try to get you pregnant again to celebrate?”

[celepeace]

Also in the spirit of "sex is something you're supposed to want and enjoy, not something to endure"- if your partner acts like pleasing you is a chore, or makes you feel like you're being unreasonable for wanting them to consider your feelings and pleasure during the act rather than only theirs, or continues to do things that hurts you/makes you uncomfortable in some way even after you talk to them about it...

You deserve better. Sex is supposed to be a collaborative activity; even if you specifically enjoy one-sided acts, there needs to be communication and explicit consent, free from coercion, about that beforehand. You deserve to have your feelings considered and cared for. Sex is supposed to be fun. To reiterate op, sex is not supposed to be something you tolerate.

As someone who was in a highly abusive relationship for nearly a decade, please, for your own sake, don't sacrifice your wants and needs for another. Happiness and satisfaction is out there and you deserve to find it, whatever form that takes for you.

sex is not supposed to be about what you can tolerate!!!!! sex is supposed to be about what you genuinely want and enjoy!!!!! and if you’re traumatized and/or not straight, believe me, I know it’s not that simple to figure out what it is that you actually want and enjoy.

you’re not a bad person if you do something that you don’t particularly enjoy because, for example, it makes your partner happy, but always remember: you have no obligation to engage in sexual activities that you don’t fully like and enjoy. 

and you don’t ever, ever need to justify that - if your partner has an issue with “It makes me kind of uncomfortable” or “I don’t really like it”, then that person does not deserve a moment of your time, in or outside of the bedroom. you don’t have to prove yourself to anyone; you don’t have to meet anyone’s standards of acceptable vs. unacceptable activity (or lack thereof); you don’t have to force yourself to be comfortable with something because of any perceived political connotations of performing or refusing that act.

saying yes because you feel guilty about saying no is not consent. saying yes because you’re scared of what will happen if you say no is not consent. saying yes because you figure you might as well just endure it is not consent. sex ed on here and elsewhere doesn’t give a single shit about traumatized people and I wish someone had told me all of this a lot sooner.