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heartyluv · 3 days ago

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Note: This quite literally came to me in a dream. Like…I WAS THERE. I HAD TO WRITE IT. Genuinely, I am in love with this. No need for me to yap. I hope you enjoy. Love you, beauties!

Warning: Smut, Sylus talks about killing while he’s in you, he pours syrup on them 🍒 and licks it off, he has battle scars, very brief mention of him wanting to claim you in blood (IT’S NOT CRAZY WHEN YOU READ IT, PROMISE!!!), slight breeding kink

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: The Empire’s beloved gladiator has had another day of monumental success and wants you as his victory night cap.

Gladiator!Sylus/Reader

When your name is spoken, your skin prickles with goosebumps from anticipation. After every arena held, this is what you always looked forward to.

“He has called for you.”

You look up from the book you’ve been reading, briefly scanning the dining hall that you were sitting in with several other women and feeling their gaze bore into you. Once you give your attention back to the guard who was usually the one to bring you to your champion, you nod and stand.

“Again?” one scoffs, seemingly believing she’s doing so silently enough for you not to hear.

“Out of all the women in the Empire, of all the women here,” another whispers. “He continues to choose—“

“Mind your tongue, new blood,” her maybe friend interrupts. “Have you gone mad? Should she tell him of your venomous and foolish words, you will suffer the consequences. He’s proven so before.”

The golden jewelry decorating your body clinks and jingles with each movement as you slide on your simple sandals to protect your feet from the dirt and stone floor. All eyes are on you when you make your way out the door, silently following behind the large man who was no feat compared to the one whose bed you’d warm tonight.

Everyone within and out of your grandiose town treated you with respect, even the ones who harbored jealousy for you or for the man your soul belonged to. They had no choice if they valued their life and if they didn’t know better, they were always soon made aware.

So in your short journey to the extravagant halls in which your warrior rested after his wins, each individual along your path nodded their heads or turned away out of respect. None were to even speak to you if it wasn’t by his order.

Your Sylus.

The gladiator who’s never lost a fight. One who is so victorious that he’s not just a staple in your town and several others, but in the entire Empire.

A man whom has never been conquered. At least, not physically.

No, the only thing of his that has been claimed and owned by another was his heart. And it was yours.

“Good night, miss.” The guard offered his farewell once you were right outside the giant wooden doors that led to your beloved beast.

After he has fully departed, you softly knock twice to alert Sylus of your arrival.

“Come in, kitten.” He’s memorized everything that is you. How you talk, smell, walk, knock, breathe—it’s all information and knowledge he has safely tucked in his mind. Even if he hadn’t called for you, he would’ve known those gentle raps against his door to be his lover.

Once you enter, the large warm candlelit room was perfectly illuminated to grant you the glorious sight of a nearly nude Sylus, a thin ivory sheet laying across his hips being the only thing separating your eyes from his thick cock that makes an impressive tent beneath.

“Beautiful,” he grins as he takes you in, one strong muscled arm flexing while he rests a hand behind his neck. The white-silver hair atop his head matches the patch beneath his armpit and the trail that sneaks below his bellybutton and beneath the duvet. His hard and large body is adorned with dozens of scars with stories to tell—most old, a few new.

“Congratulations on your success today, my love,”you note after shutting the door, bowing in the way you’ve seen so many do to him before. “I watched it all.”

“I know you did.” He holds a hand out to you. “And I’ve told you, no need for the formalities. Come. I’ve missed my woman.”

“Have you now?” you tease, kicking off your shoes. “It’s only been a few days.”

“A second without you is a poor existence. Tell me, have you not ached for me to the same degree, sweetie?”

“Perhaps once I’m sitting on your cock, you can let me know if you can feel how badly I’ve craved you.”

His dick throbs at your words, his body shifting as if it would relieve any of the pressure. Beginning to walk barefoot toward him, he puts up a hand to halt you, grinning at the way you meet his gaze head on.

“Get undressed for me. Show me my prize.”

You lick your lips, staring into his mesmerizing rubies as you tug the thin material of your dress down your shoulders. Quickly does it pool at your feel, leaving you in nothing but all your bangles and necklaces that he has gifted you.

He likes when you wear the things he buys you, so you don’t work to remove any of the expensive gold.

Once you’re at the side of his bed, he quickly pulls you in by the waist with strength seemingly inhumane, placing you on top of him. The only thing keeping him from slipping inside of you right now is the dreaded blanket, but you can feel his dick trying to nestle between your pussy lips, making you shiver.

He kisses all over your tits, sucking and nipping at your flesh to mark you in ways only he can. Your hand tangles in his hair as the soft crackle of the fireplace behind you sets the romantic atmosphere.

“I see they’ve fed you well,” you smile, looking at the assortment of fruits, cheese, sweets, and syrups he has on his bedside.

“This was intended to be my dessert after the feast they granted me.” He takes your nipple into his mouth, pulling a sexy moan from you. “But I had a different one in mind. A better one. My only one.”

Your hips try to rock in an effort to feel him more, but he holds you still by your waist. “Don’t rush this, kitten. Let me take my time with you. I like to savor my rewards.”

“Some rewards need to be claimed faster than others.”

“Indeed they do,” he grins into your neck as he peppers kisses down the kiss of your throat. “But greed…it’s a slippery slope. Grab the syrup, since you’re so eager.”

You’re not confused at all by his intentions. In fact, the mere thought of what he’s getting ready to do makes you clench around nothing.

Once you grab the small dish of berry syrup, he takes two generous handfuls of your ass, tilting his head lightly. “Pour some on yourself.”

“You’ll clean me?” you grin, using your other hand to take hold of his throat gently. He looks up at you with need, groaning when you lick his lips.

“Do what I say and we’ll find out, won’t we?”

You two stare into one another’s eyes as you tilt the bowl to let the sweetness stick to your tits. Immediately, Sylus’s hot tongue laps it up. The wet muscle licks down the valley of your breast before he alternates between two of his favorite things to give each of them the attention they deserve.

Your cunt throbs and your whines grow louder the harder he sucks.

“Yes…F—fuck, your mouth…” you cry, pouring more of the delicacy when he runs out. You go until the thing is empty and he’s running on lust and a sugar rush.

The soft pops his mouth sounds when he makes contact with your hot body is enough to have you completely soaked. He can feel your juices wetting the sheet, letting his cock know as it soaks it up, how badly you need him.

“Be good,” he mumbles breathlessly, unable to stop lathering you in kisses. “And let me in.”

Eagerly, you reach behind you to pull the fabric away, hissing when it grazes your clit. His cock sits between you once revealed, waiting for you to put him where he’d get on his knees and beg you to be. Sitting on your knees, Sylus kisses your lips tenderly as you start to sit down on his length, needing nothing but your bodies to guide him to your tight hole.

“Sylus…” you call his name once you’re filled with him. It’s a relic on your tongue, enchanting him how the two syllable spill out of you. You don’t wait for long, letting his strong hands explore your plush body as he guides you up and down his cock.

“I’ve killed men for you,” he declares, your breasts pressing against his hard chest only surging him on. You hold him closely, like he could snake out of your hold at any given moment.

“I’ve felt their blood mark my skin after I cut them down for the taunting words they’d spew in the arena.”

It was rare for anyone to not know that you and Sylus owned each other. It was even more rare for anyone to not know that should they utter your name with anything negative to follow it, Sylus would make them an example. His attentiveness to that has made it so he hasn’t had to make many.

The sound of slapping skin echos in the room, announcing the beauty of your lovemaking. “Their lives were already mine the moment they decided to go against me, but their fates were eternally sealed when your precious name was used in vain of their idiotic words. And you know what?”

“W—what?” You’re nearly drooling as his length moves within you, your wetness and his precum making a delicious mess along your gummy walls.

“I imagined me claiming you in their blood. Letting everyone watch as I show them how mad I can be for you. Would you let me, kitten?”

“Without hesitation…” you answer immediately, clenching tightly around him when you feel his dick pulse like it’s proud of you. Each dribble of his impending load leaking into your womb makes your mind grow infinitely more foggy with bliss.

“You like when I kill for you. I can feel how much harder you squeeze me.” He smirks cockily, but he’s right. He’s so fucking right and you don’t even care.

“I’m going to put my baby in your womb and the ring you deserve on your delicate finger.” His words hold so much promise.

“Please,” you beg. “Give it to m—me…Fuck, Sy…” Your thighs and legs burn, but you won’t stop. You refuse to—not when both of you are so close.

“My cum will take root,” he kisses down your shoulder. “And when you’re barefoot and pregnant with my seed, I’ll kill a thousand more in honor of the both of you.”

You slam your lips onto him, your tongue and his battling for control as you taste him. Naturally he wins, but you like to let him. You like being owned, protected, and loved by him. No matter how much you could hold your own, he has come into your life to show you that he can and will wield all of it so that you don’t have to.

His hands caress your back and you two fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, coming together at the same time. Your moans and mewls are pouring into his mouth just as his cum does inside of your pussy. He holds you down and close, doing everything in his power to make sure not a drop is wasted.

Your needy sounds curate the perfect symphony alongside his manly grunts and shuddering breath.

With the little bit of energy you have left, you grind against him to overstimulate your aching clit. When you can’t take anymore, you rest your chin on him and trace the scars along his arms in comfortable silence. You kiss each one your puffy mouth can reach, cleansing him with your affection.

“I’ll clean you before I have you again.” You giggle at how he says it so matter-of-factly.

“Good.” You pull back, sighing in contentment as he fondly kisses on your breasts once more. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mhm,” he continues to indulge. “You aren’t.”

A/N: Guys. What are we thinking? Me? Like I said—I LOVE THIS SO FREAKING MUCH!!! Like lowkey Camboy!Caleb level love. I started writing this last night before I fell asleep, and when I woke up this morning, it was like the little story never stopped. My fingers were just flyinggg (pause). LOLLLL!!

Creds to @/strangergraphics for the dividers!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deespace smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus smut #sylus x you #sylus x reader #lads smut #lads x you #lads sylus #l&ds #l&ds sylus #sylus qin

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vasito-de-leche · 2 days ago

Note

I love, LOVE your characterization of the Saja Boys, and while I know you’ve only written complete dating hcs for Baby and Abs, I was hoping if it was okay if I could request something with the Saja Boys (separately) where it follows the prompt “you're about to argue but you're so pretty that his brain short circuits”? If you don’t want to write for all of them, then maybe you could do Baby and Abs (separately)?

;KPOP DEMON HUNTERS SAJA BOYS - "Too Pretty"

Saja Boys (separate) x Reader 2.5k words silly, fluff Being a demon's soft spot has its benefits. Who would've thought?

i'm so glad you like the way I write them!! this prompt sounded so fun, I just had to try my hand at it, thank you!

this also served as a way for me to slowly figure out how I'd like to characterize the other members o7 I tried to keep the relationship vague enough to be read as whatever people want, so hope that comes across well enough. also also, dont let these dramatic edgy idols fool you, all drabbles end up being silly and cute

JINU

"Are you even listening, Jinu?"

He is, of course. But he'd rather not, especially when you're getting worked up over nothing; so much for escaping an endless cycle of torture in the underworld, he now has to deal with a brand new mess, pacing behind him like a madman. By now, you've probably noticed the monotonous and non-committal answers he's been giving on loop.

"Uh-huh," Jinu's eyes never stray from the notebook in front of him, attempting to come up with a better verse for an upcoming song. And he knows he's fucked up when he hears you groan, stomping towards him.

"Okay, okay. Maybe I stopped listening abooout ... five or ten minutes ago, who's counting, but--"

Your hand comes into view, fast as lighting, and he can only look as you snatch the notebook away from him. Great, awesome.

There goes the perfect verse in his head. He remains frozen for a moment, the hand holding a pen still hovering over the now empty spot on his desk until your voice reaches him once more.

"If you're not going to listen, at least tell me so I don't waste my time talking to you."

Jinu slouches in his seat, raising both hands to cover his face, before sliding them upwards to slick back his hair in a feeble attempt at regaining his composure. You can't even see him from this angle, his back turned to you, but he still rolls his eyes.

You want to argue? Get it out of your system? Fine, he can give you the fight you want.

In one swift motion, his position changes; now he's straddling the chair, a powerplay he's come to master after bickering with his own band for so long, eyes closed as he prepares to deliver a devastating comeback to rile you up. But when he looks up, the golden glow in his eyes wavers--you're standing so close in front of him, looking down at his seated form with your arms crossed, as if daring him to speak.

He doesn't, and you tilt forwards, hair cascading over him so that the only thing he can focus is your face in this one-sided glaring contest.

Jinu has seen you at your best and your worst, but this is the first time he's found himself at the other end of your undivided attention and anger. It is as intimidating as it is alluring. What are you doing to him? Is this allowed? His neck feels hot, his face feels hot. The room feels like it's on fire, but not the same type of hellfire he's grown used to; it's a different sort of warmth, equal parts shame and pleasure as he takes in the sight. His lips part without him noticing, whispering ever so gently.

"Pretty ..."

"What was that?" Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Shitty. I said you look. Shitty. As in, you look like shit. Being angry isn't doing you any favors, you know? You should get some rest, okay. Byeee."

Without giving you any time to react, Jinu fumbles over his words, trips over your furniture and he stumbles out of your apartment in a rush, almost breaking into a sprint for the elevator. It's only when the doors close that he allows himself to breathe in and out, finally noticing the extra passenger inside with him. His bird companion chirps smugly, and Jinu groans into his palms.

"I don't want to talk about it."

ROMANCE

"I didn't mean it like that!"

Romance scoffs at your words, still refusing to leave his room. All the heart shaped decorations seem to mock him as he leans his full weight against the door, easily preventing you from entering no matter how hard you try to rattle the doorknob.

Both of you find yourself at the edge of an argument, and the decision to escalate things lies solely on his hands. He knows this because he can practically hear the affection in your words, even as you whine and tell him to get over himself to talk to you, face to face. That alone is enough to make Romance's chest tighten--no matter how many times he does this, this game of push and pull, you still make sure to chase after him time and time again.

Surely you must be reaching your breaking point; nobody is strong enough to withstand this much heartbreak. Maybe if he tries a little harder, you'll realize that there's nothing good in a future with him.

All he has to do is stay silent and wait for you to leave.

"Then what did you mean?" His voice is whiny, it always is. But you always insist that you love that about him, the way he feels so deeply about everything.

"You really want to argue about something like this?" You're right, you usually are--he's making things difficult when he's not even officially yours. "Well, I don't. So you can call me once you've cooled off."

And just like that, it's quiet; there's no more pressure pushing against him from the other side of the door, no more cutesy nicknames and attempts at coercing him out. Romance's heart drops, and he practically claws his way out, torn between cursing you out for proving him right and leaving, or begging you to take him back and sort everything out as if he hadn't been the one to start this. He's taken only a single step out of the threshold of his sanctuary when your smile greets him--you're leaning casually against the door frame, pretending to inspect your nails.

"So, are you done brooding all by yourself, handsome?"

That playful grin renders Romance speechless; the contrast of your casual attitude against his frenzied panic is impossible to ignore, he's gone through all five stages of grief in under a minute while your trust in him never wavered. Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder because there's a glint in your eyes that tugs at his heartstrings, wild strands of hair that he'd love to twirl in his fingers and kiss ever so gently. Romance knows that you'll let him if he asks for permission, and a knot forms in his throat, face flushed bright pink.

"No." It's all he manages to squeak out before closing the door once more.

"Rommie! Are you mad at me or not?!"

"I don't??? Know??? I need a moment! Just stay there!"

ABBY

"That's the last time I take you anywhere. You can't just pick a fight like that, Abby!" Abby sinks even deeper into the plush cushions of the couch as you continue to scold him, as if his sulking and his silence could single-handedly help him win this argument.

He's already found himself a comfortable spot, but you're still fussing about the living room, throwing your shoes to the side, sending your jacket flying onto the backrest of the sofa, pausing to drink and slamming the glass on the counter a little harder than necessary. Abby knows better than to try and stop you, so he stays put, waiting for his opening.

"What if anyone saw? Did you even think about that? The amount of trouble you'd be in?"

Those are all very good questions that he never bothered to consider; in fact, he still refuses to think about the consequences. There's no point in doing so when you managed to pull him away before he could do any damage to anyone, or to his own reputation as an idol.

"Like they'd even care," Abby huffs, trying to blow a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Just catching a glimpse of us outside is enough to make everyone turn a blind eye, it's almost too easy to work the crowd. One flex of these guns and any broken noses will be totally forgotten."

He makes an attempt to flex said guns, but he finds you looming over him from behind the couch, your grasp on his wrists as steady as death. There is a wild look in your expression, one he can't quite understand, but he finds it impossible to tear his eyes away from you. Getting to play the part of guard dog for you comes as easy as breathing, Abby can't get enough of the little tells that give you away, letting him know that you enjoy his antics--but it never crossed his mind that the tables could be reversed like this.

"Fine, let me put it this way! What if you got in trouble or worse, what if you got hurt? Ever thought of that one? Just because you're an all mighty demon doesn't mean you're--"

"You're hot when you're mad." He blurts out.

"I--What?"

A chance to rectify his mistake is presented to him, and he immediately pivots away from it when you blink your pretty eyes at him in confusion. "I said that you're hot when you're--"

"I heard you the first time, Abby. It's just--were you listening to what I was saying?" Okay, this is his chance to steer the conversation back on track. It's very easy, he just has to--

"If I say no, will you scold me some more?"

"Oh my God. Abby. Nevermind."

MYSTERY

Arguing with you is a rare occurrence.

But so is speaking to you, or engaging in any sort of conversation at all with anyone. This is one of the many perks that came with his role as the cool, mysterious and aloof member of the Saja Boys; anything he didn't feel like addressing could be easily swept under the rug and left ignored for centuries. This had been Mystery's modus operandi for years, and he wasn't planning on changing it any time soon.

You, on the other hand, were the opposite, filling the silence he often sought so desperately, until your voice became background noise in his life, a constant, confusing and somewhat comforting presence that simply followed him around.

Mystery still remembers the first time he deigned himself to reply, something off-handed that didn't matter at all, and yet you clung to his every word and went the extra mile to include him in your one-sided talks. It took a long time for the demon to get used to this, and an even longer time to acknowledge the fact that he enjoys the sound of your laughter, way better than the miserable voices crawling in the back of his mind.

Which is why the claustrophobic and oppressive silence lingering in the room irks him to no end. You're supposed to be talking, not playing hard to get or ignoring him over a stupid argument; the way you brush past him, barely acknowledging his existence as you go about your day is getting under his skin in ways he never knew were possible.

And then, for a fleeting second, you meet his gaze--this moment lasts for an eternity in his eyes, and he opens his mouth to speak, to seize the opportunity and break the ice, but before he can get a single word out, you turn around and begin to scroll through your phone. That's the last straw.

Mystery stands up and forces himself into your peripheral, hands firmly planted on the wall, trapping you in.

For the first time in forever, he wants to scream, to bark, to growl and give you a piece of his mind. But when he sees the way you awkwardly avoid his gaze, fiddling with your hands and standing at your tiptoes, Mystery relents and his frustration is replaced with something else; endearment. You're still wearing his merch, one of the very first shirts the Saja Boys released long ago with his name written on it, you're still attempting to hide from him despite knowing there's nowhere in the world you could go without him finding you.

Slowly, Mystery raises a hand towards you, enjoying your half-hearted attempt at shaking him off, pretending to bite the air near him.

And then he pinches your nose. "Cute."

After that, he leaves. You'll come around when you feel like it.

BABY

"You went too far this time, there was no need to get so personal back there."

"That's the entire point of dissing someone, duh. So, was it good? Did you like it?" Baby kicks his feet, hands cupping his cheeks to make himself look as innocent as possible. "I didn't know I could rhyme that many words with 'cunt' but it was soooo fun! Right, right?"

"Baby!"

Tsk. Guess it's the hard way today. That cute expression quickly turns into a scowl and he makes a bee-line for the fridge, if only to find something to drink and distract himself with.

He blows bubbles into the silly straw, sulking in the kitchen. "What? They got what they deserved. What kind of idiot would challenge me to a rap battle if they can't take the heat? Hellooooo, it's Baby Saja we're talking about."

"But it was a friendly thing, you turned it into a massacre for no reason."

"Heh," he knows he shouldn't, but he snickers to himself anyway. "Guess I did, huh? What, do you wanna have a go in their place?"

This is how Baby likes to play, to earn a reaction and entertain himself if only for a little--but you always know better than to play into his shenanigans. And you also know how to get a message through his thick skull, something that continues to astonish him to this day.

Baby continues to sip away on his drink as you busy yourself, fully believing himself to be the victor of this round. But dread starts to make its presence known deep in his chest as he sees you slowly gathering your things--this isn't how things usually go, you always stay the night at his place to keep him company, watching horrible romcoms, eating snacks and falling asleep at 5 a.m.

So why were you leaving?

"Hey, hey. Woaaah! Are you really going to ditch me because I got a little mean to some rando? That's so unfair." The look you give him is enough for his act to crumble, and Baby groans dramatically before hurrying to your side, tugging onto the hem of your sleeves. "Stay here! Pleeeeeeaase? I'll behave next time!"

It doesn't work; you pinch his cheeks and pull, stretching them like mochi. Your voice is stern, even after you let go. "You're old enough to know that what you have to say is 'sorry,' Baby. But if you want to beg for forgiveness, you'll have to try a little harder than that."

Shit. So much for being unfair, the tone of your voice and that look in your eye are more than enough to get all the thoughts in his mind twisted up--Baby hates when you don't indulge him, but even he has to admit that he loves that stubborn streak in you.

"What? Cat got your tongue? I know you well enough by now, there's no way you have nothing to say."

You never waver, meeting his eyes with the same intensity, running a hand through your hair. Baby's mouth turns into a fine line, followed by a pout. If he says anything right now, he'll most likely end up digging his own grave. You look SUPER hot right now, is that good enough to make up and get you to stay? Something like that would most likely earn him the silent treatment for a week.

"Sssssssorry ..."

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it--"

"...for being soooo damn good at my job. Like it's my fault?"

"I'll see you tomorrow Baby."

"Aw, c'mon!"

#kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters saja boys #saja boys #jinu #romance #abby #mystery #baby #i write all of these in a dionysian frenzy i hope everyone knows this #excuse typos or weird wording

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mooningningg · 1 day ago

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notes, I feel like after all that tension ya'll deserve action, ty anon for requesting.

★ Roommate!Sukuna kisses you.

It started with a bet.

Because of course it did.

“You’re bluffing,” you snorted, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “You talk a big game, Sukuna, but you wouldn’t last five minutes in my lecture hall.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think I give a fuck about Western Civ? I could pass that class with a hangover and one eye open.”

You arched a brow. “Oh yeah? Name me one Enlightenment philosopher.”

He blinked. “...Voltaggio.”

“Voltaire, dumbass.”

He scoffed. “Same shit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly exited your body. “Okay, bet. You fail the next quiz in my class, you'll do my laundry for a week.”

His grin was instant, sharp. “Fine. But if I do—”

“You won’t,” you interjected.

“—then you gotta kiss me.”

Your laugh choked in your throat. “What?!”

He shrugged, completely casual, like he hadn’t just dropped a full grenade into your afternoon. “Scared you’ll like it?”

You scoffed. “No. Scared you’ll start writing my name in cursive after.”

“Bold of you to assume I know cursive.”

You threw a kitchen towel at his head. He caught it. You hated him.

You forgot about the bet.

Sukuna didn’t.

Three days later, he slapped a graded quiz onto the coffee table in front of you, looking like a smug devil in sweats.

A B+. You squinted. “How—”

“I cheated off the nerd in the front row,” he said proudly.

You stared at the paper, then at him. “You don’t deserve this kiss.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t about deserving it, babe.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Pucker up.”

“Ew. Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m the one making it weird?”

He just smirked. “Let’s get it over with, princess.”

So you leaned in.

Fully intending to do a stupid, quick, no-emotion peck. Something harmless. Forgettable.

But then… something happened.

Maybe it was the way he leaned forward too, just a second before you met him. Or how his hand came to rest against your jaw like muscle memory. Or the way his lips pressed too slowly, too firmly, like he wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon.

And maybe—maybe it was the heat that surged between you two like the air itself changed.

Your chest brushed his. He tilted his head. You kissed back.

Harder.

You didn’t mean to. That’s the worst part.

You didn’t mean for your hands to find the fabric of his hoodie or for him to press you into the back of the couch like gravity lost its damn mind. It just happened.

You both broke apart a breath later, stunned. Breathing fast. Too close.

Your eyes were wide. “...That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sukuna stared at you. His lips were red. Voice low.

“I’m not fuckin’ complaining.”

You blinked. “You liked it.”

He scowled. “You liked it.”

“You’re still leaning in.”

He jerked back like you burned him. “Shut up.”

You grinned, a little breathless. “You liked it so bad.”

He stood up, flustered, grabbing his phone. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“You’re gonna write my name in your diary.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re gonna start calling me baby on accident.”

He was halfway down the hall now. “This is why I should’ve just failed.”

You sat back on the couch, fingers still tingling from where you grabbed his hoodie.

…You liked it, too. Worst of all.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears

#jjk #jjk x you #roommate jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #sukuna #roommate sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna scenario #sukuna imagines #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna drabbles #sukuna ff

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cheftsunoda · 3 days ago

Note

HIII omg i love your work!! you lwk made me an alex albon stan (i alr love lily, she’s so iconic) with the wag x 3 fic.

i was wondering if you could please write a poly!fic but with isack hadjar and oscar piastri? i know it’s a weird pairing but they’re two of my faves. it’s ok if not!! 💗💗

mentor or more? — op81 + ih6

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x reader x isack hadjar

they were the couple no one saw coming. yn—loud, radiant, effortlessly magnetic. a globally adored model with a laugh that turned heads and a presence that owned every room she walked into. and then there was oscar—quiet, sharp, always a little awkward in interviews but impossibly endearing. somehow, the two of them just worked. they were happy. solid. untouchable. until the new season arrived—and with it, isack hadjar. fresh faced and full of ambition, isack comes looking for guidance, and oscar—ever the reluctant mentor—takes him under his wing. it is harmless. friendly. until isack discovers feelings for oscar and then lays eyes on yn and finds himself completely undone.

there’s only one problem— they only just belong to each other…right?

fc : isabelle mathers

(a/n) : omg hiiii. glad i could help bc everyone needs to be an alex albon stan. thank you for the love and i am sorry this took so long- i am behind on requests and i had to be real creative with this pairing- but i do not mind!! i like to be challenged. hope u love!! loveuuu

—

yourusername

france📍

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, hattiepiastri and 5,010,553 others.

yourusername : paris + cannes w my man before the season begins 💋

tagged : oscarpiastri

—

view 187,090 other comments.

charles_leclerc : the city of love looks great on you both! (pls stop making the rest of us look bad)

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

olliebearman : when i grow up i want to be just like oscar.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : only 4 years older than you mate.

↳ olliebearman : still old.

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georgerussell63 : give us a travel vlog or we riot

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : was oscars mukbang with french pastries i sent not enough???

liked by georgerussell63, oscarpiastri and carmenmmundt

↳ georgerussell63 : the audience has spoken and they want MORE.

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hattiepiastri : you are sooooo hot and then there is oscar.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : can't even argue. she is stunning.

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↳ yoursername : my hattie 🥹 my oscy 🥹

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lando : that is the face of a man who knows he is winning in life 😏

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nicolepiastri : since oscar is about to go into full race mode and ignore me...weekly pilates where we gossip about him?

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↳ yourusername : weekly pilates AND i will get him to call you at least once a week.

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↳ nicolepiastri : my god, i love you. i always wanted a daughter in law who keeps my son in line and wants to be my best friend 😘

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ hattiepiastri : one thing oscar did right

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↳ oscarpiastri : yet again, surprisingly not insulted. it's true.

↳ username000 : god yn's relationship with oscar's family is the cutest.

↳ username0 : did you see the video from the race where nicole hugged yn before she hugged oscar???

↳ oscarpiastri : i tend to lack importance with my family when yn is around.

liked by yourusername, hattiepiastri, username0 and nicolepiastri

—

The first Monaco morning after the off-season always hits different. The windows are cracked open, letting in the early sun and the sounds of the port—distant engines humming, boats clinking in the water, birds that clearly didn’t get the memo about your need to sleep in. But you don’t mind. Not when you’re wrapped up in his bed, limbs tangled with Oscar’s, skin still warm from sleep. He’s curled around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—one arm under your head, the other draped lazily across your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip under the blanket.

"You awake?" he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

"Mmm. Kind of." You stretch against him, pressing a sleepy kiss to the underside of his jaw. "We should stay here forever."

Oscar laughs, low and soft. "Tempting. Very tempting. But I did promise I’d meet up with a new rookie today. Isack. Doing some training together—get him settled in, you know."

You blink up at him, amused. "Oscar Piastri willingly doing social interaction? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?"

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a grin. "I can be social. When absolutely necessary."

"Right. You just happen to prefer doing it in gym clothes and under the guise of cardio."

"Exactly."

You trace little circles on his chest with your finger, pretending not to notice how he shivers slightly at your touch. "Isack… that’s the...French one? Racing Bulls? Almost ran someone over with a scooter?"

Oscar chuckles. "Yep. That’s him. Kid’s fast though. And a bit chaotic, but in a good way. I think he’ll be fun to have around."

You hum in response, already picturing Oscar trying to wrangle a hyper rookie while also trying to pretend he’s not as soft as he actually is.

"What about you?" he asks, shifting so your faces are closer, nose brushing your cheek. "What’s on your Monaco agenda today?"

You grin. "Brunch with some of the girls. Carmen, Lily, maybe Kika. Haven’t seen them in ages. And we’re probably doing a little shopping after—someone said new collections dropped in that tiny boutique on Rue Grimaldi."

Oscar groans dramatically. "So I’ll come home to you with ten new bags and an ‘oops’ face."

"Exactly. Consider it my version of training for the season."

He leans in and kisses you—slow and sleepy and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. “Just don’t fall in love with a handbag while I’m out bonding with the rookie.”

You smile against his lips. “Could never love something more than you.”

“Good. That's what I like to hear.”

You giggle and pull the covers tighter around both of you for just a few more minutes of quiet before the season chaos begins.

—

You sip your oat milk latte as you walk down Rue Grimaldi, arms linked with Carmen and Lily, the three of you gliding past boutique windows like you own the place. Your sunglasses are oversized, your sneakers are overpriced, and the breeze smells like sea salt and money. Monaco in pre-season is the calm before the storm, and you’re soaking up every second of it.

“I’m just saying,” Carmen starts, pointing at a display window, “if you wear that to the paddock, Alex is going to crash into the pit wall.”

Lily snorts beside you. “He is going to crash anyway, but sure. Let’s blame the dress.”

You laugh, taking another sip of your coffee. “You two are menaces.”

“And yet,” Carmen says sweetly, “you are friends with us.”

You chuckle and the three of you walk into the boutique. Inside, the boutique smells like fresh leather and delicate perfume. You let your fingers skim over silk dresses and tweed jackets, the kind of pieces that look like they belong in a Vogue editorial—not an F1 paddock. But Carmen’s already in the back holding up shoes that could kill a man, and Lily’s trying on sunglasses in the mirror like she’s about to walk a red carpet.

You snap a few mirror selfies, mostly for yourself, but you know Instagram will get them later. The three of you float from rack to rack, gossiping, laughing, indulging. It feels easy. Familiar. Normal in the way your life never used to be, and yet somehow is now. There’s brunch after, on a little terrace tucked away from the main street. You order fruit and flaky croissants and something bubbly. Lily tells a story that has Carmen spitting orange juice, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in sunlight and friendship. You’re happy. Settled. Loved. What you don’t know—what you can’t know—is that across the city, your boyfriend is meeting someone who’s about to turn all of that upside down.

—

third person pov

Oscar had almost forgotten how loud training facilities could be when rookies were involved. He spotted Isack immediately—chatting animatedly with one of the trainers, all restless energy and too big ambition packed into a very fast, young driver.

“Piastri!” Isack called the second he noticed him, practically jogging over. “Hey, man. Thanks for doing this.”

Oscar raised a brow, amused. “Didn’t know I had a choice.”

Isack laughed, and Oscar noted the nervous edge to it. The kid was eager—not in a bad way. Just... hungry. The kind of energy Oscar remembered having himself not too long ago.

“Seriously, I appreciate it,” Isack continued. “It’s been... a bit overwhelming. Everyone’s either too busy or too intimidating.”

Oscar handed him a water bottle. “You’ll get used to it. The key is pretending like you belong until you actually do.”

“Fake it till you make it?”

“Exactly. And don’t crash. That helps too.”

Isack laughed again, this time looser. “Noted.”

They began the session with light drills, a bit of cardio, some quick coordination work. Isack was fast, sharp, and relentlessly chatty, peppering Oscar with questions about car setups, simulator quirks, and pre-race routines. Eventually, during a break, Oscar leaned back against a bench and took a sip of water.

“So,” Isack said, stretching his arms behind his head. “You live in Monaco with your girlfriend, right?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Isack gave him a look that was half curiosity, half admiration. “She’s the model, right? YN?”

Oscar smirked. “That’s her.”

Isack let out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Damn. She’s... she’s amazing.”

Oscar chuckled, not unkindly. “Yeah. She is.”

And that was it—just a comment. Harmless. But something flickered behind Isack’s eyes. Something curious. Something that hadn’t quite formed yet, but would. And Oscar—cool, composed, always two steps ahead—missed it completely.

—

your pov (2nd)

By the time you get back to the apartment, the sun has dipped low enough that the buildings outside are tinted pink and gold, and your heels are in your hand because you gave up on the idea of suffering five minutes ago. You open the door with your hip, already smiling.

“Oscar?” you call out, voice echoing softly down the hallway.

“In the kitchen!” comes the reply, muffled, cheerful, followed by the sound of cabinets opening and closing in that way he insists is not chaotic.

You kick off your shoes fully, drop your bags in the entryway, and pad in barefoot, finding him exactly as expected-in a McLaren hoodie, socks half off his feet, hair slightly messy from wherever he flopped earlier. He’s standing in front of the fridge like he’s forgotten why he opened it. He turns when he sees you, face brightening instantly.

“There’s my favorite person.”

“You say that,” you grin, walking over to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “but you haven’t even asked about my day yet.”

“I’m just assuming it was amazing because you were in it,” he says, smug, before wrapping his arms lazily around your waist. “Was it?”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Carmen and Lily are a terrible influence. I bought a pair of shoes that might require their own seat on the flight to Australia.”

He laughs, pulling back slightly to look at you. “How much damage did you do?”

“Enough to boost the economy.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Sounds necessary,” you shoot back.

You move over to sit on the couch as he grabs two glasses of water, joining you a moment later and kicking his legs up beside you like he hasn’t trained all afternoon. You take one look at him and raise an eyebrow.

“You look like someone who ran five miles and answered rookie questions for three hours straight.”

Oscar groans. “Pretty much. He is quite special.”

Your interest immediately piques. “Oh?”

He nods, passing you the glass. “Kid’s fast. Like… Max-level fast. And talks more than Lando after too many Monsters. But he’s cool. I think he’s nervous, but in a charming, I have no filter way.”

You take a sip, smirking. “You made a new friend.”

Oscar frowns dramatically. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

He nudges your knee with his. “He asked about you, by the way.”

You glance over, surprised. “Me?”

Oscar shrugs, casual. “Yeah. Just asked if you were the model. I said yeah, that’s her. He looked kind of stunned.”

You laugh softly. “Well, that’s flattering.”

Oscar grins, leaning back. “Yeah, enjoy it now. Wait until he sees you in person. He might short circuit.”

You roll your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “I’m just preparing myself for the moment my girlfriend becomes a rookie’s emotional support fantasy.”

You chuckle, eyes fluttering shut. “If he’s anything like you were your rookie year, he’ll be too busy trying not to throw up before races to flirt with anyone.”

Oscar hums thoughtfully. “Fair point.”

You both fall into a quiet, comfortable silence after that. Outside, Monaco glows. Inside, it’s just the two of you—legs tangled, matching heartbeats, the season creeping closer by the minute. And somewhere in the distance, fate takes one small step forward.

—

several weeks later...aus gp...rewriting history bc in my mind osc won his home race (im delulu)

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, isackhadjar and 7,001,008 others.

yourusername : oscar doubted me when i told him that i bought new heels bc the universe said he was gonna win his home race if i bought them...he made fun of me...but he won and i looked great in the heels. never underestimate the power of a good shoe. also i love australia.

tagged : nicolepiastri, oscarpiastri and lando

—

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oscarpiastri : okay fine. i’ll never question the shoe gods again.

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↳ yourusername : mhm mhm that's what i thought piastri.

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : how about i buy you 5 new pairs to make up for it?

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↳ yourusername : deal.

nicolepiastri : australia LOVES you. i missed you so much, my pretty girl.

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↳ yourusername : love you moreeee

lando : can you tell the shoe gods that lando needs help too?

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↳ yourusername : shoe gods say no...unless you buy me a pair.

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↳ lando : ...what size are you?

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franciscagomes : goddess. kiss me.

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↳ yourusername : on my way!!

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hattiepiastri : the way that oscar literally did nothing to deserve your level of beauty is insane. so fun to see you sista:)

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↳ yourusername : love you to the moon and back hattieeeee

isackhadjar : it is insane how beautiful you are in person. so nice to meet you, yn!

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↳ yourusername : haha thank youuu. it was nice to finally meet the man who has been stealing my bf from me;)

liked by oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

third person pov

The hospitality suite buzzed with the usual pre-session tension, engineers huddled over screens, press staff darting between schedules. Outside, the sun was bright but not yet cruel, and the paddock was alive with noise—fans cheering just beyond the fences, radio chatter filling the air, tires squealing softly as cars rolled out of garages. Oscar and Isack were tucked away on a low couch in a shaded corner near the back, both of them in their race suits, helmets resting on the floor like sleeping animals. They had been hanging out a lot lately. More than Oscar probably realized. Training sessions, video games back at the hotel, quiet dinners when everyone else scattered after briefings. It had started as a mentor-rookie thing. Now, it was something else—something easier. Something closer. And yet, for the past few days, Isack had felt… off. He couldn’t quite name it. Not out loud.

Oscar nudged him with a water bottle. “You look like you’re buffering.”

Isack blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve just been staring at the garage for like two minutes,” Oscar said, smiling faintly. “You okay?”

“Oh—yeah. Just zoned out.”

He wasn’t lying, not really. He had zoned out, mostly because Oscar was leaning back against the wall, hair still slightly messy from his helmet fitting, eyes bright and full of that quiet determination Isack was beginning to know all too well. And that was the problem. Because lately, when Oscar smiled at him like that, Isack felt his chest tighten. Not in the normal, adrenaline fueled way. In the oh shit I’m not supposed to think that way.

Desperate to shake it off, he cleared his throat. “Where’s YN? Looking forward to meeting her.”

Oscar glanced up from the schedule in his hand. “Pilates class with my mum,” he said, voice casual. “Something about grounding her nervous system before the season starts.”

Isack blinked. “With your mum?”

Oscar laughed. “Yeah, they’re close. She loves YN more than me, I think. You’ll see her tomorrow. She’s coming with mum and my sisters.”

“Oh.” Isack looked away quickly, a little too quickly. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

Oscar reached down to grab his gloves, then looked over again, brow furrowed slightly. “You sure you’re good?”

Isack nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just hungry, probably.”

Oscar didn’t push. Just stood and offered a hand to pull him up, his grip firm, warm, grounding. The kind of touch that made Isack’s heart stutter a little too sharply in his chest. He let go as fast as he could without it looking weird. Oscar slung his towel over his shoulder and started toward the garage, talking about the car setup, something about corner exit speeds and throttle response. Isack heard every word—and none of them.

His brain was stuck on one thing- YN. And Oscar. And them.

He’d barely met her, had only seen her on Oscar’s phone screen. But she was magnetic—gorgeous, smart, somehow both intimidating and welcoming all at once. And now she was in Pilates with Oscar’s mum, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They weren’t just dating. They were entwined. And he liked them both. Not just liked—he felt something. The kind of something that made his chest ache and his thoughts scatter. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Oscar turned back, grinning, the sun hitting his cheek just right. “Come on, rookie. Try not to crash into the wall this time.”

Isack forced a laugh and jogged to catch up. “No promises.”

But as they disappeared down the paddock tunnel together, something in his chest twisted—equal parts awe and confusion, affection and panic. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a crush. It was two.

—

2nd pov

You arrive with the sun at your back and Oscar’s sisters clinging to both arms, talking a mile a minute about anything that comes to their minds. Nicole walks ahead with purpose, sunglasses on, carrying a huge cardboard cutout of Oscar's face, her protective energy leading the way through the paddock like she’s still half in mum mode, half in PR mode. You love being here—at the first race, in Oscar’s home country, surrounded by the buzz of something about to begin. The nerves haven’t hit yet, not properly. For now, there’s just warmth and momentum. You adjust your sunglasses and exhale, soft and content. And then you see him. Isack.

He’s standing just outside the McLaren garage next to Oscar, shorter frame half casual in his suit, towel slung over one shoulder. He looks distracted at first—until Oscar nudges him and the two of them begin walking toward you. You’ve seen photos. Heard stories. Watched him ramble his way through press duties with a charm that’s either accidental or scarily calculated. But in person, he’s different. Softer. Quieter in the face. There’s something curious in the way he looks at the world. In the way he looks at you.

Oscar grins and slides a hand around your waist without even thinking. “YN, this is Isack. Rookie. Bit of a menace. You’ll like him.”

You step forward slightly and offer him a smile, already amused by the boyish hesitation flickering behind his eyes.

“Nice to finally meet you, Isack,” you say, your voice warmer than you intend. “Oscar’s told me a lot.”

He stares for half a second too long before blinking out of it. “Only the good stuff, I hope?”

You drop your sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. They’re brighter than you expected—like he hasn’t quite learned how to hide what he’s feeling.

You smile, slow and honest. “The very good stuff.”

Oscar gives your hip a gentle squeeze, grounding you. And still—still—you feel Isack’s gaze lingering.

It’s not creepy. Not even bold. It’s quiet, observant, almost reverent in a way you’re not used to. You’ve been around drivers for years—used to cockiness, confidence, bravado. Isack is none of that. Or maybe he is, just not with you. And that unsettles you more than it should. Oscar’s joking again—something about Isack being a fanboy—and you laugh, leaning into him, chin on his shoulder for a second. But you feel it. That tension in the air. That something.

And when you glance back toward Isack, you catch him looking again. Like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like he knows he shouldn't be thinking what he’s thinking. And, god, part of you is thinking it too. Just for a second. You shake it off. Smile wider. Turn back to the girls and let Oscar lead you toward the garage. But the impression lingers. Like the heat of someone else’s stare clinging to your skin.

—

You’re wandering. Oscar’s still caught in media debriefs, and you’re killing time before dinner, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, sneakers scuffing along the pavement as the sun starts to dip behind the paddock buildings. The air smells like rubber and champagne residue, like adrenaline that hasn’t quite settled. And then you hear it—footsteps behind you, a shuffle, a clearing throat. You glance back. It’s him. Isack.

He’s changed out of his suit, hair still damp from the shower, black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, backpack half-zipped over one side. He looks surprised to see you—but not in a bad way. Just caught off guard.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d bump into you.”

You smile, casually slowing your pace so he can fall into step beside you. “Oscar’s still stuck with media. I’m avoiding fluorescent lighting until absolutely necessary.”

He laughs softly, glancing sideways. “You look different out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean—not in the paddock. Less cameras. More… real?”

“Is that your polite way of saying I looked intimidating earlier?”

“No,” he says quickly, then grins. “Okay—yeah. A little. You walked in like you owned the place.”

“I walk like that everywhere,” you tease.

And he looks at you again—really looks. Like he's searching for something beneath the joke. There’s a pause, too long to be friendly, too quiet to be normal.

“Isack,” you say, breaking the silence, “are you always this intense with people you’ve known for two days?”

He flushes, just slightly. “Not usually.”

You don’t know what possesses you to say it, but you do—soft, playful, and just a little dangerous.

“Must be something in the air, then.”

Another pause. Another look. And then—

“I think you’re kind of incredible,” he says, quiet, like it’s a secret he didn’t mean to tell out loud.

You stop walking. Just for a beat. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how genuine it sounds. Like he doesn’t even want anything from you. Like he’s just saying it.

You meet his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he replies, steady now. Bolder.

The tension curls between you like a wire pulled taut. And somewhere deep in your chest, you feel the twist of it, the ache of curiosity you’re trying hard to ignore. But it’s there. And it’s growing.

You break the moment with a smile—cool, composed, the way you’ve trained yourself to be. “You’re trouble, Hadjar.”

He shrugs, smirking faintly. “Only on weekends.”

You walk away before either of you can say anything else. But you feel him behind you. Still watching. Still wondering. And the worst part? You are too.

—

You’ve been flying for two hours, and Oscar is asleep. Not just half-asleep, either—fully knocked out, mouth slightly open, arms crossed like he’s trying to convince himself he didn’t lose consciousness mid-movie. You glance over your shoulder from your seat, already biting back a grin. The in flight light above him glows soft against the corner of his jaw, casting him in a kind of peaceful shadow. You’ll tease him about this later. You always do.

Isack chuckles from the seat across the aisle. “Out cold?”

You nod. “He made it exactly 27 minutes into Heat before he gave up. Record breaking, honestly.”

You turn back around, letting your head fall gently against the plush leather of the seat. Your legs are tucked beneath you, one of Oscar’s hoodies drowning your frame, headphones still tangled in your lap even though your playlist ended twenty minutes ago. Across from you, Isack shifts. Not fidgety—just restless in the way of buzzing with energy and nowhere to put it. He has one AirPod in, but you’re pretty sure he hasn’t played anything for a while either. He’s been stealing glances at you ever since Oscar fell asleep. And you haven’t stopped noticing.

It’s not weird. Not really. You’ve spent the past month getting closer. Training days. Dinners. Stolen jokes in the paddock while Oscar gave interviews. You three have become a unit—something unspoken and unlabelled. Something tight-knit. But it’s also not not weird. Because sometimes, Isack looks at you like he’s trying to commit you to memory. And other times, you catch yourself looking back. Right now is one of those times.

“You ever get tired of traveling?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

You blink yourself out of the haze. “Of planes or of never really being anywhere?”

“Both,” he says, eyes soft but serious.

You think about it. “Sometimes. It feels like living in between places, you know? Like you’re always packing a suitcase, but never fully unpacking one.”

Isack nods slowly. “Exactly.”

You shift a little in your seat, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “But then… there are moments like this. Where it’s quiet. Where everything slows down.”

He’s looking at you again. Like you’re saying something important even if you’re not.

“You make the in between feel kind of… okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s the kind of thing you should laugh off. The kind of thing that should sound like a compliment and nothing more. But it lands heavier than that. Like he meant it more than you were supposed to hear. You glance back toward Oscar. Still asleep. Still peaceful.

And then—“You’ve gotten close to him lately,” you murmur, eyes on Isack now.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “Yeah.”

You raise an eyebrow, inviting more. You’re not sure why.

“He’s... calm,” Isack says. “In a way that makes you want to be better. Not louder. Just… better.”

You nod, understanding in your chest like a pulse. “Yeah. He does that.”

Silence settles again. But this time it’s not awkward. It’s charged. And when you meet his eyes again, something shifts. There’s something fragile and curious hanging between the two of you, held together by the sound of the engines and the soft rhythm of Oscar’s breathing. Not quite guilt. Not quite tension. Something else. Something like possibility. You’re the one who breaks the stare first, heart hammering a little too loud in your chest. You tug your hoodie sleeve over your fingers and look down at your hands.

“We’re landing in about an hour,” you say.

Isack doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything right away. And then—

“Okay,” he says. But it’s not just an answer. It’s full of things unspoken.

Things that won’t stay quiet for much longer.

—

yourusername

liked by isackhadjar, oscarpiastri, lando and 9,997,005 others.

yourusername : spain just got an oscar piastri masterclass

tagged : oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

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username000 : everyone say thank you, oscar. and also… hello, isack?

oscarpiastri : the pre-race kisses from someone as beautiful as you really tends to help

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : kissing is banned from the garage. oscar cannot win anymore.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ lando : did you even talk to the shoe gods after i bought you those manolos???

↳ yourusername : you won monaco, did you not?

liked by lando

↳ lando : good point. ok. proceed. not in front of me tho.

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nicolepiastri : my favorite chaos. my babies

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isackhadjar : photo credits for the boat pics??

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↳ yourusername : oh yes my b. isack is now my professional photographer everyone ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

Oscar’s still flushed from the podium. Gold champagne dried into his collarbones, hair messy from the cap, medal still in his backpack. You barely made it through the hotel room door before he had his hands on you. Before he kissed you like the win still hadn’t fully hit him — like he needed you to ground it. To feel it. To come down from it. His mouth is on your neck now, slow and warm. His hands memorizing your waist like he hasn’t touched you a thousand times before. Your shirt is somewhere on the floor. His is tugged up and bunched under your palms, and the laugh that leaves his mouth when you whisper something smug. You pull him down on top of you, tangled in the hotel sheets, everything a blur of skin and warmth and wanting. It’s not rushed. It’s crackling. That kind of need that comes after months of tension and three back-to-back podiums and one long plane ride where you didn’t touch once. Oscar kisses you like he’s starving. You’re about to slip your hands into his waistband when the door opens. Not knocked. Not warned. Just… opened. You don’t register it at first. You think it’s room service. Or housekeeping. Or maybe your head’s just too foggy to care. But Oscar freezes. You glance over your shoulder. Isack.

He’s standing in the doorway, a bottle of champagne in one hand, wide-eyed, stunned, and completely silent. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something—anything—but he doesn’t. He just stares. At Oscar’s hand on your hip. At your lips, kiss-bruised and parted. At the space between your bodies — charged, half-naked, completely unbothered. You should panic. But you don’t. You just stare back. And something about the way he doesn’t look away — something in the way he’s still there, not leaving — twists deep in your stomach. Oscar looks at you, then at Isack, then back at you again. Waiting. Reading. Wanting. You reach down slowly, tracing your fingers up Oscar’s chest, your gaze still locked on the boy in the doorway.

“Are you just going to stand there,” you ask softly, voice like velvet, “or are you going to come in?”

Isack doesn’t move. Not at first. But then— He does. One step inside. Then another. The door doesn’t close. Oscar’s hand finds your thigh again. Yours slides to the waistband of his sweatpants. Isack lingers at the edge of the room, like if he breathes too loud he’ll wake up from something. You sit up slightly, hair falling down your back, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“You don’t have to,” you say gently. “But if you want to…”

Isack’s eyes flick from your mouth to your hands to Oscar, who is watching him now with a look that borders on something between challenge and invitation.

“I—” he starts.

Then stops.

You tilt your head. “You trust us, don’t you?”

His breath catches. “Yeah.”

Oscar nods once, his voice calm but electric. “Then come here.”

And just like that, the space between you vanishes. Not hesitation. Not shame. Just three people— buzzing with want, burning with something unspoken, and no longer pretending it isn’t there.

—

The first light of dawn slips through the curtains, casting gentle gold stripes across the room. You stir awake to the steady rhythm of two sets of breathing—Oscar’s arm draped protectively around you, and Isack lying just a little apart, eyes closed but peaceful. The quiet morning feels like a warm, soft blanket after the intensity of last night. Careful not to wake Oscar, you slip out of his embrace and move toward Isack. His eyes open the moment you settle beside him.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He blinks, shyly smiling. “Morning, YN.”

For a long moment, you both sit in silence, the comfort of each other’s presence filling the space. Then he speaks, voice low and sincere.

“I wasn’t sure how to say it last night,” Isack admits, eyes searching yours with nervous honesty. “But... I think I’ve been feeling this way for a while. About you.”

Your chest tightens with warmth.

“It’s not just the moment, or the surprise of last night,” he continues steadily. “It’s you. The way you laugh, the way you care. I’ve admired you from afar, but being here... like this... it feels right.”

You reach out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Isack... that means more than you know.”

He swallows and smiles, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. “I was scared I’d mess it up, or that it was just a fantasy. But now... I want to see where this goes. With you. With Oscar too.”

Your heart swells at his honesty. This isn’t just a fleeting moment—it’s real. Messy, complicated, but beautiful. Oscar stirs then, rubbing his eyes, his gaze falling on you both. His smile is soft and knowing. “Morning, loves.”

You lean back between them, feeling the steady warmth of two people who fit perfectly with you.

“Good morning,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around them both. “Let’s figure this out together.”

Oscar stretches and grins. “So… I take it last night wasn’t just about the champagne and celebration?”

Isack chuckles nervously. “Definitely not.”

You smile, warmth spreading inside you. “We all surprised each other, didn’t we?”

Oscar’s gaze turns gentle but serious. “I want to be sure this is what we all want. It’s new for me, but I’m willing to try if you both are.”

Isack reaches out, taking Oscar’s hand. “I’m in. I don’t want to lose what we started.”

You squeeze both their hands. “Me too. I think this could be something really special.”

Oscar leans in, forehead resting against yours. “We’ll take it one day at a time. No rush, no pressure. Just us.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the moment and the quiet promise of something real and new. “One day at a time sounds perfect.”

Isack’s smile brightens. “This might just be the best race I’ve ever been part of.”

The three of you laugh softly, a laughter full of hope and tenderness. Together, in the soft morning light, you begin writing the first chapter of your story.

—

It wasn’t planned—none of this ever really was. But somehow, that made it better. Oscar had mentioned it offhand, leaning over the kitchen counter that morning with his hair still wet from the shower. “There’s this island off the coast. McLaren used it once for a shoot. Barely anyone knows about it. We could go.”

You’d looked at Isack, who was already perking up. “A secret island?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “You’re joking.”

Oscar grinned. “Completely serious. Private beach. No media. Just us.”

And just like that, you were packing sunscreen and a couple of towels, grabbing whatever food you could find and piling into a small rented boat. The sea was glassy and blue, the sun already high, and Isack leaned against you the whole ride, humming softly to the playlist Oscar had thrown on.

The moment your feet hit the sand, it felt like another world. The island was wild and quiet—nothing but dunes, stone, and open sky. Oscar dropped the bags onto the beach with a satisfied sigh.

“Told you it was real,” he said, casting you both a smug look.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, fine. You win.”

Isack was already barefoot, running up the slope toward the ruins like a kid. “This place looks like something out of a dream,” he called over his shoulder.

You spent the day tangled up in each other. Exploring barefoot along the cliffs, your hand in Oscar’s while Isack lagged behind, taking photos of the way your fingers fit so easily together. He caught up to you eventually, sliding his arm around your waist as you both leaned into Oscar’s side, three shadows falling across the rocks in the warm afternoon light. At one point, you all ended up lying on a blanket that Oscar had miraculously remembered to bring. Isack was curled against your side, his head on your stomach, while Oscar laid beside you, feeding you grapes.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him, laughing as he popped another one into your mouth.

He grinned. “Say that again after I feed you strawberries later.”

Isack groaned. “God, I’m third wheeling the softest couple.”

You looked down at him with a teasing smile. “You’re literally cuddling us, Isack."

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, grinning up at you, “that doesn’t mean I’m not dramatic.”

When the sun began to dip low, painting the sea in orange and gold, you all swam in the shallows—laughing, shouting, splashing each other until your cheeks ached. Oscar launched Isack into the water at least three times- you tried to help him retaliate, only to be swept up in the chaos, soaked and breathless. By the time the sky faded into pink, the three of you were wrapped in oversized towels, perched against the old stone wall of the villa ruins. Your legs tangled with theirs. Oscar’s fingers laced through yours. Isack nestled on Oscar’s lap, absently drawing circles on your knee.

“This is the happiest I’ve been in a really long time,” Isack said quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind.

You glanced at him, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Me too.”

Oscar rested his chin on your shoulder. “I wish we could freeze this moment.”

You smiled. “Who says we can’t come back?”

Isack tilted his head, giving you a sleepy, sun-warmed smile. “Yeah... we should make it our spot.”

“Our island,” Oscar added.

“Ours,” you echoed.

And in that soft hush of a Spanish sunset, with the waves below and the warmth of their bodies around you, you felt something settle—something whole and terrifying and beautiful. Whatever this was, it was real. And it was yours.

—

oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri : my girlfriend and i found a boyfriend:)

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sincerelyneo · 2 days ago

Text

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.

#nct smut #haechan smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #nct x reader #haechan x reader #nct dream x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct hard hours #nct angst #nct dream angst #haechan angst #nct 127 angst #kpop smut #may a love like this NEVER find me

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em1i2a3 · 1 day ago

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Soak Up The Sun

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and the team are on vacation in Mexico–Val’s treat for staying out of trouble–and Bob ends up getting a brutal sunburn after refusing to wear sunscreen.

Warnings: Just pure fluff here, Descriptions of Sunburns, Bob is in pain in this one (bros please wear SUNSCREEN) Bob and Reader are in an established relationship, Bob’s a bit sassy in this lol.

Author’s Note: In keeping up with the theme of being in scorching hot climates, I decided that this would be a great little blurb to do! I just found it to be a nice little thing to release and write as a little break from my Bob Floyd fic today. I loved writing this little thing and adored the little hint of sassy Bob I decided to throw in there cause the man does have some sass I think. I can’t wait to post my next thing tomorrow, I’m so excited for it! Cause on Friday we’ve got another crazy double update circuit and I cannot wait!

Word Count: 2,856

“Bob…” Your voice was low, a plea edged with exasperation as you leaned one hip against the dresser, sunscreen bottle in hand, “Please…You’re literally going to scorch. I forgot to reapply yesterday and I literally felt my skin cooking. I could’ve sworn I smelled burning flesh.”

From across the hotel room, Bob groaned like you were asking him to give up his freedom instead of just–god forbid–apply a thin layer of SPF. He was standing near the sliding door that led to the balcony, the golden morning sun caught the tousled edges of his damp light brown locks. His thin cover up–white linen, of course–hung open and loose over his chest, clinging slightly where his skin was still warm from the shower you both took. His swim trunks were a deep navy, already wrinkled from him sitting cross-legged on the bed earlier trying to fix the drawstrings so they were even.

His bare chest–pale in all it’s glory–was on full display, freckled and defenseless. And still, he had the audacity to shrug lazily and say “My skin is us–used to the sun. I’ll be fine Y/N.” You stared at him with wide eyes, absolutely aghast by what he had just said.

”Used to the sun?” You repeated, “Bob…My love…Light of my life…The only thing your skin is used to right now is fluorescent lighting and being covered by hoodies, long sleeved shirts, and sweaters year–round…This isn’t New York.” He scratched the back of his neck, his face turning a blush red from all the things you had just called him, clearly trying not to grin, and slowly you watched his eyes soften. It was the look he always gave to you when he wanted to entice you for a kiss–or for when he wanted to convince you to let him do what he wanted.

”Bob. Don’t give me that look. You’re really going to end up getting burned. Put the damn sunscreen on.” He raised his hands as if he was surrendering, but instead he took a step towards the hotel room door.

“Y/N…I’ll be fi–fine. I’m just going to be an hour or two…Maybe less.” You advanced a single step towards him,

“Robert.” You said sternly, which made his lips quirk up into a smile.

”Ou…Using my fu–full name now…We're getting serious hmm?” You squinted at him.

“You’re pushing it.” You warned, still following his movements. You kept your distance, calculating your angle. If you needed to tackle him, you’d need room for a solid launch. The carpet was thick, cushioned enough to minimize injury. Bob’s eyes flicked nervously to your stance, and you knew he saw it too–the calculation behind your silence. You saw his hand move to rest subtly on the doorknob behind him, fingers curling around it slowly.

“I will literally tackle you to the ground in the middle of the damn resort if you don’t protect your skin.” Your voice dropped into dangerous territory. Low. Even. With just enough heat to make his brow glisten.

Bob paused. His hand froze on the handle, knuckles paling.

“Va–Val won’t appreciate us getting into trouble here…” He started, slowly. “Remember sh–she booked this trip for the team so that we could unwind and relax… If we get shipped back to New York for–for stirring things up, Val isn’t going to be happy.”

You arched a brow, stalking closer.

“You know who she really won’t be happy with?” You asked, voice sharp as cracked ice. “You, if you come back looking like the color of Elmo, Bob.”

He groaned like your logic physically pained him. “I do–don’t burn! I tan.” You laughed, short and disbelieving, crossing your arms in front of you.

“Bob, I’ve only ever seen you in different shades of red. Crimson. Rose gold. That one time it was practically cherry Kool-Aid. I’ve never seen you tan. Ever.”

His hand finally gripped the doorknob. Turned it.

And then he had the audacity to smirk–smirk–with a crooked, sheepish sort of charm that softened the edges of his face and made your heart annoyingly ache just beneath your ribs.

“Th–That’s because you never fail to ma–make me blush…”

Your mouth opened, already halfway to a flustered retort–

But the door was already swinging.

“Sorry, I love you, I’ll se–see you in an hour!” he called out breathlessly, bolting into the hallway like a man running from the scene of a crime.

You stood there in stunned silence, sunscreen still clutched in your hand like a grenade with the pin pulled.

“BOB REYNOLDS–”

But it was too late, he was gone, and all you could hear was the hurried slap of bare feet on tile echoing down the corridor.

The door clicked shut gently behind him, like it didn’t just bear witness to your complete defeat, and you let out a dramatic groan, walking to the edge of the bed tossing down the sunscreen onto the thin comforter before dropping face-first into the mattress, climbing up to Bob’s side of the bed, smelling his aftershave–lemon, and mint–on the pillow that he had laid on the night before. You reached for your phone and opened the group chat.

You: If any of you bozos see Bob around please slather him in sunscreen, he’s going to come back looking like a piece of bacon if you don’t.

——————————

The hours had slipped by.

You were curled in the hammock strung up just outside the balcony doors, a paperback in one hand and a half-melted drink in the other. The sun above Mexico had climbed to its highest point, casting everything in that harsh, white-hot glare that made even the breeze feel like it passed through an oven first. Fortunately, you had stationed yourself smartly beneath the wide circle of your umbrella, skin protected, mind adrift in the haze of heat and fictional drama.

The quiet lull of your page-turning was broken by the snick of the hotel door unlocking.

You froze mid-sentence.

Then came the unmistakable shuffle of bare feet dragging across the carpet. Slow. Heavy. The rhythm of a man whose body had turned against him.

You glanced over your shoulder just as the glass door slid open again.

Bob stood there, blinking at the floor like it might shift under his feet. His white linen shirt was wrinkled and clinging in places, damp from sweat. His chest, his arms, even the tops of his cheeks—all a warm, flushed hue of pink that hadn’t been there when he’d left. His light brown curls stuck slightly to his forehead, limp from heat and water.

“See?” he murmured, voice low and sleepy. “I di–didn’t burn.”

You narrowed your eyes, slipping out of the hammock with a sigh and placing your book on the patio table. “You sound like you’re on the brink of heat stroke. Lay down on the bed. Let me get you some water.”

He shuffled past you like a man barely conscious, a wilted version of the smug idiot who’d bolted out this morning. You opened the mini fridge, pulled out one of the chilled water bottles, twisted the cap off–and turned just in time to catch the full, pathetic glory of Bob Reynolds trying to climb onto the bed like it was covered in spikes.

He was moving in slow motion–elbows bent weird, hips at a funny angle, legs dragging like they’d stopped cooperating.

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “You sure you’re not burned? Because you’re definitely doing the ‘I’m burned’ crawl onto that bed of ours.”

“No…” He breathed. His curls fell forward, sticking to his flushed forehead. “No, I’m fine. Just di–dizzy.”

You sighed through your nose as you crossed the room.

He flopped onto his back like it took everything in him, a soft huff of air escaping his lungs as he sank into the mattress. His arm flopped across his chest dramatically, and he looked up at you like a dying Victorian debutante.

You handed him the water wordlessly, and he chugged it in seconds, neck arched, throat working in big, frantic swallows. You watched with your hands on your hips.

“Yeah…” You muttered. “You’re either dehydrated or about to pass out from sun exposure.”

You reached out to touch his arm.

And jerked your hand back instantly.

“Jesus Christ, Bob…” You gasped. “You are burned! You’re boiling!”

He shook his head weakly, eyes fluttering closed as the empty water bottle rolled off his chest. “It’s no–not painful though.”

“Not yet!” You snapped, rubbing your fingertips against your shorts like the heat still clung to them. “Sunburns don’t always show up right away. It usually takes a bit of time. You goof…You’re probably going to blister.” Bob made a soft sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper, curling in slightly on himself. The movement clearly hurt him–his jaw clenched, and his whole body flinched with it.

“I… I th–thought I’d just get a little color,” He said, eyes still closed, lips dry and cracked.

You sighed and sat beside him, pressing a hand gently to his forehead. Still way too hot. He didn’t protest your touch now–just blinked up at you, cheeks bright and flushed with the early burn.

“You’re gonna regret this in about an hour,” You muttered.

He reached for your hand sluggishly, curling his fingers around yours. “I al–already do…Sorry I didn’t listen.” You brushed his sweat-damp locks back from his forehead with your free hand, heart squeezing despite yourself. You let out a breath somewhere between a huff and a sigh, brushing your thumb along the back of his hand.

“You’re lucky I remembered to bring aloe vera with me…”

Bob cracked a faint smile, eyes still closed, his voice hoarse and wobbly.

“Be–Because you knew I’d be stubborn?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. “Exactly.” You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, leaning in slightly so he could hear the dry amusement under your exasperation. “Did we learn our lesson, though?”

He nodded against the pillow, light brown curls shifting ever so slightly with the movement. “Al–Always listen to you…”

“Damn right,” You muttered, softening, leaning forward to press a kiss between his flushed brows.

Bob hissed–just a tiny intake of breath–but still smiled underneath it.

“It’s that,” you murmured, brushing your lips over the same spot again, “And always wear sunscreen.” He let out a breathy, tired laugh that made your heart squeeze again. He sounded like he was trying to keep it together through the sheer force of exhaustion and heat.

“Will you help me put so–some of that aloe on now?” He asked, voice low, tentative. “I actually am starting to fe–feel like I’m on fire…And I need to cool off.”

You gave him one more soft kiss between the eyebrows and stood, letting go of his hand.

“Hang tight. I’m gonna go dig it out.”

He made a noise that might’ve been agreement or pain–it was hard to tell at this point.

You padded over to your side of the room and crouched beside your open suitcase, rifling through the tangle of rolled-up swimsuits, cover-ups, soft cotton shorts, and travel-sized chaos. Your fingers finally closed around the cool plastic bottle of aloe, the gel inside sloshing as you pulled it out with a triumphant sigh.

“Got it.”

You turned to face him again, twisting the cap open with one hand and watching as he barely lifted his head from the pillow.

“You’re just burned on your front, right?”

“Ye–Yeah…” He murmured. “I fell asleep on my back.” You paused mid-step.

“…You fell asleep?” He winced, realizing his admission. “So you’re saying this could’ve been even worse?” You added.

Bob made the smallest, most pathetic groan. “Bu–But it’s not worse…” He insisted weakly. “So can you pl–please come here and rub that on my skin now?”

Your lips twitched.

“I should make you wait,” You muttered under your breath. “Just for the drama of it.”

He whimpered. A real one. A sad, miserable little whine that came from deep in his chest.

You sighed again, crossing the room slowly and lowering yourself onto the bed beside him. Bob shifted slowly, groaning as he maneuvered himself upright in the most awkward half-sit of all time. He moved like every inch of him was coated in regret. Still, he reached for you, mumbling something unintelligible as he crawled over and finally laid the full weight of his upper body across your lap.

The heat of him hit you instantly. Not metaphorical heat. Actual radiating body heat–like you were holding a radiator in your lap. The warmth soaked through your thighs, making your skin damp almost instantly, but still…His weight settled into you in that familiar, grounding way. The way it always did.

You exhaled softly, brushing your fingers over his hair again before reaching for the aloe bottle.

With a low pop, you squeezed a generous glob into your hand. The gel was thick and cool, a soft translucent green that shimmered faintly in the sunlight pouring through the window. It smelled faintly of eucalyptus and cucumber–fresh and sharp and oddly calming. A scent meant for soothing. Healing.

You rubbed your palms together to warm it slightly and whispered, “Alright, solar boy… brace yourself.”

You leaned forward and gently pressed your hands to his chest.

His body tensed beneath your touch–muscles flexing instinctively beneath the coolness–before he let out a long, shuddering sigh that sounded like the air had been punched out of him.

“God,” he breathed, “it feels like a piece of ice…Th–that’s so good.”

You smiled softly, brushing your thumbs over the line of his collarbones as you slowly worked the gel into the angry pink flush of his skin.

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling against his cheeks. His body, normally all controlled strength and subtle restraint, was loose now. Boneless. Almost fragile.

“Ha–have I told you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my en–entire life,” he mumbled, voice drifting somewhere between delirium and sincerity, “and that I don’t deserve such a perfect person like you in my life?”

You snorted, amused despite yourself. “You technically tell me that every day without words.”

He hummed–a low, content sound from somewhere deep in his chest.

You grabbed another cool dollop of aloe and slowly slathered it along the tender skin of his stomach, careful not to press too hard. He flinched only slightly, but didn’t pull away–just let you touch him, soothe him, cool him.

“I love you so much…” He murmured, the words tumbling out like they’d been resting behind his teeth for hours. “And I’m glad that I have you.”

You looked down at him.

His eyes were still closed, face relaxed now. Less pained. His lips were parted slightly, pink and dry and still cracked from too much sun, too much pool water, too much stubborn Bob nonsense.

You bent down slowly, brushing your lips over his gently, careful not to hurt the delicate skin. He responded with the softest twitch of a smile, his hand reaching to weakly brush your thigh where it held his weight.

“I love you too,” You whispered. “And you’re the best thing that’s happened to me as well. Even if you don’t believe it.”

He let out a soft, almost bashful hum, the kind you’d only ever heard when it was just the two of you–quiet and slow and completely unguarded. His head dropped slightly against your stomach, and you felt him melt.

“You’re wa–warm by the way,” He grumbled sleepily.

“Because you turned me into a human heating pad.”

“Still nice…” He slurred, already fading.

You pressed one last kiss into his hairline, then shifted slightly so you could reach for more aloe without displacing him.

“Get some sleep,” You whispered, “You’ve got a long night of whining ahead of you.”

He didn’t answer.

But the weight of him against you was answer enough as he slowly got heavier and heavier against you as your hands continued to work in the aloe.

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lytefoot · 1 day ago

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I think the most hazardous thing about AI as a cheating tool is how little effort it takes to generate something that looks acceptable if you don't know anything.

If OP had just copied and pasted the entire Sparknotes page, they would have known that was unacceptable. If they'd written an essay that went, "Yeah, this book sucked and I hated it. I hated the movie, too. So the book and the movie were similar that way," they would have known that didn't meet the assignment.

I get tons of ChatGPT essays every time I assign writing. They universally do not meet either the prompt or the structural guidelines. But students who are used to using these things just assume that they've done what they were asked to do! Most of my writing assignments could be completed by going through the example and replacing the specific facts. However, doing that would require reading the assignment and understanding what they were being asked to do, the steps that AI cheating purports to circumvent.

Like, listen. In order to encourage people to actually do the assignment, I give 5 points for giving the essay a title and header. If a student turned in a word document with the appropriate header, a centered title, and then the entire essay was just, "Yeah, I got nothing," they would get 5 points. On one of my assignments, if they wrote "Yeah, I got nothing," five times on separate lines, they'd have 15 points, because there's a 10-point rubric item for "Has five paragraphs." The rubric is public.

Most of the GPT essays I get don't even do that and end up getting zero.

That's the thing that's really insidious about GPT-based cheating. Unlike other kinds of cheating, it doesn't require basic comprehension of what the assignment is asking for in order to produce results that look like a response to the assignment.

I don't think it's necessarily "making [people] dumber," simply because I think most of the people trying to cheat their way through school using AI today would have simply not done the assignments in a previous era. To me, the biggest problem with "AI" cheating is that an assignment that wasn't turned in is much easier to grade than a pile of AI slop.

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

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houseofhyde · 2 days ago

Note

Omg maybe a soft moment w manchild Bucky and reader where they are in bed slow touches talking about their feelings and how buckys been after her for so long and how she felt it too and omg.

Maybe not tho bc I might literally die of love resding it

signs in the silence. a manchild drabble.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. synopsis. fighting off sleep to scrape a little more time together, you interrogate bucky and find out all the things sam told him about you. warnings. mentions of smut/prior sexual activity, bickering, unlabeled relationship, reader being a sore loser (uno is hell on earth when you're losing), fluff, a tiny bit of angst. reader inclusivity. like a single mention of bucky brushing away an invisible strand of hair. wordcount. 2.7k (okay so maybe idk how to only write a drabble, sue me!) hyde's input. bestie, i saw your ask enter my inbox this evening and immediately started writing it, i swear i was possessed into finishing this in one sitting. ik it's not exactly what you asked for but i hope you enjoy reading it! (unedited, we die like real men)

Curtains dance in the wind like billowing ballgowns, lifting and dipping in the arms of the night. Past the window pane, rain reigns the streets below, staining everything beneath the stormy sky. Despite the weather and the ungodly hour, the city is still wide awake and, alongside it, so are you.

“You’re cheating!”

“How am I cheating?” There’s something unfair about how jaw-dropping Bucky still looks like this: cross-legged on the bed, wearing nothing but boxers and tired eyes, and clutching a two-card hand of colourful cards. If he hadn’t just condemned you to pick up twelve, you would reach over and steal a kiss. “I don’t even know the rules to this stupid game.”

“If it’s so stupid, why do you keep beating me?” You’re begrudgingly picking up your dues and struggling to hold the stack of cards in one hand.

As he tries to help you pick up a card that slips off the edge, you swat metal fingers away.

“Begginers luck,” the soldier shrugs, placing down his second last card. “Uno.”

Yellow Seven. Fuck.

“I actually hate you,” you groan, collapsing back against feather pillows.

“You’re holding half the deck, doll,” the ill-will you feel towards him in this moment aside, you can’t help the way your heart gives a little leap at that silly name of endearment. If feelings make fools, you’re leading the pack. “There’s no way you don’t have a playable card.”

Fingertips — flesh, warm and tender with their touch — slide up the back of your calf, hooking under your knee before attempting to tug you closer, down the bed, to where he sits by the edge. Like a child throwing a tantrum, you kick your legs, shaking off his touch.

“I don’t wanna play with you any more,” between the yawn you’re fighting off and the pout that’s taken capture of your lips, you truly are a pitiful sight. The knowledge of this doesn’t stop you from throwing down your cards and making a run for it off the mattress.

Unfortunately, your roommate has the reflex skills of a ninja and, no sooner than your feet touch the ground, his arms grab you from behind and drag you into his lap.

“God you’re such a sore loser,” he mouths against the skin of your neck, trailing his lips over the kisses he already tattooed into your skin hours ago, when the sun was barely setting and he had you pressed against the walls of the shower.

“I am not!” Two fingers pinch at his arm. You quietly delight in the way it only makes him squeeze them tighter around you, biceps straining deliciously on either side of you.

“Are too!” His teeth clamp down on your earlobe, and you have to physically hold yourself back from grinding back into his lap, the burning outline of his semi-hard cock straining against navy fabric heavy on your mind. “Sam even warned me about it.”

Glancing at him from over your shoulder, you find his eyes already on you. It’s something you’re coming to learn about him, quietly and unaddressed, just how attentive of a man he is. “You seriously shouldn’t trust a word that man says. He’s an agent of chaos!”

“Hey, that’s Captain America you’re talking about,” this time, he’s pinching you and, when you squirm, he takes the opportunity to scoop an arm beneath your knees and lifts you both off the bed. “And, according to him, you once bit his sister during a game of Twister.”

“One time,” You hold up a single finger and Bucky leans his head forward to bite it. “And it was only after she nearly choked me!”

After guiding both your hands to grab on behind his neck, your soldier takes away the hand supporting your back and uses it to dust off the sheets. Cards go flying and float onto the ground, and not once does the neurotic voice, that lives in your mind and berates any disorganisation, tell you to care about the mess.

In what world could a mess on the floor be more important than the way Bucky slides you both back down atop the mattress, card-free sheets pooling over your skin as the soldier pulls you into him.

He closes his eyes for all of four seconds before you’re whispering across the pillows.

“What else did Sam warn you about me?”

Blue irises reappear, one by one, and you can see how exhaustion has stitched itself across his face. You feel a twinge of guilt, keeping him awake on a night like this, but you’re selfish and you want every extra second with him you can get.

“He said you were the most intelligent yet incapable person he’s ever met,” his legs bump against yours beneath the sheets as he shuffles a little closer. You meet him halfway, intertwining your limbs in a tangle that’s slowly growing familiar. “Nearly didn’t believe him… Then I saw you for the first time.”

“You two are real mean, you know that?” There is not an ounce of grit behind your voice, just pure unadulterated adoration that a more awake version of yourself would be doubled over, gagging at the sight of it. Stand up, girl! You can almost hear her — you — say. He’s literally just a man! “What was so incapable about me opening the door of my home to the needy, huh?”

The soldier takes capture of the hand you poke against his chest, leading it up the path to meet the soft press of his lips. This is another thing you’re learning, how constant he craves contact, a hand always at your back, or a shoulder bumping against your own, or a head buried in your neck, he’s a fiend for the feel of flesh.

“Who said that’s the first time I saw you?” He challenges.

“Oh.”

“It was months before that. Sam and I, we were hiding out at a black-market art gallery in Madripoor because of… well, that’s not important,” as if he feels the tension bubbling beneath your skin, he dances over the dangerous part of his life, the parts you don’t get to see, the parts that turn him into a single phone call for days on end. “You called Sam, one of those face-clock calls-”

“It’s facetime, grandpa,” you tease him with a smile, reward him with a press of your mouth down into his right shoulder.

“Whatever. Point is, there was a mirror behind him and that’s where I saw you,” vibranium cups its palm around your face and you turn into its touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he soothes your cheek. “You were crying, begging for help after smashing your shower door whilst trying to kill a spider.”

“I stand-by the fact that could have happened to anyone.”

“Darling, no it couldn’t,” his laughter shakes his chest and you. It makes you want to dive deeper into his touch, feel his next laugh erupt in your own chest. “No one else would be silly enough to throw a baseball bat at a spider the size of raindrops.”

“It was jumping! And I didn’t have any spray!” You turn away from his touch, only to nestle your face in the crevices of his collarbone. Despite the chill in the air, Bucky’s a furnace against you, sheltering you from the cold. “Tell me something else Sam said.”

“Hmm,” he pauses to think, his flesh arm curling around your back and rolling you into him. He smells like Bucky but, also, you, traces of your citrus bodywash staining him hours after you lathered him in it beneath the flowing waters of the shower. Something curls in your loins, possessive and satisfied with the claim you’ve made on his skin. “That you have an insatiable sweet tooth. Backed it up with a story where he had to pry you out a bakery after failing to get some promotion at work.”

“I still can’t believe they gave it to fucking Frank,” you huff, the bitterness still present on your tongue after all these years. “They ended up firing him within a year after realising that, beneath all that manly testosterone, he was incompetent.”

“Just your type, then?” The bastard muses, effortlessly blocking the hand that’s reaching for his nipple and pressing it flat against his chest instead. You feel his heart, beating a little stronger with each pulse, there's a magnet in your palm commanding it to break free from its ribcage and fly right into your hand. “Sam said you always wanted to learn to bake, but were too lazy.”

“Too busy,” you roll your eyes, though deep down there’s a truth in Sam’s claims. “Luckily, you’re a whizz in the kitchen. And I’m not just talking about when you bend me over the counter and threaten to use the spatula to spank-”

“Why do you think I wanted to learn to bake?”

Reminiscing on your salacious adventures together quickly stops, the moment you take a second to actually think about what he’s saying, what he’s not saying. You’re both good at this game, tip-toeing around a subject you both keep bringing to light yet never fully revealing. There’s excitement in the unsaid, in the quiet touches and unmentioned actions that hint at something you’re both too stubborn to address.

Tonight will not be the night either of you give in and fold.

“Tell me something else,” oh god, there’s a yawn caught in your throat. With difficulty, you swallow it down before the soldier can point it out.

“He never warned me you were so demanding,” you whine in protest into his skin and feel the dance of his hand running up and down your back, an apology that seeps through skin and into your spine. “But he did mention you have awful taste in men.”

The hand on your back slips lower, pressing dimples into the skin at the base of your spine as you push yourself off his chest and come face to face with him. The moonlight is forgiving tonight, granting you the pretty view of his illuminated features. The fondness in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the wrinkles beginning to threaten stains upon his skin, the scars you’ve yet to ask about.

For every imperfection and every inch of adoration, he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Something tugs at your heart.

“The worst taste,” you murmur, bringing your lips down to meet Bucky’s in a kiss that has him exhaling with relief and gripping at your skin tighter.

“Yeah?” He mumbles, stealing the air you exhale. “Tell me, what kind of man merits your attention?”

“The kind who works out every muscle but his brain,” you drag your lips over his jaw, relishing in the scrape of his stubble.

“Hey, I read!” Finally, it’s his turn to feel the sting of offense.

“Typical man, making everything about himself,” you settle back down against his chest, ear pressing close enough to where you can hear the thunder of his heart. “This is about my dream man, Buck, not you.”

“Didn’t you call me your dream man last time I ate your-”

“Anyway, I like the kind of man who listens to both my problems and my complaints, and then does whatever he can to fix things without pressuring me.” Flashback to last week, when you complained about the strap of your bag snapping half-way home only to awaken the next morning to it all stitched perfectly back together.

“You like the considerate kind then,” he whispers, and you swear you hear a twinge of nervousness on his tongue.

“And the kind who makes me feel beautiful with just a single glance at me,” exhibit A stares down at you right now, a shine in his eyes that makes you want to swoon.

“That must be any man,” he brushes a nonexistent hair off your forehead, “I mean, look at you.”

“I also like the kind of man that chases me, even when I’m too focused on what’s ahead to glance back and notice him,” there’s a strange squeeze in your throat as you swallow down a breath, thinking back on all the hints of longing he may have dropped that you’ll never know about.

“That man would still chase you, even if you never looked back,” the way he’s speaking to you and touching you, like you’re a rose petal threatening to fall off its stem, is not helping the lump in your throat. “In case you stumbled and needed someone to break your fall.”

That does you in, sends the first tear falling off your eyelash and landing on his naked chest, while you muster a quiet, “I like the kind of man who calls.”

His hands don’t freeze, and no part of him jumps with shock. Instead, his chest deflates with resignation.

“You know about the mission,” it’s not a question.

It doesn’t need to be, he already knows the answer.

“How?” This, however, is a question he needs to ask.

You shrug into him, refusing to give in to his search for your face as you focus on hiding it in the warmth of his skin, hidden from the look on his face you’re too afraid to confront. “Something just felt… different when I woke up.”

“Like what?” It’s not an accusatory thing, just a simple search for answers from a man who’s trying his best to keep you from falling apart against him.

“Well, you woke me up with your head between my legs-”

“What’s different about that? I did the same on Tuesday, too.

“And then brought me breakfast in bed.”

“You feed me, I feed you, that’s how a-” he doesn’t quite say the R word, but you feel it, in the way he seers a kiss onto the crown of your head, “Is supposed to work.”

“Then there was the three course meal waiting for me when I came home from work,” you still remember the way your heart was stuck between soaring at the sight of him setting the table as you walked into the apartment, and sinking with realisation that your suspicions were definitely true. “If all that wasn’t enough, I could tell from your touch.”

“My touch?”

“It was like… you were trying to memorise me. Not just when we were in the shower, but each time you took my hand across the table and brushed over my shoulder before clearing our plates,” you feel him sinking his fingers over your flesh, a soft squeeze at your hip. “Even now, it’s like you’re trying to hold onto me because you know you have to let go.”

“I just…” He sighs with defeat, not helping his case when he lays another kiss against your head. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“That’s okay,” you lie, for both of your sakes. “It’s not like you’ve not left to go help Sam before.”

“This isn’t before,” you both hate and adore him for the firmness he puts into the statement. “Before was different, we weren’t us.”

As much as this aches, ripping your chest apart to carve out your heart with the bitter truth of Bucky’s life as a hero catching up to whatever safe haven you two have locked yourselves away in, you’ll happily take the pain, the lump in your throat, all of it. There’s no price too high to pay to have this moment, laying in Bucky’s arms and pretending there’s no one in the city but you two, fighting off sleep for a moment more of each other’s presence and leaving fingerprint evidence of one another on your skins.

“You’ll be gone by the time I wake up,” you could get mad at him for not telling you, for the chance he almost took at leaving you another measly note on the fridge. But all you feel is the mutual ache of wanting to put off the inevitable, just a little longer. “Won’t you?”

You feel him nod, feel him squeeze his arms around you tighter, feel your heartbeats start to sync as sleep slowly guides you away from his loving gaze.

“I promise I won’t miss a single call, doll.”

#bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #james buchanan barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes x reader

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iceemochaa · 2 days ago

Text

WHO KNEW?

Remmick X Reader

A/N: Heyyyyyy, did somebody ask for Remmick Riding Fic??

I want to say thank you to my pookie @fuckoffbard for giving me this idea. She gave me her blessings to write something that was self indulgent and I wanted to deliver it with love. It took me a while to write and I’m so glad I kept picking at it until it all made sense on paper. Lemme go finish my other 5 fics now. Enjoy :)

Warning: MDNI, No use of name or Y/n, reader insert, Reader isnt described, Riding, fem Reader, AFAB, Creampie, slight breeding if you squint, slight blood play, kissing, kissing with blood, Remmick uses his claws maybe once or twice, cursing, dirty talk, P in V (lowkey what’s the difference), Remmick cries cause I love men being pathetic. Slight Cervix fucking if you squint. If you see any grammar or punctuation mistakes, no you didn’t :)

Word Count:3.6 k

The rapid beats of your heart echoes through your ears, your lips begging for you to stop chewing so harshly. It's only been a few short minutes since Remmick had worked his hands all over you— Freeing you of your clothing, tossing them carelessly in a pile somewhere. He whispered dirty things that he promises he’ll do to you— Soon, later, it didn't matter. All you knew was that Remmick was a man of his words.

He had you pressed against him, chest to chest so that he could breathe you in, Rub his scent right against yours. There's light red hickeys along your neck and arms— something Remmick did when he got all worked up, sucking your skin in his mouth to keep from inserting his fangs. Sometimes he went a little overboard, applying too much pressure until your skin underneath turned a deeper shade.

Currently you looked like a painter's canvas that was going through the rough draft stage; Hints of purple and shades of red painted all over your body. You didn't mind— You liked how considerate he was, never too hard but enough to make you feel, even if you did want him to go further.

For now, This was fine.

When he was done marking your body, soothing kisses placed above the marks— feeling almost satisfied, He tossed you on top of him and got real cozy under your weight. He used his slick tone and smooth voice to ask a simple question that left you paralyzed. A question that your brain has been mulling over and over. It wasn't anything bad— well, maybe to you but Remmick hasn't stopped smirking. He looked like a shark, all teeth and beady black eyes and you were the unfortunate fish that was soon to be his dinner.

“Why don't you Ride me darlin’? .” He said with such an enthusiastic drawl.

Since then you've been in a state of panic. Sure, you've done a lot of things with Remmick that you're too embarrassed to admit out loud but your body still reacts the same— it tingles and gets all warm and mushy when he has you pressed against him, with deep kisses lingering on your lip but this? This right here with your full weight sitting on top of his lap is too much.

“What if I hurt you?” you say in a small whisper but Remmick can hear you just fine. He simply looks at you with a hungry stare, He’s watching you, trying to gauge your reaction. Its the look he usually does when he devotes his full attention to you, shifting ever so slightly under.

“Hurt me? Darlin’ you could never.” he chuckles, tracing soothing circles on the side of your hip but then he quickly adds in, “Trust me, I've been through worse.”

“What's worse than this?” You ask, curiosity getting the best of you.

Remmick stops drawing circles to pinch the fat of your thigh lightly, “Besides burning in the sun?” he takes a few seconds to really search his brain for all the times he had to either catch prey or defend his life. Some of those moments really took a lot out of him, sometimes he couldn’t move for days but there was one thing that still gets his brain turning and his teeth aching with burning rage.

“...Maybe being hit with a guitar.”

A singular brow raises against your forehead. “Is that really true?”

“Now your tryin’ to change the topic.”

“Remmick, please, don't make me do this.”

“m’not making you do anythin’,” his says so innocently, making sure to sprinkle in an extra thick southern accent that gets your mind racing. “I'm just enjoying the view from down here, is all.” he says, “If you want to do something then your free to do as you please.”

”O-Oh okay…”

Sensing your hesitation, Remmick shifts your weight so he can sit up, his face only a few inches away. He plants a kiss right against your cheek, it's short and sweet, nothing but burning love flowing. He adds more, moving his lips lower until it reaches your collarbone then he stops to look at you once more through hooded eyes. “You don’t need to be nervous around me, sugar.” He says against your skin then shifts his head back up so his breath can fan against your face. “We've done far worse.” he says plain as day, the worse being even more freakier things he likes to suggest.

“I’ll gladly accept anything you do to me. You could never hurt me.”

“Are you sure?” You ask once more. Insecurity and fear was a glowing white beacon above your head. You believed Remmick, fully and completely, you just didn’t believe in yourself. What if you suck at it? What if he tells you that he changed his mind about this idea and shoves you off? What if he actually doesn’t like it and he fakes an orgasem? It sounds real childish but it could happen. You would rather indulge in those impossible sex positions he likes to purpose whenever he gets way too in his head.

You shake your head, hoping these feelings would somehow remove themselves from your brain. “You know what, maybe we can do this again later-“

Remmick clicks his tongue in slight annoyance, “Hold on now, Don’t give me that talk.” He chastises you but you can hear the softness in his tone. He wasn’t upset, not at all. An easy going smile, soothing hands, a soft hum. He wanted you to know that this was all fine.

Great even.

“Look, If you want,” he says in a sultry lilt, “I can do that thing with my tongue you like so much right after.”

Huh?

“You know, the one where I lick right up agaisnt-“

“Remmick, Shut up.” You sigh.

“Yes Ma’am.”

Well, here goes nothing.

To build some confidence you figured kissing would be a good start— It was easy and you didn’t have to think so hard about it. You wrap your arms around his neck, hands sliding into the back of his head to feel how soft his hair was. Remmick simply hums, leaning into the touch– almost like a cat. Slowly, You ghost your lips over his, your hand tugging his hair back just slightly so he was forced to look up at you. You can see something deep and primal in his eyes, like he was waiting for you to do this. Have him underneath you, have you take the lead.

You watch as Remmicks eyes glide across your face and slowly land on your mouth, his tongue peeking out to lick across his bottom lip like he was starving— He was always starving for you. You can tell by the way drool builds up in the corner of his mouth, his lips opening and closing like a fish. Like he needed air and the only air he wanted was you.

“Your drooling baby.” You note with a grin, observing the way it slowly drips down onto his chest. Remmick merely smirks, his hand coming up to cup your face in a soft embrace.

“That I am.” He says.

You press your lips right against his, You can hear Remmick breathing in your scent. His tongue pressing against your lips, asking for permission to taste you further. When you do let him in, he wastes no time to explore your mouth, his moan vibrating through you with sloppy sounds mixed with drool. Remmicks hand roams around your skin to keep him grounded. He was trying his best not to take control— have you take the lead but it was getting harder. You tasted so divine.

You glide both of your hands up his shoulders and push him down easily. He follows your lead without hesitation. Once you have him pressed against the bed, you finally break the kiss to plant light pecks on his cheek then slowly work your way towards his neck until you reach the shell of his ear. A low groan erupts from his throat when you suck his earlobe, your teeth working its way to tugging and nipping the shell of his ear soon after.

“Shit— where’d you learn that?” Remmick gasps softly.

“I have a good teacher.” You whisper in his ear, heat building on your cheeks, your nerves slowly turning into want and need— Enjoying the way the roles are slowly reversing. It’s usually him making you squirm and get all flushed but now he’s the one coming undone. You pull back to give him a once over, getting one more confirmation that this was 100% alright. Remmick simply nods his head.

“Well?” He says, “don’t stop now.”

You got this, you chant into your head over and over. He’s okay with it. It’s perfectly fine. Just move.

So you do.

You lift up to grab his weeping cock, feeling the way it burns in your hand. You heard a low groan shutter through the air— His chest starts to move quicker, his eyes growing wider, his fingers pressing deeper into your soft skin now. He didn't have to say anything but his body sure loves to talk— You can feel his muscle fidget under the palm of your hand that’s being pressed against his stomach, The growing anticipation too much to bear. You look towards him for any hints of discomfort, Maybe another confirmation that this was a totally bad idea but he's too busy watching the way his cock is getting closer and closer to where he really wants to be.

Okay, you got this.

He said it was fine, right? You take deep breaths, slowly guiding yourself down until the tip presses against your folds. You're already so wet, practically dripping due to Remmick playing with you earlier before this whole internal conflict started. He glides in so smoothly, entering into your warmth inch by inch. The pain of how big he is completely long gone and now masked with desire.

A small hiss slips from Remmicks mouth, his brows furrowing. “That’s it, nice and slow.” He says. It doesn’t take long for you to be fully seated on his lap now. His hard cock snuggled right inside, right where it belonged.

You stop suddenly, fear brewing once more. “I can’t- fuck, it’s too much,“ you choke out, Your nails digging into his chest to keep yourself together.

“Yes you can— your doing it already.” He coos, like he's trying to calm a frightened animal.

Remmick draws light feathered circles against your skin, his eyes fully scanning your face now. “Darlin, Your doin’ so well,” he says tilting his head back just slight. Still watching you, still trying to calm you down, Your comfort being too important to him.

“Whenever your ready. Move those pretty hips for me.” he sighs softly, “I promise im not goin’ anywhere.”

Here goes nothing.

You finally grow some confidence and lift up slightly, testing the waters, Feeling the way his hand clenches to keep a tight hold on Your hips. He doesn’t want to let you go, you don’t want him too. You come back down slowly, feeling the way your walls grow tighter when he enters once more.

This feels different.

Not in a bad way.

Exciting, new, different.

It feels a little overwhelming at first, trying to make sure you're not dropping your full weight on him all while he’s nuzzled inside your cunt but slowly the burning need grows. You do it again, lifting up to come back down on his length. A soft moan leaving your lips at the sensation. It’s usually Remmick who’s taking the reins; the one finding pleasure for you, Moving at his own accord when he wants. He'll find a rhythm that gets his stomach pooling with heat, a position that has your muscles burning, your mind ditzy.

Now?

You're the one holding the reins, Taking control. Before you know it, you're riding him in slow paces. Your hands pressed against his chest to support yourself— hips grinding down so you can find that slight, hot, burn that makes your stomach churn.

Remmick has his hands tight around your waist, his hold almost bruising. You both don’t say anything, nothing but the low grunts and moans echoing throughout the room. For the first time Remmick isn’t talking his head off— too lost in the pleasure, His eyes pinned to the constant exposure of his cock entering your cunt.

Perhaps you should do this more often, you think.

Soon enough the nervousness begins to wash away into pleasure and your moving faster. The sounds of skin on skin begin to mix into the air. You can feel warmth pooling down from your chest and slowly creeping its way to where you're connected to Remmick, like someone lit a fire under a stove. Your hips were being bruised by his hold, his fingers pressing into your skin. The more you ride him the more you start to take note that his claws are lightly scraping against your skin, leaving unruly red marks. They don’t dig in enough to bleed but you can feel them cementing themselves— A reminder that you made Remmick come undone.

“Sugar, m’close, so so close…” Remmick Whines under his breath, his voice dipping into a higher pitch. While his voice only stirs you on, You can’t help but stare at the way his fangs peeks out between his lips, how his tongue presses against them and then lulls out between them.

“Gonna- mhmm - I’m gonna, fuckkkk. Baby-“

“Not yet,” You groan, stopping to grind down hard, making sure he knows he won’t get a reward if he doesn’t listen. “Not until I say so.” You reprimand him.

Remmick throws his head back, a deep rumble echoing through his chest. You can feel the muscles under his skin tense, his hips practically jump in anticipation.

“m’sorry…” Remmick whines, “Please, I’ll be good.“ Pathetic cries begin pooling from his mouth, his head nodding away from the pure bliss he was experiencing.

“I don’t know…” you say offhandedly.

”Fuck, please, I’ll be good! Just— faster.” He begs, He looked good like this, all desperate and pathetic like. Almost like you’ve been withholding this from him for centuries. To think all it took was riding him like there was no tomorrow.

You watch as his eyes shut close, his breathing becoming unsteady. his fangs peeking out to brush against his bottom lip.

“You overwhelmed baby?”

Remmick bobs his head, sucks in a breath when you slam back down.

“Look at me.” You coo softly.

Remmicks glowing red eyes snap towards your own and what a glorious sight it was.

His ruby eyes half lidded but filled with adoration for you. His chest glistening with sweat and some other substance that you're sure is the copious amount of drool that’s been pooling from the corner of his mouth. How delicious he looked, hair tousled and chest heaving in rapid succession.

“Aren’t you a sight.” You chuckle.

“Please Darlin’ m’not gonna last any longer.”

How cute, you think, Remmick who’s always boasting and teasing you for crying and whining that it’s too much and yet he can’t handle it either.

“How about you beg me darlin. Tell me how much this pussy makes you cry.”

Remmicks eyes widen for a moment, His mouth gaping open like a fish. You swear you can hear the gears turning in his pretty little head. His cock throbs inside of you so good it makes your thighs clench around his waist.

“Your doing so…so, so—fuck, I can’t-“ He sobs in broken syllables.

You fingertips glides down the front of his chest, slowly working its way until it stops on his stomach and you press down slightly. “Yes you can, your almost there.”

“I— mhmm, baby, feels so good—“

“That’s it, keep going.”

”Your so perfect— fuck! made just f’me. Never want to let you go—“

You lean down so that your breath fans against his ear when you say, “You want to come inside?”

Remmicks entire body almost lifts off the bed.

“Yes! please!— wanna pump you full, gonna fucking— shit,” he sobs out loud, “Pussy feels so good, made just for me.”

You speed up once more, the sounds of skin connecting and moans mingled together brings hot fire straight into your core— you're getting so close too, his cocking hitting so deep inside it almost makes your eyes roll back. You figured this would be the time to push your limits— have him come undone with tears in his eyes instead. What a pretty sight it would be, a memory you won’t hesitate to bring again later when he says something smart about the roles reversing back.

“You can do better than that.” You say, testing the waters. “Show me how much you want to cum.”

Remmick doesn’t hesitate to follow your orders, his hips lifting so he can meet your rhythm. His hands moving to squeeze your ass— his claws digging into your skin, holding purchase, using your body to bring him to a climax he desperately needs. You can tell he was close, his hips faltering and then picking up again. He’s practically pounding into you, a speed so inhuman that it makes your pussy numb with pleasure.

God, if he kept going like this— his cock pistoning into your cervix once more, you're going to be sore for days. Wobble on your legs like a newborn dear but you won’t complain. Not when the view of Remmick’s blissed out face will be imprinted in your memory.

“N-Now?” he whines, turning his head to suck a deep mark into your shoulders. His nose tucked into your neck once more. You can feel his fangs brush over your skin just slight, his legs tensing everytime they brush against your thighs and the best part of all? The delicious sound of Remmick pounding into you.

“Y-Yeah, fuck— do whatever you want baby. You earned it.”

Remmick thrusts up into your core a few more times, loud moans echos through the room and he cums right inside of you. Pumping you full, making sure he paints the inside of your cunt white. He doesn’t pull out, no, he wants to make sure your filled to the brim. Nothing but him occupying your cunt from the inside out.

“Ohhh—so tight, mhmmm” he cries into your skin, “I’m— fuckkk!” You can hear a slight hiss afterwards, his forehead pressing into your shoulders. Suddenly you feel warm liquid coat your chest, his mouth gliding along your shouder.

When you turn to look at him, you catch a glimpse of red slide down his chin. He was holding back from biting you— the moment too much for him to handle, his fangs practically pierced through his bottom lip.

“You okay?”

Remmick simply nods, too dazed to give a coherent response anyways. You can’t help but eye his lips once more, watch the way fresh blood pools against his skin. The sight of him all bloody and messy makes your pussy clench around him and he groans.

Without thinking, Your hand wraps around his chin to pull him close, your mind racing with nothing but the need to claim him once more. An idea crosses your mind, something you’ve always dreamed of doing and now was the perfect time to act on it. You squeeze his chin softly, leaning down to plant your lips against his, the muscle bloody and almost swollen but you didn’t care.

The taste of iron and drool only makes the craving grow.

Soon enough your teeth come down to replace the indent of his fangs, biting down hard— making sure another wound opens on his lips and then you just tug. Sucking in his bottom lip, the taste of his blood intoxicating.

You let it go, watch as his lip snaps back into place and Remmick almost howls— his hips jerking up into your cunt, his hands shooting to cup your face.

“Fuck, do it again.” He whines into your mouth.

You comply easily, the taste of him is too good to ignore. You press your teeth down In another untouched area and bite down again, until a fresh new wound cuts open his skin, the flow of blood and spit dribbles out from your kiss.

You swear you can hear Remmick purr against your hand.

When you both part your lips, A long drawn out moan leaves between you two— A spit line follows along until it disconnects when you lean back unto his lap again. You can feel the swell inside, his cocked nuzzled deep into your cervix, right where he belongs. When you finally feel like you’ve had your fill of everything Remmick gives you, his entire being devoted and at your mercy, you sit up slowly.

Remmick hums lowly, his breathing at its regular pace again. He looked fucked up but satisfied completely, a goofy grin laying on his face. He looks down to watch the aftermath, The tip of his cock popping out to reveal an overflow of his cum—it practically spills from your cunt, drooling right back on his pelvis.

“You did so well hun.” You say, teasing and soft, copying the warm southern tone he likes to soothe you with. Who knew you had it in you to reduce Remmick to a weeping mess?

Remmick smiles happily at you, sucking in his bottom lip to taste the spit that lingers from your heavy kiss. His hands moving up to massage your hips. He feels the indents in your skin, the pads of his fingers tracing the lines over and over.

You can get used to this, you think.

“Wanna go again?” you smile.

“Yes please.”

#remmick x reader #reader insert #remmick x fem!reader #sinners fanfiction #sinners smut #sinners x reader #smut #remmick x you #soft!remmick

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ladsrlife2 · 2 days ago

Text

Sugar Daddy! Sylus - Part 2

Sylus x Reader

You thought Sylus was just your mysterious, well-dressed sugar daddy. Then you landed an internship - only to discover he’s the CEO.

tags: 18+ nsfw/smut, elevator blow-job, office-sex, sugar daddy sylus, bratty mc

With the love of many on ao3 and tumblr, I decided to write part 2!! Hope you guys enjoy this as much as the first <3

Part 1 💗

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

“Not too shabby for a CEO’s office.”

You say, walking into Sylus’s office, arms crossed like you own the place.

Sylus lifts his gaze from behind his sleek desk, amused. His crimson eyes glitter like garnets under the sunlight pouring in through the wall-sized window behind him, the skyline stretching wide - cold glass and mirrored steel.

He turns slowly in his chair as you strut past the leather sofas, running a finger along their edge.

“I’m glad it wins your approval.” His voice is rich and smooth, like wine served in crystal.

You ignore the compliment, scanning the office until your eyes land on the opaque glass wall at the entrance.

“So,” you say, turning back toward him. “Why did such an important man call a lowly intern into his office?”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “Because I supposed the intern had a lot to say.”

His eyes flick down to your figure and back up again, unmistakably pleased by your new formal look. You don’t blame him. You’re wearing your carefully chosen pencil skirt, silk blouse, black tights, and favorite heels.

“Let’s hear what the CEO has to say first.”

He gestures for you to come closer with his hand. You ignore it - and instead hop up onto the edge of his desk, your legs swinging idly.

He chuckles lowly, leaning forward to place a warm hand on your thigh.

“Things are… complicated,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You arch a brow. “That’s new. You, saying things are complicated?”

“It’s a personal mess. I didn’t want you to get involved in it.”

You tilt your head. “What, are you secretly married or something?”

Sylus scoffs, offended by the absurdity. “No. Of course not.”

You look down at his hand and slowly interlace your fingers with his. A calculated move. You bring it to your lips, place a kiss on his knuckles, and look up with wide, injured eyes.

“Even if you were, you know I would’ve understood,” you whisper. “I can’t believe you doubted me.”

He looks at you the way someone might look at a monkey riding a unicycle - a sight both entertaining and ridiculous.

Yet you continue.

“I’d go through thick and thin with you,” you begin solemnly, one hand to your chest. “And I would-”

“-go through thick and thin with my money,” he interrupts dryly.

You gasp, scandalized. “That is outrageous! Even if you were poor! And married! I’d still be by your side!”

You clutch his hand to your chest dramatically. “Feel it - the heartbreak!”

You flatten his palm against your breasts.

He raises a brow. “…All I feel is a healthy heartbeat.”

He gives a light squeeze. You swat his hand away.

“See?! That’s all you think about! What happened to dignity? And honor? And chivalry?”

“Alright, alright.” He waves you down like he’s swatting away an overly dramatic stage actress. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

You lean back on your palms, lips curving into something between amusement and triumph. “You should have.”

“I’m sorry, kitten.” His tone straddles that fine line between genuine remorse and theatrical sarcasm.

You cross your arms, wordlessly demanding more.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” he continues, slow and deliberate. “Even though you’ve been so loyal to me.”

The way he lingers on loyal - you can’t tell if he’s teasing or trying to guilt you.

“What could I possibly do to make it up to you?”

Your heart skips a beat in thrill.

“I don’t know,” you say, coy. “Nothing could mend this broken heart.”

“Right. I should’ve known kitten is not a materialistic girl. Perhaps I can make it up to you with... sincere actions.”

Nonsense.

“On second thought, I think maybe the new Ferrari collection looks rather beautiful.”

Sylus chuckles, shaking his head at your shameless audacity. “Unbelievable,” he mutters - and sighs. “Fine.”

“Really?!” you gasp, and before he can change his mind, you climb into his lap with all the grace of a triumphant winner. You wrap your arms around his neck, beaming. “Oh, Daddy. I think I’m healed already.”

He lets out a low laugh that reverberates through his chest as he pulls you in tighter.

“Maybe I should’ve picked something more expensive,” you say, trailing kisses across his cheek.

“Your greed knows no bounds,” He murmurs into your neck, and takes a second to deeply inhale your scent. “But I’m always impressed by your efficiency.”

You reply, voice quieter, like you’re whispering a naughty secret. “How about,” you say, locking eyes with him as your hand drifts lower to graze the outline of his cock, now hardening fast beneath your palm, “...I make up for my so-called greed… starting now.”

His crimson eyes flicker, darkening instantly.

You keep the gaze as you palm him harder, slow and steady. His cock stiffens beneath your fingers, straining against his pants.

Just as you start to unzip him, his hand closes around your wrist.

“As much as I’d like that, kitten.” His deep voice is full of restraint. “Unfortunately I’ve decided to keep my office sex-free. As CEO. Dignity, or whatever you were saying earlier.” .

You look at him, mouth open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not.” Sylus says, mouth upturned into a smirk.

“You’re doing this just to get back at me, aren’t you?”

He raises a brow, voice calm. “Hardly. I made that rule when I founded the company. Years ago.”

“…and I respect that.”

Sylus laughs, amused by your forced diplomacy, and plants a kiss on your lips. “Why, thank you.”

Just then, the phone on his desk rings. You rise from his lap, smoothing your skirt, giving him space. As he reaches for the phone, his fingers brush your back in a quiet, lingering touch.

“I need to get back to work,” he murmurs. “Thomas will escort you back down.”

You pause at the door, glancing back. He’s already answering the call, voice level, posture straight, every trace of indulgence vanished. The tension in the room dissipates like smoke - replaced with cold, crisp professionalism.

It scratches something in you.

That he can switch off so easily, that you're left hot and bothered while he returns to work like nothing happened.

That kind of control is... infuriating. And sexy.

You follow the assistant down the hall, and step into the elevator and press the button.

As you watch the numbers decrease steadily, you begin to wonder:

What ever you should do to make sure Sylus breaks his precious little ‘rule’ that is oh, so unlike his character?

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

The opportunity presents itself.

It just so happens that Sylus doesn’t always use his exclusive elevator.

On your fourth day of work, you’re wrapping up a minor errand at a nearby bank around noon. You enter one of the three main elevators in the hall - only to find Sylus already inside, alone, head bowed over his business phone, texting.

Too immersed, he doesn’t notice you entering. You eye the buttons and see that only the top most floor - 53 - is lit. You don’t press 8, your floor.

Instead, you slowly walk towards him, slightly undoing the top most buttons of your silk blouse, heels clicking quietly on the floor. It’s only when you’re right in front of him, barely a hand’s width apart, when he looks up from his phone with a full look of caution.

His crimson eyes relax instantly when he realizes who you are.

“Oh, it’s you, kitten-”

His words taper off as his eyes fall to your cleavage, lush and spilling over your bra beneath the undone blouse.

His lips curl into a smirk.

“Hey, boss-man,” you say, voice low and slow. You raise a hand to his stomach and stroke down gently. “Busy day at work?”

“…Surely you didn’t walk into work like that.”

“And what if I did?”

He sighs, eyes briefly shutting as he rubs his temple, like he already knows you're about to test every limit he thought he had.

“Just button it up, before anyone walks in, please.”

The mirror behind him reflects floor 14.

“How about-” your hand trails lower to the waistband of his slacks.

With the way he jolts, you know he knows what you’re about to do. Before he can stop you, however, you slip past his hands and cup his balls, giving them a deliberate squeeze.

“-No.”

You know he loves it when you do that.

A sharp breath escapes his lips.

He catches your wrist, intent on stopping you - but as your fingers begin massaging his heavy sac, his grip slackens.

“Kitten.”

His voice is strained.

But despite his threatening words, his grip loosens like his body has lost all will to resist.

It’s been a week since he last had you. He’s as pent up as you’d expect.

You stroke him through his pants with your free hand, watching his dark, unreadable expression.

“You never said anything about no sex in the elevator,” you murmur.

Before he can respond, you unbutton and unzip him in one smooth, practiced motion.

The mirror now reflects floor 23.

And then you drop to your knees.

Before he can even utter a protest, his briefs are down and your lips wrap around his length. You take him all at once, warm and slick and deep into your throat.

A groan tears from his chest, and his hand flies to your hair, instinctive and desperate.

“Get off-”

You suck harder in answer.

His cock slides deeper into your throat, your nose buried against his pelvis, eyes glistening with the effort as you fight the urge to gag.

He curses low under his breath. His legs tremble.

Your throat tightens and releases in rhythm, massaging him in a way he can't resist. His grip loosens, turning from restraint to encouragement.

Floor 29.

You look past your wet, fluttering eyelashes and lock onto his dark, undone eyes.

You bob your head steadily, filthily, letting slick sounds echo against the mirrored walls.

His brows draw together, lips parting as he exhales through clenched teeth. There's amusement in his eyes now, despite the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his hips.

Of course he likes this. Who's he trying to fool?

Floor 35.

“Mmh-”

A soft moan escapes your lips, muffled by his cock, as he nudges you to go faster up and down his length.

You stroke the base with your hand, jerking him as your mouth works his length. The way his deep breaths border on groans, the way his hips buckle every time you suck, the way his balls feel hard as you massage it with your hand, you know he’s close.

Floor 45.

Just as he’s about to tip over, you pull off with a wet pop.

He gasps, blinking in disbelief, flushed and furious and painfully hard.

You stand smoothly, adjusting your blouse, fingers nimbly buttoning each undone hole.

His eyes blaze. His cock is still fully erect, standing against his stomach, flushed and leaking.

But the elevator begins to slow.

Floor 48.

He looks at you, about to speak - probably to curse you out - but you step in quickly, fixing his pants, zipping him up, tucking in his shirt like nothing happened.

The doors slide open.

A small group of employees stands outside. You walk out casually, slipping past them like a shadow.

“Sylus! We were just on our way to your office for the 3pm meeting! What a coincidence.” Chirps a perky female voice.

“Charmed,” he mutters back, tone flat.

You don’t turn around. But as the doors begin to close again, you risk taking a last minute glance. You jolt to find out he’s still watching you - crimson eyes burning with restrained fury, humiliation and… hunger.

The doors shut, and he disappears behind polished steel.

Serves him right, you think.

That’s what he gets for being pretentious.

…Or so you try to tell yourself.

You swallow hard, heart still racing.

You try to ignore his last minute, furious gaze from floating back to your mind.

Surely, he’s not that mad. Right?

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

“Sylus- Daddy- please, I’m sorry! Please, just stop- ”

You find yourself pleading for forgiveness in his office a few hours later.

You’re bent over his desk, the surface rattling beneath your body as he pounds into you, deep and ruthlessly from behind.

It’s been an hour. You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he came.

Your shredded black tights cling uselessly to your thighs, soaked in slick and cum, both yours and his, dripping down all the way down to your ankles.

Perhaps you should’ve known it would end up like this from the moment he ripped your tights apart and didn’t even bother to undress you nor himself before burying himself inside. “Isn’t this what you wanted so badly, kitten?”

He growls, punctuating every word with a brutal thrust.

Your legs tremble violently beneath you, your hands scrambling for purchase against the wood as he holds your hips in place, unrelenting.

“You’re right,” he mutters, almost to himself, breath ragged. “I should’ve known better.”

Your moans melt into the sound of flesh slapping flesh, echoing off the office walls.

“No-sex rule, my ass,” he huffs with a dark chuckle, angling his hips just so - hitting your g-spot with surgical cruelty. “Right?”

You cry out, body locking up as another orgasm crashes into you. Your legs give out, but he catches you easily, keeping himself buried to the hilt as you squirt down his cock, your body trembling uncontrollably in his arms.

“A-ah—!”

Your mind barely resets as you slump back into his chest. You reach for his forearms wrapped around your waist, clutching him like he’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

Tilting your head back, you look up into his yet insatiable crimson eyes, and ignore the occasional twitching of your limbs and murmur, “Please, Sylus. I’m sorry. I won’t- I won’t do it again.”

You jolt as you feel him starting to slowly grind his hips against yours, again.

“What was that?” He teases.

“No- wait.” You plead out, urgently. “Don’t you have work to do?!”

Sylus chuckles and answers, pleasantly. “I made sure to finish everything before calling you in.” He purrs. “Told all my assistants to call it a day, even.” He grinds into you, his cock dragging torturously along your oversensitive walls. “ We’re the only ones on this floor.”

You choke out a moan in disbelief. You’re about to open your mouth to plead some more, when he brings his mouth close to your ear, his hot breath fanning over your skin.

“Which means,” He whispers, “No one’s coming to save you, kitten.”

You vow to

Never.

Ever.

Tease him again.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

You guys. When I write smut. It just flows to me so naturally. I never considered myself to be on the perverted side. I don't know if I should be happy or sad at my new hobby. Lol.

hope you enjoyed this :D

Likes and comments are life xx <3

237 notes · View notes

ay0nha · 2 days ago

Text

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.

287 notes · View notes

levanterhaze · 2 days ago

Text

── spring into summer, bangchan

♡ 󠀬󠀬dad!bangchan x actress!reader: angst (a lot of it) and heartbreak.

♡ synopsis ― You left him behind to chase your dreams, your best friend, your first love. Now you're back, and everything's changed. He's a father. You're a star. But some flames never die. Maybe it waits.

♡ [7,6k] & notes ― I would like to express my gratitude for all the love you have shown for this series. I write it with great affection, hoping that you will truly enjoy every word I write. In this chapter, we will learn a little about the protagonist's and Chan's past and what really happened between them. The part in italics refers to their past.

chapters: CHAPTER O1

CHAPTER O2

You never minded being seen in public, but you still took precautions, sunglasses, a cap, anything that made you feel a little less visible. With your disguise in place, you strolled through the downtown streets, picking up candles, party supplies, and a bouquet of flowers.

The florist, someone you remembered from your childhood, recognized you right away.

“My goodness, you’ve grown so much. I always saw you running around with that boy, Chan... Time really does fly.” She smiled warmly, the lines on her face like gentle reminders of passing years.

Chan used to bring you flowers all the time. Daisies. Roses. Lilies. He had always been that way, romantic, attentive, thoughtful. It was one of the many reasons you fell in love with him. He didn’t just love loudly, he loved kindly. The kind of love that wrapped around you like a blanket, that never asked for anything in return. It was steady, devoted, and brave. He would have thrown himself in front of anything to keep you safe.

Years could pass and no one would come close to what you felt in the brief years you were his.

You didn’t regret chasing your dream. You didn’t regret studying, working late into the night, building a name that could be recognized across screens and streets. What you did regret, deeply, was the lie. The way you chose to end it. The story you invented to make him let go. You told yourself it was to protect him. To give him the life he always wanted, one with stability, peace, a future you couldn’t give back then.

You found yourself stopping at a small coffee shop. The kind with soft jazz playing in the background and the smell of roasted beans hugging the air. You ordered an iced americano and settled into a bench by the window.

Outside, the city moved at its usual pace. Strangers passed by, faces you didn’t know, each caught up in their own little story. Couples holding hands. Children skipping along beside tired parents. Friends laughing over shared secrets. Life was happening everywhere, in quiet, ordinary ways.

You looked down at the bouquet beside you. The scent was sweet, but it tightened your stomach. It was the kind of ache that came from memory. The kind that stayed hidden until something soft and lovely pulled it to the surface.

And there it was again, his ghost, lingering in the colors of the petals and the shape of the past you tried to leave behind.

It was a cold winter night, the sky above painted in deep navy blue, scattered with silent stars. The breeze was gentle but sharp, weaving through your hair and brushing against your cheeks like icy fingertips. You stood frozen beneath it, unable to move, your breath the only thing visible as it curled into the night air. Your heart was already aching, even before a single word had been spoken.

Then he appeared in a gray sweatshirt, his messy light brown hair, the tip of his nose reddened by the chill. Chan sat down next to you on the swing in the empty park.

“Hi, baby.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips, so effortlessly gentle. You tried to smile but it came out broken, just a curve of sorrow he didn’t notice.

“Hi.” The word left your mouth like a breath too heavy to carry.

“You wanted to see me, huh?” He grinned, voice bright, carefree. “I was with Felix, but I came as soon as I saw your message.”

He didn’t know. Not yet. To him, this was just another night. To you, it was the end of everything you knew.

”Chan… we need to talk.”

You couldn’t look at him. Your gaze dropped to your lap, to the chipped light pink nail polish on your fingers, anything to avoid his eyes. He frowned, his smile faltering at the sound of your voice.

“It's okay. You can tell me. What happened?”

You swallowed, your breath hitching. Every second stretched longer than it should. You drew in the cold air and tried to find your voice. “I made a decision,” you said. “I… I want to pursue my dream.”

For a moment, his entire face lit up. That bright, proud smile bloomed instantly, the kind that always made your heart flutter. And it shattered you. Because he still believed you meant together. You could feel your chest squeezing tighter.

“That's amazing, baby. I'm proud of you."

You couldn’t speak. There was a lump in your throat so sharp it hurt. Your mouth felt dry, your hands trembling in your lap. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost drowned out the world. When you finally looked at him, tears were already clinging to your lashes. Chan’s smile faded. He reached out to cup your face, his palm warm and soft against your cold skin.

“Hey… what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

You blinked, and the tears began to fall. Slowly at first, then freely, painting your cheeks and dripping onto his hand. “Because… I’m leaving.”

His hand didn’t move. Neither did you. Time seemed to pause, every heartbeat echoing like a crack through your chest. You watched his expression change. Confusion. Pain. Realization.

And then silence. Nothing but the sound of winter and everything falling apart.

It hit Chan like a punch to the stomach, the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs before you can even speak. But he tried. He forced a smile, shaky and faint, before rising and kneeling in front of you. His eyes searched yours, already dimming. You saw it, the sadness tucked behind the corners of his mouth. He didn’t say it, but you knew. You had already disappointed him.

“I received an offer,” you said, voice trembling. “A scholarship. In South Korea.” Your next words barely made it past your lips. “And I accepted.”

He drew in a sharp breath, his chest rising with effort as his heart began to race. But he still nodded, still tried to be strong for you. His laugh was weak, more a breath than a sound.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t cry, okay?” He reached for your hand. “We’ll figure something out. I can visit. Or… I can go with you. Long-distance relationships work. People do it all the time.”

That was the problem. He meant it. Every word. He would leave everything behind if it meant staying by your side. He would give up his university plans, his future here, his family, his dreams of a quiet home and a life built together, just to chase after you. And that kind of love, though beautiful, was too big. Too costly. Too much to ask from someone you loved back.

“You can’t,” you whispered. Your voice broke as you wiped at your tears with the back of your hand.

Chan’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together in confusion. “What do you mean I can’t? Just tell me when, I’ll talk to my parents. They’ll understand. I’ll figure something out and—”

“Chan,” you interrupted, shaking your head slowly. “No.”

His lips parted slightly, disbelief setting in. “No?”

“I don’t… I don’t want you to come with me.” Your eyes met his, and you saw it happen in real time, the way the light faded. The way hope unraveled behind his gaze.

“I don’t understand,” he said, the words tight in his throat. “Why?”

“I’m doing this alone,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart crumbled. “I want things this place can’t give me.”

He stared at you like you’d just betrayed him with the cruelest lie. Like your words had dug into his chest and carved him open.

“What about me?” he whispered. “Does that mean you don’t want me anymore?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. “It’s not…” you tried, but he cut you off.

“Wait. Are you breaking up with me?” There was a humorless laugh in his voice, one that cracked the moment like glass shattering. He leaned back slightly, recoiling from you, as if your touch might burn him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said, your voice raw, your hands shaking. “But I need to be honest.”

“Honest about what?”

Your lips trembled. “Us. It’s over.”

He laughed again. This time it was quieter, broken in a way that hurt more than anger ever could.

“No, it’s not,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not doing this. You’re not.”

“Chan.”

“No. Screw that. Why are you breaking up with me? If it’s because of the trip, I already said I’ll go. I’ll go to freaking Korea, I’ll find work, I’ll study there if I have to. I’ll stay with you. I’ll do anything.”

“It’s not the trip.” You lied. He didn’t see through it.

He took a deep breath, feeling weary, defeated.

“Then what is it? Do you like someone else?”

“What? No,” you said quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just…” You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t say the words that would destroy both of you.

He leaned in, both hands cradling your face, holding you as if you were already slipping away. His eyes searched yours, glassy with tears he refused to let fall.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I would go anywhere with you. For you. I need you to know that.”

You broke. The tears came fast and heavy, streaming down your face as your hands gently wrapped around his, pulling them away from your cheeks. Your heart screamed at you to stop. To stay. To tell him the truth. But instead, you looked him in the eye. And you said it.

”I don't love you anymore.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. And in that moment, you didn’t just break his heart. You shattered the part of yourself that would always belong to him. And then you twisted the dagger in his chest, stabbing him in a place only you had the keys to.

Time stopped. Seconds froze in place, just like your words. Chan looked at you like he was in actual pain. His lips parted again and again, but nothing came out. He let go of your hands like they burned him, stepping back as if trying to find any sign that this was a bluff.

"You don't mean that.” His voice was broken. You were to blame.

“I do,” you whispered. “Please… just don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Tell me it's a lie.” A single tear slid down his cheek. You sniffled, doing everything in your power to keep your own tears from falling. “Tell me this is a joke. Right now.”

“I can’t…” you said, your voice barely there. “Because it’s not.”

His breathing became frantic, struggling to inhale and exhale. He ran a hand through his brown hair, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.. He couldn't believe this was happening. He had made so many plans, and they all included you. He couldn't see a future without you in it. And now the person he loves most simply doesn't love him anymore? What are the possibilities?

“I'm sorry.” You rubbed your hands over your face to wipe away the tears and stood up, the creaking sound of the swing echoing between your broken hearts.

He would never know how much it broke you to do this. Never guess that you were lying straight through your teeth to protect him. That this was love, and it was killing you.

“Hey!” His voice cracked as he rushed after you. He grabbed your wrist and turned you to face him again, forcing your eyes to meet his. Tears clung to his lashes. His breathing was heavy. His nose is red. His voice is nothing more than a desperate whisper. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “If you walk away from me right now, if you do this, I’ll never forgive you.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

In that moment, you swore you could hear the sound of glass shattering, your heart and his breaking at once, splintering into pieces too sharp to ever put back together. It echoed in your chest, your head, your ears. Final. Irreversible.

And still… you turned your back and walked away. Leaving him standing there. Alone. In the dark. With tears in his eyes and a heart split in two.

You broke yourself to protect him and dragged him down with you. And that was something you would never forgive yourself for.

He was inside the car, his head leaning against the seat while listening to soft music on the radio. In half an hour, Yuna would be leaving her ballet class, and he would take her home, cook dinner, and spend another night with his daughter, reading stories and watching cartoon shows on TV.

That’s when the sound of rain pulled him from his thoughts. At first, it was just a few fine droplets tapping against the car window. Then, within seconds, they turned into heavy, thick drops that blurred everything outside. Chan sat up and quickly reached to close the window, but something caught his attention. It was you, running for shelter from the rain, two bags clutched in your hands. You looked flustered and out of breath, your clothes already soaked through, clinging to your body. He cursed under his breath. He knew he shouldn’t, but his heart moved before reason could catch up.

He cursed under his breath, knowing he shouldn't, but his heart spoke louder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered to himself.

You stopped beneath a tree, trying to use one of the bags to shield your head. The effort was useless. With a frustrated sigh, you gave up and started walking again, slowly now, careful on the slick sidewalk.

Chan rolled the window down fully and raised his voice over the sound of the rain. “Hey, get in the car.”

You froze. Your eyes squinted against the downpour as you tried to make out who had spoken. For a moment, you hesitated. But the rain didn’t. It kept falling harder, soaking you further. He reached over and unlocked the door. You climbed in quickly, tossed the bags to the floor, and shut the door with a sharp exhale. Your teeth clenched as you pushed damp strands of hair away from your face.

Water trickled down your cheeks, your neck, and clung to your skin. Chan stared for a beat too long, his brows furrowed in concern and something else he wasn’t ready to name. Without thinking, he shrugged off the jacket he was wearing and draped it over your shoulders. You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance. He kept his eyes forward, like he hadn’t just crossed a line he swore he wouldn’t.

“Thanks,” you murmured, wiping your face with your palm.

You pushed your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck and collarbone. Chan glanced, and then looked again. He couldn’t help it. The way your skin glistened from the rain, the way the warmth of the car painted your cheeks in that soft flush, it tugged at a memory he hadn’t let himself revisit. He remembered exactly what your skin felt like under his fingertips. He remembered the curve of your jaw, the way your breath hitched when he leaned in just a little too close.

He clenched his jaw and stared out the windshield instead, breathing slowly. He wanted to reach out, to trace that same line down your neck, to brush your hair back again just so he could see more. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Then your eyes caught his, just before he could look away. You frowned.

“What were you looking at?”

He almost let a smirk slip, but buried it beneath a stony expression. “Nothing.”

“You were staring.”

“You’re not that interesting,” he shot back flatly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Your lips parted in disbelief, a flush of anger rising through your chest and neck, burning hot under your skin.

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I probably would too, if I were you. But could you just… not be like this? Just for a moment?” Your voice cracked slightly, but you kept going. “Since I got here, you've been treating me like some intruder. Like I’m this awful reminder you wish you could erase.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just kept his eyes fixed on the window, watching the city blur past.

“You’re not making it easy for anyone,” he muttered.

That was it. Cold, final, like a closed door. He wasn’t going to budge. He would never soften, never let you in. He’d just keep shutting you out, making you question everything. Without another word, you reached down and unbuckled your seat belt, fingers trembling with frustration. Maybe walking in the rain would hurt less than sitting there, being torn apart in silence.

“You’re not serious.” He moved before you could open the door, slamming it shut with one hand. Rain drummed hard against the roof above you, wild and relentless.

“Let me out,” you snapped, gripping the handle over his hand. Your skin brushed his, and your whole body tensed. A jolt ran up your arm, and you hated the way it made your breath catch. He felt it too. You saw it in the slight pause of his movement, in the twitch of his jaw.

“You’ll freeze out there.” His voice came low and tight, rough around the edges.

“So what?” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure building inside you. “Do you even care? It doesn’t matter to you anyway.”

Chan didn’t answer. He just stood there, holding the door… and your hand. You tried pulling away, tried opening the door again, but your body betrayed you. You were shaking, your breaths turning uneven. This whole thing felt stupid, desperate and humiliating. Your hand slowly moved up to your face as the burn in your throat rose to meet the sting behind your eyes. Chan flinched, his chest tightening at the sight.

You were crying. His heart sank as he watched your shoulders tremble. You turned away, both hands hiding your face as your sobs filled the small space between you. It was like something inside you had cracked open.

He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t run from it.

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out rough, lower than usual, but there was no doubt it was sincere. “That’s not what I meant.”

You shook your head, voice broken between sobs. “Yes, it is. Of course it is. You hate me—and I get it. I deserve it. I’m awful, I left, I said things I can’t take back… and you’re right to hate me, but…”

Chan reached across the space and gently touched your wrist, grounding you with his presence. “I don’t hate you.”

You were a mess, flushed, soaked in tears, but still the most heartbreakingly beautiful woman he had ever seen. It was ridiculous how that had never changed.

“Be serious,” you whispered.

“I am.”

You both stared at each other, suspended in the moment. Neither of you knew what to say next or what that admission really meant. You sniffled, wiping your tears with trembling fingers, questions swelling in your chest. Had he really asked about you all this time? Did he know your address in Seoul? Did any of it still matter to him?

Before either of you could speak, a wave of laughter and excited voices floated through the cracked car window. Your attention shifted as you spotted a group of children across the street under colorful umbrellas. The rain had started to fade into a light drizzle.

And there she was, Yuna, safe and smiling beneath the cover of a teacher’s umbrella.

Chan blinked hard and exhaled as he unbuckled his seat belt. You watched him step into the rain, holding the umbrella low under his arm. He crossed the street, crouched down, and scooped his daughter into his arms. Reality hit like a punch to the chest. He had a life. A routine. A daughter who adored him. A home to go back to. And you? You were just a reminder of something that used to be.

By the time he returned, Yuna’s face lit up when she saw you in the car. She clapped her hands and giggled, calling your name like she’d been waiting for you all day. You barely managed a smile as you turned, watching Chan quietly buckle her into the car seat.

Yuna beamed back at you, her little legs swinging in excitement beneath her ballet outfit. "Daddy, did you bring the princess to see me?"

Chan glanced at you for a split second, then looked away without answering.

You kept your voice soft. "Hi, sweetie. It's good to see you."

Yuna bounced in her seat, still glowing. "Daddy, can the princess come over for dinner? I want to show her my dolls!"

You couldn't help but smile at her innocence, at how effortlessly she shared her joy. Her little voice, so full of hope, made something squeeze in your chest. Chan swallowed hard beside you, clearly caught off guard. You could tell he was scrambling for a way to gently decline without breaking his daughter’s heart.

But he said nothing. Just silence. Waiting, maybe, for you to do it instead. He didn't want you in his house. That much was obvious. Not with his daughter. Not with his wife. This moment, even if innocent, wasn’t supposed to happen.

So you smiled and leaned forward slightly. "Hey, cutie. I’d love to, but I can’t make it today. I can’t wait to meet them though."

Yuna’s shoulders dropped a little. She made a soft noise of protest and waved her arms in disappointment. "Promise?"

"I promise," you said, offering her a pinky through the seats. She took it seriously and grinned again.

Chan got into the driver’s seat, checking the rearview mirror where his daughter giggled and squirmed in her seat. Then his eyes met yours again. But the smile you'd worn had already faded as you looked ahead. He didn’t say a word. Just started the car. The ride to your parents’ house was filled with Yuna’s cheerful chatter. She told him all about her ballet class, the music, the snacks, her friend who wore a sparkly tutu. Chan listened intently, asking questions, nodding at her excitement. And something in you twisted.

It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. It was envy. Because that could’ve been your life. And no matter how close you were right now, it felt miles away.

When he parked the car, you turned to Yuna and blew her a kiss. She caught it in her hands and pressed it to her cheek with a shy giggle. You glanced at Chan, hoping for a trace of softness, but his focus stayed on the windshield like you weren’t even there. You gathered your bags and opened the door. The rain had stopped and everything was damp but quiet.

“Thanks for the ride.” You mumbled before closing the door.

You were already halfway up the steps when you heard your name. You paused, not sure if you imagined it. Then again, louder this time. You turned. Chan had rolled down the passenger window. His expression was unreadable, his tone flat.

"Are you free tomorrow afternoon?"

You blinked, surprised. "Um… yes. Why?"

“'Two pm. In the park.”

That was all he said before driving off. No explanation. No smile. Just a cloud of confusion left in his wake.

At two in the afternoon, you arrived at the park. The day was beautiful, cool and sunny, as if the rain from the night before had never happened. Children filled the playground with laughter, running up the slide, tumbling down, their voices echoing in the open space.

From a distance, the first thing you noticed was a head of long blond hair, neck-length and shining in the sunlight. You narrowed your eyes to be sure, your heart picking up speed. It had to be Felix. And just as you suspected, Chan was standing beside him, arms crossed as they talked about something quietly.

“Felix?” You called out to him.

Both of them turned toward you. As soon as Felix recognized you, his face lit up and he opened his arms wide with that same radiant smile you remembered so well. Without hesitation, you walked into his embrace, laughing softly.

“Look who escaped from the big screen to see us!” he said, holding you tightly and longer than expected.

“It’s so good to see you. My God, it’s been forever.”

He looked just the same, maybe even better. Handsome, almost angelic, his warmth just as infectious as it had always been.

“It’s good to see you too. I almost didn’t believe it when Chan told me you were in town.”

You caught a glimpse of Chan watching silently from the side. He didn’t smile, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

“Well, here I am.”

Felix’s expression turned hopeful. “And how long are you staying? We’ve got to go out for a drink or something.” He nodded toward Chan, who barely acknowledged it, simply offering the smallest nod of agreement.

”Just two weeks.“ You smiled, feeling the weight of time passing in your words.

“We’ve still got time. I gotta run now, duty calls. But hey, I’ve got the bar now. You’ve got to stop by. I’d love that.”

“Of course, Lix. Let’s make it happen.”

He pulled you into one last hug, squeezing you affectionately before heading off with his usual bright energy, waving as he walked away. Once he disappeared down the street, the quiet between you and Chan wrapped around you like a heavy coat. You slipped your hands into your pockets and drew in a slow breath.

“So… any particular reason you asked me to come here?”

Chan turned to face you, and it took a moment for you to steady your breathing. He looked effortlessly beautiful. His hair had grown longer, curling gently at the ends, especially where it brushed the back of his neck. You tried not to stare.

“There’s someone who wants to see you,” he said.

You blinked, confused. But before you could ask, a small figure came running toward you across the grass. Yuna wore a flowery dress and her face lit up with pure joy when she saw you. She ran straight into your arms and you instinctively knelt down, wrapping her in a warm hug. Her tiny arms went around your neck as she giggled, and you kissed her soft cheek.

Before you could say a word, she took your hand eagerly and began pulling you along. “Come on, princess, let’s build a castle!”

Chan sat on the bench with his arms crossed, watching the two of you for the next forty minutes. He told himself to keep a straight face, to resist the growing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. But the truth was, he couldn’t.

You sat with your ankles buried in the warm sand, Yuna beside you, both of you covered in it from head to toe. Her toys were scattered around, half-buried and forgotten except for one mission: build the biggest sandcastle possible. She had declared it like it was royal law, handing you a tiny pink shovel with full authority.

“Let’s dig, princess,” she said solemnly, her brow furrowed like a little commander.

“Leave it to me, your highness.” You gave her a theatrical bow, gripping the small shovel and diving into the task with exaggerated commitment, carving a moat around the half-built structure.

Chan ran his hand through the back of his neck, definitely not smiling at the scene before him.

And as quick as the blink of an eye, you were getting up to brush the accumulated sand off your lap, and tragedy struck. You tripped over the sand bucket and fell. Face first into the sand. There was a beat of silence before Yuna let out a shriek of laughter. She kicked her feet and clapped, delighted by the sight of you flopped in the sand.

“I’m okay. I’m fine,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, spitting out a bit of grit.

“You fell!” Yuna gasped between fits of laughter. Then she tilted her head and added gleefully, “You fell like a pancake!”

You stood, brushing sand from your hair, your clothes, even your eyelashes.

“Well, good thing pancakes are awesome,” you said with a grin, joining her in laughter.

Glancing back toward the bench, you caught Chan failing miserably at holding in his amusement.

“Yah!” he called out, grinning now. “You alright over there, or should I call for backup?”

“I’m fine,” you replied, pouting as you rolled your eyes. That was it, he broke. Laughter spilled out of him as he leaned back against the bench, unable to keep it in.

You sat back down beside Yuna, both of you returning to your castle, determined to finish it. By the time it was done, the sun had begun to dip low in the sky, casting golden hues across the park. Yuna had started yawning, blinking slower, and rubbing her eyes with sandy hands no matter how many times you gently stopped her. When the sky turned soft and peach-colored, you scooped her up. Her tiny arms wrapped around your neck and her head rested against your shoulder without a word. You carried her across the sand, like a sleepy little koala, toward where Chan was waiting. And for a brief moment, the three of you felt like something whole. Something that almost could’ve been.

“I think her battery ran out,” you said with a soft laugh, gently brushing your fingers through Yuna’s dark hair, tied back with a fluffy yellow scrunchie.

Chan stood up, instinctively reaching to take her from you, but you looked at him, something hopeful flickering in your eyes.

“Is it okay if I carry her a little longer?”

He paused for a moment. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

And just like that, the two of you found yourselves walking side by side down the quiet, tree-lined streets of your old neighborhood. The air was cool and smelled faintly of grass and rain, and Yuna lay nestled in your arms, still barely awake. She clutched a small stuffed bunny to her chest, letting out a yawn every few steps, her eyelids drooping further each time. Chan didn’t say much, but he kept glancing at her with soft eyes, each look filled with affection. It was the kind of quiet tenderness that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. You noticed the way her tired smile would return whenever she felt his gaze on her.

He didn't say anything, just kept walking with you, his hands in his pockets. Then Yuna's sandal slipped off, and he ran to pick it up, with an incredible reflex that only parents have.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes flicking to yours briefly.

“Yes,” you said with a small breath. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“You sure?” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You gave him a look and smiled. “Are you calling me weak?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, but didn’t answer.

Before long, you reached his front gate. The garden outside was small but clearly well cared for, the kind of place that made a house feel like a home. You stopped there, hesitating for a moment. He looked at you cautiously, then turned his attention to Yuna. He reached out and gently lifted her from your arms, holding her against his chest with practiced ease, making sure not to wake her.

You watched as her cheek pressed against his shoulder, peaceful and safe.

“Well, I...” you began, unsure of what to say next.

He looked at you, eyes searching. “Do you wanna...”

You both spoke at once. Chan let out a quiet breath, like he had been holding it in for longer than he realized. You smiled, a soft, genuine curve of your lips that felt strangely natural, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked. “You’re covered in sand.”

You hesitated, shaking your head quickly. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not,” he replied simply. “I’m inviting you.”

You raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “Won’t her mom be upset if she sees me here?”

There was a short pause. He glanced at the door, then unlocked it.

“No.”

You frowned. His wife must be a saint, then. Because you couldn’t imagine many people welcoming an ex-girlfriend into their home. Still, this was Chan. If he said it was fine, you trusted him.

He entered the house and you followed him. The house was warm. Lived in. A few toys scattered about. A pair of pink socks near the stairs. Chan gently placed Yuna on the couch, tucking her bunny under her chin as she shifted sleepily, her tiny mouth falling open in the most peaceful way.

“She could sleep through a tornado,” he said with a small laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead as he passed you. “Want some coffee?”

You nodded. ‘Sure.’

He pointed down the hall. “Bathroom’s that way, if you want to wash up.”

You thanked him and made your way down the hallway, your footsteps quiet against the floor. The bathroom was just as neat as the rest of the house, everything in its place. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and shook your head lightly, sending grains of sand tumbling from your hair. Then you brushed the rest off your clothes and splashed cold water on your face, watching it trickle down into the porcelain sink.

That was when you noticed it. Two toothbrushes. One small, bright, and clearly Yuna’s. The other, plain and adult-sized. Your brows furrowed slightly. Just two. No third.

You weren’t trying to pry, and you certainly didn’t want to overstep but something about that small detail tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You took a quiet breath and stepped back into the hallway. It wasn’t your place to ask. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to know the answer.

You hadn’t noticed it right away, but Chan’s house was surprisingly spacious. It made sense, though. A child like Yuna needed room, space to scatter her toys, space to grow, space to let her happiness echo through the walls. Under the stairs sat a piano, slightly dusty, but clearly used from time to time. You remembered him taking lessons back in high school. He had been so determined for a while, though he never followed through. Life had a way of changing people when you weren’t looking.

The sliding door to the backyard creaked as it opened, and you went outside. The sun was already golden, casting long shadows on the grass. A small plastic slide stood crooked in the yard, and the sound of the coffee machine hummed inside.

A few minutes later, he joined you, two mugs in hand. He handed you one and sat down next to you on the wooden bench. For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sipped in silence, breathing in the scent of the afternoon air and roasted beans.

“I didn't expect you to be good with her,” he said finally, his eyes still fixed on the backyard fence.

You looked at him, surprised. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “You used to trip over your own feet trying to put on your backpack.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “I've evolved.”

“Evolved,” he murmured.

Silence again. But it's not awkward. Just... kind.

The quiet returned, but it felt easy now, like an old rhythm neither of you had forgotten. You looked at him more closely. His jaw wasn’t so tight anymore. His shoulders, always tense when you first saw him again, had relaxed. There was something lighter in his expression. Not happiness exactly, but something close. Something like peace.

“I like being around her,” you said softly, playing with the handle of your mug. “She reminds me of you.”

He turned his head slightly. “How so?”

You smiled at the thought. “She's stubborn. Bossy. Ridiculously charming.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds dangerous.”

“But,” you continued, “she’s also sweet. Protective. Brave.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on his coffee, lost in thought, the silence stretching comfortably between you.

The sliding door creaked behind you as a breeze blew through, and for a split second, he leaned a little closer to you. Just a little. But enough for you to feel the change in the air.

“She likes you,” he said at last, his voice low. “Thanks for spending time with her.”

You offered a small shrug, brushing your fingers along the ceramic mug. “You don’t need to thank me. The feeling’s mutual. She’s... impossible not to fall for.”

Chan didn’t reply. But when you glanced at him, you caught the way his eyes had settled on you, not guarded, not distant, just quietly focused. Like he was seeing you for the first time in a long while. Like some memory he’d tried to bury had surfaced despite him.

There was something rare about this moment, something soft and unspoken. Just the two of you, sitting side by side with no weight of the past pressing down, no demands or expectations. You knew it wouldn't last. Moments like this never did. But that only made it more precious.

When the breeze turned cooler, Chan stood to make more coffee, and you followed him into the kitchen. The mugs were refilled, the scent of roasted beans wrapping around the quiet space. Outside, the backyard lights glowed faintly through the glass, casting gentle reflections across the counter. Yuna was still curled on the sofa, her small frame tucked tight, clutching her bunny like a lifeline. A lock of hair clung to her cheek, and she shifted slightly, making a soft sound in her sleep.

You leaned against the counter, ankles crossed, eyes fixed on her with a quiet smile. “I still can’t believe she knocked out like that.”

“She always does,” Chan said, sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, one foot touching the floor. “She goes full chaos mode, then crashes like someone flipped a switch.”

You laughed softly. “She’s amazing, Chan.”

He looked down, smiling in that modest way of his. “She’s... everything.”

The words hung in the air between you, warm and honest.

You turned to face him, lifting your mug slightly. “So... how’s life treating you? Besides the whole dad stuff.”

He blinked, as if the question had surprised him. Then he smiled faintly. “Dad stuff takes up a lot.”

“I bet,” you said with a quiet smile, then added more seriously, “But really. What have you been up to?”

Chan ran a hand through his hair, his voice a little rough now, worn down by the long day.

“I teach music,” he said. “At a private school. Guitar and piano, mostly. A bit of theory, some practice. Nothing glamorous.”

Your eyebrows lifted, genuinely surprised. “That actually suits you.”

He chuckled, tilting his head. ‘You think so?’

You nodded. “You always looked the most at ease with a guitar in your hands.”

A faint smile touched his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s... peaceful,” he said. “Predictable. Safe.” He paused, then added, “That’s where I met Hana. Yuna’s mom. She used to work there.”

“Oh.” It slipped out before you could stop it. You cleared your throat, adjusting your grip on the mug. “That's nice.”

You never thought you'd be having a casual conversation about the mother of Chan’s child. And yet, here you were. Hana. The name sat oddly in your mind. You wondered what kind of woman she was. Judging by Yuna’s smile, she was probably beautiful, the kind of beauty that stole breath and turned heads. Maybe she was the type of woman people gravitated toward without even realizing. You also wondered if he had loved her the way he once loved you or if it was something steadier. Something built more on trust than passion. Maybe building a life with someone required a different kind of love. Maybe he found happiness in that. The kind you could never have given him.

He said nothing more. He just took a sip of coffee and nodded slowly, the weight of something unsaid passing briefly between you. The way he spoke of her, neutral, factual, without affection, made you curious to know more.

He looked at you then. “And you?”

That simple question softened something in your chest. You let out a breath, a small smile blooming on your lips as you leaned back against the counter, mug still warm between your fingers.

“It’s... intense,” you began. “I work a lot. No fixed schedule. No time to breathe most days.” He was listening, really listening, his coffee forgotten in his hands. “But I love it,” you said, your voice glowing with quiet excitement. “Becoming a different person, even for a little while, and making people feel something real. It’s chaotic, exhausting, terrifying sometimes... but God, Chan. It’s everything I dreamed of. I feel alive.”

He didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on you, but not exactly, it was more like he was caught up in the glare of something.

“I finished filming a movie last month,” you said, your voice softer now. “Nothing flashy, but... it meant a lot to me.” Then you caught yourself, lips twitching in embarrassment. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. He leaned forward just a little, as if your words pulled him in without permission. “Don’t stop.”

You looked at him then. Really looked at him. Then you smiled.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, the kitchen changed. Or maybe it was just the light above the sink, casting a warm, golden hue over the tiles and countertops, softening the world around you. Or the fact that he hadn’t blinked once while you were speaking like he was afraid the moment might disappear if he looked away. A current moved through the quiet, slow and heavy like honey. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his fingers began tapping lightly against the side of his mug. And for one insane, fleeting moment, he thought about kissing you. Right there between the hum of the fridge and the quiet breath of his daughter.

He imagined it: your lips, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, tasting of coffee and memories. The way his hand might hover near your jaw before finding the courage to touch. How the ache between you might dissolve into something simpler, something whole. He blinked, and the thought evaporated with the steam curling up between your cups.

He blinked and the thought disappeared, dissipating in the steam between their mugs.

“You really did it,” he said finally, voice hushed, almost reverent. “You went and made it happen.”

You softened at the sound of his voice. “Yes.”

He’d spent so long resenting the version of you that lived behind a screen. The one who smiled in interviews. The one whose face popped up in trailers he refused to watch. That you were easy to turn off. Easy to hate. But this version standing barefoot in his kitchen, mug in hand, heart soft in your chest, this one, he didn’t know how to hate.

It was getting late.

Neither of you said it, but it hung between you like a thin thread pulling taut. You glanced over your shoulder at Yuna, still curled up on the couch like a question mark, bunny pressed to her cheek. Then you set your mug down, slowly.

“I should go.”

Chan slowly got up, placing his mug on the table. “Yeah... I'll walk you out.”

You tiptoed past the little girl, careful not to stir the peace of the room, and slipped your coat from the armchair. When he opened the door, the night greeted you, crisp and scented with pine and something sweet, like honeysuckle trailing from a neighbor’s fence. You passed him on your way out, your arm brushing his. Neither of you moved away.

You stepped out onto the porch together. Everything was quiet. The kind of silence that echoes in your ears.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked at you like he was still back in the kitchen, still somewhere inside that memory that hadn’t even fully formed. Then he blinked, his expression softening like thawing ice.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being with her. For being... here.”

You smiled, your breath forming little clouds in the cold.

Your breath came out in small clouds now, floating like ghosts between you. You didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, or how to say goodbye, so you followed instinct instead. You stepped forward and hugged him. It was brief. Your hand ran lightly across his shoulder. But his body stiffened in surprise, and for a second, just one, his arm twitched toward you, as if fighting muscle memory, as if his chest remembered holding you before his brain could catch up.

When you pulled back, he was looking at you again. But this time, his gaze didn’t stop at your eyes. It fell slowly to your mouth. The distance between you was barely a breath. And in that breath lived every question neither of you had asked. Every kiss you didn’t get to steal. If he leaned in now, if he let the years and guilt and fear dissolve would it break something, or fix it?

He didn’t find out.

You walked toward the garden, the cold nipping at your skin, but you didn’t care. Not tonight. Your heart was warm enough. And it was still beating, hard and alive, full of something that almost but not quite, felt like hope.

♡ taglist: @strsforjsb @robinnotgood24 @kannaexe @idiotmaterial @iovecb97 @inejghafawifesblog @hash2013 @skzfangirl143 @gncbnahc @stay3096 @starjely @alisonyus @mangalovesanime-blog @hanniebunch @nikatsuuu @downingmorphine @woopdeedoopdeedoop @tsunderelino @lomllino @lisaskz @sadgvddess @skzswife @hissnoopy @lee-knows-cats @lixies-favorite-cookie @hash2013 @11thenightwemet11 @hanadulsetaad @alondra6011 @skinnyjeans-tanktops @ilovvesleepp @hyunetopia @maddy24207

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sailingintothenight · 3 days ago

Text

"The girl in his eyes." Bob Reynolds Imagine.

(Not my gif but give a prize to the people who make them)

Summary: Time together created feelings in the two of you. One night, the group tries to get him and you to talk about it, with John urging Bob to talk about "the girl in his eyes." And that creates a big misunderstanding.

A/N: Just a kind of short imagine (around 4K words) cause I'm new here and I don't want to go on too long and bore you all in case this is boring. I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors. But something I always knew but I accepted today is that some of us write the kind of love we'd like to receive, right? The kind we sometimes can't find, though other did find, I hope. However, in the meantime, don't forget to love yourself please. As a warning, a little angst(?) but with a happy ending! and the word "drug." I think that's all, thanks!

“Lena, did you see (Y/N)—”

The last letter of your name drops to a whisper as Bob stops in front of the long couch, Yelena’s finger pressed against her own lips to silence him, a potato chip sandwiched between her other two before she pops it into her mouth, the bag in her lap, and her full attention back on the phone in her other hand.

She’s sitting diagonally, her back between the cushion behind her and the armrest, her left knee bent down as it falls off the edge to the floor, but it’s the other one that has Bob pressing his lips together as he films this version of you with his bluest gaze, the memory searing itself into his mind. You’re there, asleep, lying sideways on the comfy, fluffy cushions, part of your head on the outside of Yelena’s thigh, a front strand of your hair now falling over your closed eyelids and the border of your nose.

And it's soft for Bob, that image of you, and overwhelming only in the way it forces him to swallow the lump forming in his throat as his feelings pile up inside.

"You need anything, Bob?" Yelena's pointed gaze moves from the paused TikTok video (a cat staring at the camera, a flashbulb fired in right in its face), chuckling as the animal's expression still lingers in her mind, and frozen on her phone—the white feline silhouette and wide–open eyes—she shows it to him. "Have you watched this video?"

Bob nods, and the sound of him trying to clear his throat (so his words don't falter mid–sentence as he knows they will) accompanies the action.

"Yeah, (Y/N) sent it to me a few days ago."

"It's so funny." She laughs softly, and her full attention is on to the device again, finger sliding across the screen after saving it to favorites, bringing another chip to her mouth. “That cat is so silly.”

But like a cry, Bob whimpers softly, the tiniest sound in the silence.

“You’re dropping crumbs in her hair, Lena.”

Yelena stops, her gaze sliding from her phone to him and then back down to you, and her slightly oily hand catches the crispy piece that had gotten caught in the strands.

“Relax, Bob. This is the price (Y/N) is paying for using me. She knows it. We shook hands. Now, do you need anything? Or someone, maybe?”

There’s a hint of healthy mockery in her smile, a silent challenge in her tone of voice that’s urging him to answer only with the truth everyone already sees, but the featherweight of her joke feels like lead in his chest and in his nervous hands, covered by a layer of clothing one size too big for Bob.

“No, just… I finished reading a book and thought (Y/N) would be here ready to—”

But there was nothing afterward, just lying there together, in the same bed before sleeping, on extreme sides so as not to cross boundaries but to keep each other company before loneliness settled in every room, when it sometimes forced Bob to wake up with a gasp and a foggy mind filled with traumatic experiences, talking about books or things.

But perhaps it was the words left unspoken between you two before sleeping (hidden among the ones you did say: goodnight and sleep well), the ones you two avoided saying and pushed aside, along with the feelings that lived dormant in the darkness and accumulated inside each other—the things you both were dying to say but neither of you dared for fear that the already solid pillars of your friendship would crumble because of something as unstable as love.

Yelena waits a second longer, but there is no response from the other end.

“The team and I were talking about you tw—”

Bob knows what it is, the favorite topic on everyone's lips.

“You guys talk a lot, maybe you should shut up for a while. Silence is good sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes, an exasperated look following her action.

“Help me out here for a while, will you? I have a cramp and need to stretch.”

Bob swallows, eyes slightly wide at the prospect of feeling that kind of closeness with you, the kind that comes so quickly it makes him dizzy and ignites the heat in his cheeks sharply. The warmth of your hand, he felt it before, many times, a casual or intentional touch, and it was scorching (like when the supermarket was crowded and the crush of people unnerved him sometimes, for example, so your fingers would close around his and his hand would squeeze yours), as if it could ignite a forest fire inside him, so wild it seemed it could burn everything… but everything bad, of course—like the enemy in his thoughts, his insecurities, his fears, his nightmares.

He didn't even want to think about what it would feel like to feel the heat of your cheek.

But he did.

Bob had imagined it several times already. In a burst of bravery, with his heart beating faster than a drug high, his thumb would slide down your soft cheek, fingers hooking gently around the edge of your jaw.

"Bob?"

"What?"

Yelena drops her things into the armrest, her hand cupping the bottom of your head.

“Put your leg here, Bob.”

He shakes his head fast, his own heartbeat increasing with the fear and excitement that mix, so close that the line between them blurs, and his somewhat messy, wild hair moves with him.

“I don’t think—”

“Three…”

“What are you—?”

“Two…”

“Lena—”

“One.”

Bob takes a step forward, hands outstretched to stop her without a word, a silent plea in his eyes for her to do nothing, even though Yelena hadn't moved an inch and wasn't planning to either. And with a deep inhalation and exhalation, a failed attempt to fill his lungs with cold air and soothe the heat settling in his chest, Bob switches places with her, even more gentle as you shift in your sleep, your hands close to your face and your cheek now on his leg, covered by his gray sleep pants, but which seem like the finest fabric in the world when Bob feels your heat radiate through your skin until it meets his, every nerve ending.

"You're adorable, Bob." Yelena laughs quietly, but there's not a hint of cruel mockery in her words—never with him—and she leans back on the second–long sofa, phone in her hand again. "Like those boys in her books. Such a gentleman. I know why she likes you so much."

Likes you, being in love—two different scenarios if the feelings on either side were unequal. Either a chasm separated those two feelings, or the first could be the path to get to the other.

“Did I do something wrong to make her not like me anymore?”

The weight of self–doubt about a topic as distant and still foreign to him as love (next to his insecurities) try to bring down the confidence Bob was still trying to build little by little, day by day, and Yelena can see them shining clearly in his gaze as he finally holds hers, even in the dim living room light at night, searching for an answer he can't find within himself, not when there's a thick fog between the truth and him.

“What do you mean?”

Bob shrugs.

“(Y/N) is always here with me, but absent at the same time, as if something has suddenly changed between us.”

“You’re overthinking things, Bob.”

There’s affection in Yelena’s words, and they are warm in their attempt to reassure him of a truth hidden among his fears, but he lets out a small sound, something like a laugh without a hint of humor. Just an empty noise.

“Overthinking sometimes allows you to see the smallest things.”

“Like what?”

Bob can see it in his sometimes fragmented mind, every moment together and the way you changed, slowly, with him always next to you but finding solitude where there was only company, a touch of emptiness when there was always life in your eyes everytime you looked at him.

He doesn't know exactly how to explain any of that, and Yelena nods thoughtfully.

"Why don't you try to think about what exactly you did then? We have a while until the losers arrive with dinner. I'm going to be here with you, but ignoring you at the same time, okay?"

Catching his slight nod, Yelena turns on the couch, face close to the cushion and her phone in between, indistinct sounds from the videos, set to low volume, floating around him so the absolute silence doesn't completely consume him with the severity of his thoughts.

Bob lowers his head and his gaze rests on you, listening to the sound of your slow breathing as, in your sleep, your body relaxed, at peace. The curve of your lips is tempting, and he lifts the hand resting in his lap to push that strand of hair away from your face and place it where it belongs.

There, above your eyebrow and with nothing covering it now, Bob can see the only physical reminder of the fall of a whole building when your self–control overflowed at the edge of your anger. And like a tiny crack in a surface, the small scar has a slightly different hue than your skin, but it was an imperfection that only makes you even more perfect, more real, a whole person and not a cruel dream from which Bob always wakes up before reaching.

Just like that, your presence in his life became a need.

You were the proof that he was still alive after the unbearable pain, (knowing all have been worth it because he met you) and that his heart hadn't turned to tin. He was still breathing, his heart was still beating, and for the first time, he'd finally felt the nervous tingle, the fluttering of being in love.

Love, so silent you don't even know you have it until you're full of it.

Love, a silent feeling in a room full of euphoria, and at the same time, it's like an alarm that goes off and no one but him and you can hear.

To be close to you, with you, every day, that’s all Bob wanted at the beginning. But almost selfishly, the passage of time together made him greedy, wanting more from you, a different smile than you had for others, a new kind of laugh, escalating until all his thoughts were about you, daydreaming about how to shake off his title of friend and crown himself with a different one.

It was a silent plea, a hope. It became a desire that made him company through his sleepless nights…

“You need to be direct with her.” Alexei had said a few weeks ago in the kitchen, when the hands of the clock showed it was very late at night. “Your words must be deep enough to cut like a knife in the heart.”

Bob didn’t even know how he’d ended up in that secret meeting, when all he’d wanted to do was grab a late–night snack from the fridge to leave on your nightstand after you’d joked, somewhat embarrassingly, that you did that sometimes. But, confused and slightly scared, his eyebrows furrowed in surprise as the rest of the men stared at the red guardian and his constantly failing attempt to explain himself properly.

“Maybe not so direct.” Walker shook his head, the usual mocking tone in his voice. “How about you just tell her in small hints instead of trying to draw blood? You can hint that you like her, but without actually saying I like you.”

Bob blinked, confused, the information coming in too fast as he tried to take it all in.

“Like what?”

Bucky wag his head softly.

“Ask her to teach you how to do things you know she likes. She will feel that you are interested in her.”

And that was exactly what Bob did.

Now, when the doors of the elevator open and some really loud voices pierce the room, Bob’s natural protective instinct, (the one that was born in him the first time he took care of his father after witnessing his first blackout) makes his hand, a second after the resounding sound, move fast to press it against your ear, blocking out the laugh coming from the men.

As a reflex, your body moves in your sleep, but your awakening is less abrupt with his help.

You get up slowly, your mind and gaze blurred as Yelena leaves the living room, patting Bob on the shoulder on her way to the dining room. The edges of your gaze darken after rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands, the pleasant sting creeping around as you chuckle.

“Did I sleep so much I forgot I was lying on your leg?”

Bob chuckles too, and an invisible thread pulls the corner of his lip upward.

“You slept so long that Lena’s leg went numb. Just like mine.”

You let out a surprised laugh, your body slumping back against the backrest.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you know I’m always here for you.”

“Kids, dinner!”

Alexei’s voice fills the room.

At the same time, as a reflection that you both can’t avoid in time when instinct wins, Bob and you move your bodies to look over your shoulders, heads turning in the same direction, finding yourselves at what your mother used to call, at the perfect distance of a kiss. Bob is so close you can almost drink his breath, stopping yours when his blue gaze holds yours for an eternal second that finish too quickly but that feels endless too, watching each other's eyes before you both separate, looking forward as a nervous feeling fills your heart.

You walk away first, finding an empty spot next to Ava.

“Dad, will you stop calling us to the table like we’re real kids?” Yelena complains, sitting at one of the heads of the food–laden table as Bob sits in the chair across from you. “Someone here is older than life.”

The rest chuckle, not too loudly.

“But you’re my kids. Now, let’s have dinner like family.”

At some point, there is a back—and—forth conversation around, about a past relationship for some of them, somehow empty, never too deep because talking once about the future they hoped and never got to feel is enough for everybody, but always accompanied by soft laughter that makes the tower feel like a real home after some lost it or never had it in the first place.

“So… what’s your type of man, (Y/N)?” Yelena chuckles, and the sound is full of her genuine affection for you, but it hides too her desire to steer the conversation in a way that Bob can be somehow included in your words. “You’re always reading, so you must have a type. Maybe someone here is just like that.”

The others feign innocence, but the possibility stirs in Bob’s body with a heartbeat that’s too fast, eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion, in expectation, and with a certain weight of worry about not hearing a promising answer.

“Who?” Ava laughs also knowingly, with a certain disdain at thinking of the others and you that way too, and her finger points at Alexei. “Too old.” Then at Bucky. “Way too old.” Finally, at John. “Too much of an idiot. That leaves just Bob.”

Bob swallows at the sound of his name, so abruptly that the food in his mouth makes his expression twist slightly in pain.

The others, expectant, continue waiting.

You clear your throat, your heart pounding against your chest as if it were seeking its own freedom and a way out of a situation that seems unlikely to end well.

“The usual, I guess, just… a nice guy.”

“Oh, come on, that’s not fun.” John grins, malice bubbling up as if he needs to embarrass someone at least once a day to survive. “You could be more specific, like Bob. Right now there is a girl in his eyes so he could tell us what she’s like, describe her so much until we’re bored.”

Bob's gaze meets yours, barely a second before you look away when Bucky speaks.

“I think that’s enough with the jokes, huh?”

But then, to everyone’s surprise and his own, Bob speaks, and with a touch of nervousness in his voice bordering on anxiety, he starts talking about her. Just a little, not a lot, not quite to the point of boring the rest of you.

And you listen, your heart a little cold around the edges. Like a brutal change in the season, the tempest of his words threatens to hurt you without hesitation or guilt, but you listen, because you always tried to be a good friend to Bob, a person he could trust when he didn't even trust his own shadow. And even when he was always full of doubt about himself, about the truth, he seemed to trust your voice more than the enemy within, the one that whispered only cruelty. Even when he became cloudy, Bob would pull the blanket off his head when you asked him to, because that was always a promise for him that the sadness would all end eventually.

For all those months together, it had been you, and between heartbeats, it had always been him. Until you confused things, apparently.

Until the girl in his eyes arrived.

And it hurts, it burns to think about it, that reality that creeps up on you, that of always being just a friend. And it's like having an empty stomach, an empty mind, an empty heart.

When he's finished, you excuse yourself to leave the room with a smile and your head held high, leaving the deathly silence behind and missing the way Bob follows you with his eyes, even after you disappear.

"I think we blew this." Ava lets out a small sound, like a worried laugh at possible defeat as she looks at the rest.

"Did you have to go on so long, genius?" A semi–hard object hits the side of Bob's head and bounces off it, but without erasing his terrified expression as he looks at Bucky. "We told you you had to flatter her a little, not write her a whole Shakespearean sonnet."

Yelena frowns.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Some weeks ago we told Bob to try to hint to (Y/N) that he likes her without telling her he likes her.”

“And?”

“And nothing else. (Y/N) came into the kitchen that night to get something from the fridge, and the conversation ended there.”

“Did she hear you talking about this ingenious plan?” Ava’s hard gaze landed on Bob, and he blinked, innocent eyes set in a look of terror. “Did (Y/N) hear you talking about her? or did she hear you being told by the smartest men in this place how to get a random girl?”

As night fell and sent the rest of the team to sleep, the endless talk finished when you had entered the kitchen, a soft sound from your throat announcing your presence first.

“What are you doing up so late, darling?”

“Just came to get something to eat.” You replied to Bucky, and Bucky’s gaze rested on you, all the way until you closed the fridge door. “Sorry to interrupt your boys’ sleepover.”

“It’s not a boys’ sleepover, (Y/N), please.” John whined softly, slightly offended.

“Men’ sleepover is better.” Alexei smiled, and you laughed with him, his innocence fluttering as the others sighed in defeat.

“Of course, my mistake. Sleep well, everybody.”

“You too.”

The others' voices were an echo, except for Bob's, lips closed as your eyes fell on him in your farewell, just for a second.

He never said your name, and neither did the others. But from then on, there was only half a life in your eyes, whereas before they had always been full of it every time you looked at him.

The seconds of understanding end when Bob stands up, so fast he pushes his chair back with a dry sound against the polished floor.

His own breathing becomes labored, but he tries to calm his anxious heart all the way down the hall.

"You always have to ruin things—"

"Not this time. Not with her." Bob murmurs softly, and when he finally reaches your room, your door is always open for anyone who wants to enter and exist, and that's a mixed relief for him. "(Y/N)?"

You look over your shoulder, your body facing away from him as you continue to sit in front of your laptop on the desk.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Bob closes the door behind him, barely making a noise as he ventures inside, but feeling the place like untapped territory even though he's been there since his life merged with yours. The sound of his sneakers on the floor is almost nonexistent, but it feels heavy like lead in his pockets as Bob sits next to you, listening to the almost ghostly volume of the video playing in front of you.

"You okay, Bob?"

Your attention is on the screen and your voice is a whisper, but it is an overwhelming force that hits his chest, even harder than bullets in the past.

"Are you?"

You chuckle.

"I asked you first."

Bob hums a reply.

"You wanna lie down for a while? I finished a new book today and I know I can convince you to read it."

You shake your head, but there's a slight, honest smile on your lips.

"I'm not sleepy yet. Maybe later or tomorrow."

Neither of you says anything for a moment, your eyes straight ahead like Bob's gaze lingers on your profile. Bright eyes, soft skin.

But Bob knew that you too were still learning to use your voice just like him, to find the right words—those always hidden—so scattered across different galaxies, so far from each other that you still struggled to put them together to say something eloquent, to say what you both truly wanted to say, what you two truly felt. Silence had always been your ally and an imposition for him. And that had been his curse throughout his life, always in solitude, until it created his inability to say what he really wanted to say.

But not today, not ever again.

“We’re feeling a little much apathetic today, huh?”

It’s not an accusation, but his tone tinges with his sassiness, the kind he used to make direct comments and respond to other people’s jokes, to John’s sarcasm and sometimes Bucky’s condescension. Today, however, his words make you frown sharply as you turn to look at him.

“Excuse me?” His gaze threatens to falter and leave yours when you narrow your eyes at him, but Bob stands firm when what he's said is free to the world, saying out loud what he wants to say instead of letting it perish inside and ducking his head to pretend it never happened. "You're quite bold sometimes, Bob."

“And you’re quite clueless.” He smiles, softly, nervous but firmly planted on the floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The electricity, the tingling at his fingertips as the result of this brave act is addictive, like a drug, but ultimately a healthy one, one he wants to get hooked on. “I was talking about you, silly. How can you be so smart and not realize that every word I said was about you, (Y/N)?”

Your frown relaxes more, and the gnawing feeling of annoyance at his forwardness is replaced by confusion. His hands cup the sides of your chair, and Bob pulls you closer, gently, not roughly, taking in the way your body has stopped tensing, being brave when he sees your eyes light up with affection again, completely—a little scared around the edges, but finally not halfway.

“When I asked you to teach me how to braid your hair, it was for you—for that loose braid you always have. Your mom did it for you, didn’t she? Every day. You told me.” You nod, feeling the heat from his knees radiating against yours. “When I asked you to teach me how to dance to those old ballads Bucky loves so much, I didn’t do it to dance with someone else. I did it because I saw the way he spun you around one night and saw you laugh, and I wanted so badly to be him that I could feel my body vibrate. The things I said in the kitchen, about her hair and her laugh and everything—it was all about you, okay? Can you believe me, honey? Please?”

You nod again, and Bob can see hope, right next to that desire of a soul crying out for the exact same thing as his, silent but fervent.

His hands cup your face, soft skin over slightly calloused fingers on your cheeks and the underside, thumbs gliding to make his dreams (asleep and awake) come true, a touch so tender you feel nothing but warmth at the tips—his face so close his breath mingles with yours.

Your own hands clutch at his arms, searching for something to hold you steady as well.

“I’m sorry. I… I got scared. This is my first time feeling like this.”

“I know. And I’m so sorry, I never meant to make you feel like there was someone else because ever since I met you, it’s always been you. But if you still have any doubt, you are the girl in my eyes.”

Bob leans forward, closing the small space between his existence and yours.

And behind his closed eyelids, just like yours, the darkness ceases to be terrifying and becomes pleasurable, for the first time in his life, a place where Bob would stay if that means he can keep kissing you like this. Time, life itself, the past and future are suspended, unimportant and in an eternal pause in the long seconds his lips linger and move with yours. It’s like an unspoken conversation between you two, a confession of love without even having to say those three magical words. A connection, strength and gentleness, melting away any fear or doubt. The kiss is soft like him, a little shy like you, but real and perfect after every moment you imagined him in your head.

And in a synchronized movement, the two of you separate, breathing in each other's air.

"I'll be back, okay? I won't be long." He whispers, his lips touch yours with the promise of many more shared kisses, before Bob stands.

"Where are you going?"

He stops halfway across the room and turns around, those strands of hair on either side of his face bouncing with the movement.

“I'm going to get you some midnight snacks so you won't have to get up later, and get that book I was talking about.”

You laugh softly.

“And you're going to tell the others, aren't you?”

“No.” His shoulders slump. “Yes. I have to, honey. Lena and Ava were about to hurt me really bad.”

A nervous but genuine smile appears on that sweet face of him before Bob turns away.

#bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds

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