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abbotjack · 3 months ago

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Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have

pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)

summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)

warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing

word count : 4,212

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!

There’s blood on your forearms.

Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.

The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.

Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.

You press harder on your hands.

Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.

You’d hesitated.

Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.

“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.

You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.

You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.

His eyes go straight to your cheek.

The bruise.

His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.

Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.

He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.

“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.

You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.

You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”

You don’t stop.

“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”

You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”

His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.

He pushes off the counter.

“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.

“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.

Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.

“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.

“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”

You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.

The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.

You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.

But he still doesn’t reach for you.

So you do what you always do.

You leave before he can stop you.

You don’t get far.

The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.

You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.

It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.

You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.

You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.

It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.

It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.

Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.

The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.

But it wasn’t just you.

Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.

There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.

Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.

There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to let you.

But you did.

And he did.

And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.

“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”

Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.

“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”

You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.

But he kept going.

“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”

He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.

"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."

And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :

“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.

You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.

And he hadn’t offered.

Not an apology. Not an explanation.

He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.

But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.

He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.

And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.

You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.

Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.

And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.

It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.

The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.

So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.

Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.

So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.

It’s working.

Until you see him.

Jack.

He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.

Robby’s with him. Of course he is.

They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.

No—he’s watching.

You.

Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.

You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.

He rejected you. You know that.

But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.

It feels like longing.

And maybe that’s worse.

You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.

There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.

You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.

You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.

Jack sees. Of course he does.

You make sure he does.

“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”

You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.

Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.

You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.

Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.

And he does.

You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.

You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.

You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.

But he doesn’t leave.

He moves.

Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.

Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.

He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.

“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.

You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”

The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.

“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”

And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.

You consider refusing. You want to.

But you rise anyway.

And follow him out the door.

The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.

Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.

You follow, heart hammering. He turns.

“What the hell was that?”

Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”

“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”

He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.

“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”

Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”

“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”

You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”

His voice breaks. “I know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.

You take a breath. “So what now?”

Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.

“You came out here,” you say.

“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.

“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”

There’s a beat.

And then he’s kissing you.

Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.

He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.

“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.

He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.

He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.

“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does.

He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.

You’re panting. He’s shaking.

You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.

“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”

You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.

You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.

The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.

You don’t move. Not yet.

He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.

You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.

Then suddenly—he shifts.

His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.

You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.

“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, already whining for more.

Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.

He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.

It sends you over the edge.

You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.

Afterward, you don’t speak right away.

You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.

You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.

Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.

And quietly, you say:

“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”

He freezes.

You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.

“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”

His voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“I almost did.”

You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”

He turns your face toward him.

“And I couldn’t live with that.”

You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.

“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”

“Big love,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”

His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.

“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.

And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.

The chaos. The risk. The weight.

You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”

He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.

And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”

You believe him.

But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.

It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.

And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.

#i got too carried away #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #jack abbott #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #smut #angst

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bunnis-monsters · 7 months ago

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NSFW

warnings: clown fucking lol

The amusement park on the mountain had once been the most popular attraction in your town. Everyone visited for whatever special occasion they could, spending tons of money on merchandise and tickets.

What made it so appealing to the public? Everyone’s answer was always…

Silly the Clown!

He was taller than any person you’d ever meet, always nicely dressed and wearing close make up. When he walked through the park, everyone would stop what they were doing to line up and watch his act.

Not only was he hilarious, he was also quite handsome, according to the men and women that traveled to see him.

He was shrouded in mystery. No one ever saw him without his makeup on around town or even leave the park. People would wait in hiding, trying to catch a glimpse of Silly’s real appearance.

But one day, the amusement park shut down. Rumors spread quickly through the small town, some saying there were loans gone wrong or even murder.

No one really knew why their beloved amusement park was no more, and Silly was never seen again.

That was… until you showed up.

You had been a huge fan of the amusement park as a kid, but never got to attend until your 18th birthday. Now, all these years later, you were back on your 25th, planning to celebrate by doing some urban exploring and maybe take home a souvenir.

The park wasn’t as run down as you had first expected. Although none of the rides seemed to be in order, they looked to be maintained. None of the grass was overgrown, the walls were free of graffiti, and the ground was clean, no litter or dead leaves.

It was as if the park was simply closed for the day, not abandoned completely.

As you wandered the grounds, you kept turning to see if someone was behind you. You felt eyes on you the entire time, making you think perhaps there were cameras or security guards still on the premises to prevent vandalism and theft.

What you didn’t know was that you were being followed and carefully monitored. Every step you took was being tracked, every little thing you did was observed by the pair of eyes watching you,

Though… for a moment the observer’s gaze moved over your body, lingering on… certain parts. It had been so long since someone had come to visit, and even longer since it had even thought about its… urges.

And you were such a pretty thing.

It was getting dark, meaning you should get back to your car soon… but as the sun went down, you nearly fell over in fright when the amusement park sparked to life.

Lights lit up, rides began to move, and you could smell popcorn and hotdogs being cooked near the food stalls.

“I’ve gotta be hallucinating…”

“You’re not.”

You froze in your tracks, the hair on the back of your end standing up straight. That voice…

“S-Silly?”

He appeared in front of you, a red painted smile spreading across his face. “Silly the clown, that’s me! You’re back!”

It took you nearly an entire minute to process that the man in front of you was really Silly the clown, someone that hadn’t been seen in years!

“W… what do you mean?”

His fingertips traced down your side, stopping at your hip. “I know the face of everyone who’s entered this park. And now you’re back…”

His thumb rubbed against your hip, playing with the fabric of your bottoms. “Why don’t you enjoy the park for a bit? I turned everything on just for you…”

And you did, hesitantly going up to the first ride.

He watched you go, his pants tightening. God, how long had it been since he’d felt the warmth of a woman?

Silly was cursed. He couldn’t leave the park, his very soul was tied to it. It stayed the same as it did the day it was abandoned, and he waited for someone to come back.

Why had people stopped coming? Not even the newspaper was allowed to print what happened.

A kid went missing near the park, and Silly had seen what happened. Someone impersonated him, luring the child away. He couldn’t do a single thing, not able to break character and leave to save the child.

It made Silly depressed, and he stopped allowing people to visit. Silly and the park were one being, if he was depressed, it would deteriorate.

But when he saw your car pull up, the rusted gates and old buildings became brand new, almost as if the park was perking up to impress you.

After going on several rides without waiting in lines and feasting on corn dogs, funnel cake, and lemonade, you let out a happy sigh.

“Having fun?”

You jumped slightly, relaxing when Silly came into view.

“Yeah… it’s been a long time since I’ve been to an amusement park. It’s been nice.”

He watched you, his eyes focusing on your soft tummy and fat tits. Never before had he taken such interest in a female.

He didn’t know much about what he was or how he came into existence, much less the nature of his urges, but he did know that he had needs…

And you did too.

Silly was attractive in a strange way. It was hard to describe his features, but something about him made you… horny. Maybe it was how tall he was, maybe it was the way he talked…

Before you knew it, you were being led away by the hand. You didn’t complain or try to escape his grip, in fact you were both curious and aroused. Where was he leading you?

Was it bad that being all alone with that clown in an abandoned park, having no idea where he was taking you made you horny?

Silly was struggling to keep himself together.

You were pulled into a tent, something slippery and slimy slipping between your legs as you were bent over. All you had to hold on to was a tent pole as silly grabbed your fat hips.

“God…” he murmured, his tentacle like cock slithering past your panties and rubbing against your glistening clit. “Need this…”

Without much warning he pushed in, groaning at how tight you were. It felt so strange, feeling him wriggle and writhe inside of your cunt.

The second he felt you clench around him he groaned, his body leaning into yours as he nibbled at your ear.

“So wet… pretty little thing, don’t you wanna just stay here forever? I’ll let you have the best day forever if I get to fuck into this pussy at the end of every night…”

His clown makeup dripped onto your shoulder, making you look back. Your vision was already a bit blurry from the pleasured tears falling from your eyes, but you swore you saw a strange creature behind you…

He forced you to look away, cooing softly. “Shh, don’t look, princess… I don’t want my pretty little thing going insane.”

His cum spurted inside of you, and you felt uncomfortable stretch when his cock began to go crazy, wiggling and squirming as if trying to burrow inside of you as deep as it could.

A soft growl left his throat as he settled down from his high, his thumb rubbing circles on your hip.

“Good girl… let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?”

Want more? My commissions are open, or you can become a Kofi member!

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NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

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solefi · 2 months ago

Text

All of you, Always

𓂃𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭

| 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮

〻(muse.) lee heeseung

〻(wc.) 5.2k

〻(genre.) smut. non idol! au.

〻(cont.) fem! reader. description of female anatomy. unprotected sex. kissing. oral sex (male receiving). cum eating (reader swallows). creampie. overstimulation. praise. switch! heeseung. slightly subby hee. reader wants to please hee. riding. couch sex. soft sex.

They were supposed to go out. Dinner reservations, cute outfits—a normal night like any other couple. Instead, she ends up in her boyfriend’s lap wrapped around his cock. Then again, with the way every one of their dates ends up exactly like this, did they really miss anything?

The door clicks shut softly behind you.

You slip out of your heels at the entryway, leaving them next to Heeseung’s worn sneakers. For a moment, your heart squeezes at the sight: your shoes and his, side by side like they belong together.

Like you belong here.

You let yourself pretend, just for a heartbeat, that this is your shared home. Pretend he’s your husband waiting in the next room, pretend you’re walking into the rest of your life.

‘One day’, you think with a smile.

Your white maxi skirt brushes your ankles as you pad barefoot down the hallway. The fabric hugs your hips and waist, the soft tube top above showing off your shoulders, your belly, your curves—you know he’ll notice. He always does.

You knock softly on the closed studio door, smiling to yourself. A beat later, his voice—warm, a little distracted—floats through.

“Come in, baby.”

You open the door and step inside. The studio is dim, cozy—monitors glowing, fairy lights casting a soft haze over the cluttered space.

Heeseung’s hunched over the mixing board, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, brows furrowed in concentration. He turns when he hears you, and when he sees you his whole face lights up.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower just for you.

You cross the room to him without hesitation, your skirt swishing softly around your legs.

He rises halfway from his chair, meeting you for a kiss — slow, sweet, a lingering brush of lips that feels like sinking into something warm and endless.

His hands skim over your waist, squeezing lightly, like he needs to reassure himself that you’re real.

“Missed you,” he says against your mouth.

“Missed you too, Hee,” you whisper back.

He pulls back just enough to grin at you—soft, a little smug, eyes dipping down to drink you in.

You see the way his gaze catches on the sliver of skin showing between your top and skirt, the way his fingers flex like he’s fighting the urge to touch.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, almost to himself.

You laugh, cheeks heating, and tap his chest lightly.

“You wanted to show me something?”

“Yeah,” he says, snapping out of his daze. “New track. Just finished it.”

He sits back down and pulls you into his lap without a second thought, one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other resting lazily on your thigh—his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your skin.

You melt against him, arms looping around his neck, your chest pressed flush to his.

You can feel his heartbeat, quick and steady beneath your palm.

The track starts—a low, throbbing beat, thick with bass and lazy synths.

It’s sexy, smoky, the kind of song that makes your body want to move without thinking. Heat coils low in your stomach instantly.

You tilt your head, giving him a playful look.

“It’s hot,” you murmur.

Heeseung grins, cocky and shy all at once.

“Made it thinking about you.”

Your stomach flips. You kiss him, just a quick press of lips that isn’t nearly enough, and before you know it, you’re kissing him again.

Slower. Deeper.

Your fingers threading into the messy strands of his hair, tugging gently. Heeseung hums against your mouth, hand squeezing your thigh a little harder.

The beat plays on, slow and grinding, a rhythm that sinks into your bones.

You start to move—tiny shifts of your hips in his lap, not even thinking about it. Just wanting to feel more of him, wanting to give more of yourself.

His breath stutters when you kiss down his jaw, over his stubbled chin, down the column of his throat.

You find the spot just behind his ear you know drives him crazy, and suck lightly at the skin there, your teeth grazing his earlobe.

He shudders beneath you, hips jerking up instinctively.

“Baby,” he groans, voice wrecked already. “You’re playing dirty.”

You smile against his neck, smug and sweet.

His hand moves up, sliding over your skirt, fingertips ghosting over the soft skin of your thigh, your hip, your waist—his touches light and teasing, but filled with a promise you know too well.

“Can’t help it,” you whisper. “You make it so easy.”

Heeseung laughs—low and breathless—and captures your mouth in another kiss, rougher this time, teeth nipping at your lower lip.

You’re dizzy with it—the taste of him, the feel of his body under yours, the sound of his music wrapping around you both like a spell.

Heeseung leans back in his chair slightly, dragging you even closer onto his lap.

You can feel his hardness pressing against your thigh now, hot and demanding through the fabric of his sweats.

“You feel that, pretty girl?” he murmurs against your mouth. “You do that to me.”

His hands trail down your body — tracing the curve of your waist, the soft dip of your exposed belly button and the flare of your hips over the tight fabric of your skirt.

You whimper, grinding down just slightly—enough to make you both gasp. Heeseung growls softly, gripping your hips to hold you still.

“Fuck,” he breathes.“If you keep doing that I’m gonna fuck you right here, baby.”

You blink down at him, pupils blown wide, heart hammering.

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you whisper back.

Heeseung stares at you for a second—like you’ve just undone every bit of his control—and then he’s standing, sweeping you up in his arms so fast you squeal.

One of his arms hooks under your thighs, the other around your back, lifting you off like you weigh nothing.

The world tilts as he turns, heading toward the back of the studio — toward the worn, familiar couch tucked against the wall.

The one that’s seen its share of late nights and lazy, heated sessions, and that’s about to witness another.

He sets you down in front of it carefully, but he doesn’t let go. Not even for a second.

His hands roam — reverent, greedy — tracing up your sides, over the curve of your waist, along the bare skin peeking out between your top and skirt.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked.

And then slowly, teasingly, he reaches for the hem of your white tube top.

His fingertips skim up your sides, dragging the fabric higher, baring more and more skin as he goes.

You lift your arms obediently, heart pounding, and Heeseung peels the top off you, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

His eyes darken immediately.

You’re not wearing a bra, just delicate little silicone pasties covering your nipples—a teasing, playful barrier he hadn’t expected.

Heeseung’s throat works as he swallows hard, chest rising and falling faster.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice laced with awe. “Baby…”

You smile, slow and mischievous, and reach up, peeling the pasties off one by one—teasing, slow—watching the way his gaze tracks every movement, hungry and helpless.

When your bare breasts are finally exposed to him, Heeseung lets out a heavy, shaky breath, like he’s trying—and failing—to hold himself back.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands finding your waist again, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing softly over your nipples, pulling a breathy moan from you. Heeseung groans, deep in his chest, thumbs circling, caressing, worshipping.

“My beautiful, perfect girl.” he murmurs.

You arch into his hands instinctively, chasing his touch, and he rewards you with a lazy, heated kiss, tongue teasing yours, slow and filthy.

When he finally moves again, it’s to sink down to his knees in front of you, hands finding the waistband of your skirt.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Peeling this off. Seeing what’s mine.”

He presses a kiss to your belly button, making you both chuckle a little. He drags the skirt down slowly—agonizingly slow—his palms tracing the curves of your hips, your thighs, as he goes.

The skirt falls to the floor in a soft puddle around your ankles.

You stand there now in just a simple pair of white panties—sweet, delicate, almost innocent—and Heeseung visibly twitches in his sweats at the sight of you.

You bite your lip, feeling a wicked thrill pulse through you.

You can see the bulge straining against the fabric of his pants—see how much he wants you, how much he’s holding back for you.

“See what you do to me, pretty girl?” he rasps, running his hands slowly up your calves, your knees, your thighs—every touch a brand, every inch a silent worship.

You reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer.

“Show me, Hee,” you whisper.

His eyes flash—dark, dangerous, beautiful—and he surges up, capturing your mouth in a desperate, bruising kiss.

Heeseung’s hands roam everywhere at once—cupping your breasts, gripping your thighs, sliding under your panties to palm the heat between your legs.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he growls against your mouth, fingers teasing your slit,making you gasp and writhe under him.

“All this,” he whispers, dragging his fingers up to rub slow circles against your clit, “just for me?”

“Always,” you whimper, with a dazed smile.

Heeseung smiles and leans in, nipping your jaw lightly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Heeseung whispers, voice rough and low, his hands warm and possessive, now on your thighs.

But he doesn’t move to undress yet.

No—he stays fully clothed, looming over you, looking down at you like he’s starving.

And you know him well enough to recognize that glint in his eyes—the one that means he wants devour you.

He leads you to sit on the couch and leans in, mouth finding your breast—and for a moment, he just breathes you in, his nose brushing the curve of your skin, his lips ghosting over the soft swell.

Then he kisses you there: open-mouthed, wet, hungry, but not hurried. Never hurried.

Heeseung savors you, dragging his mouth across your breast, tasting every inch, pressing kisses along the delicate slope before finally closing his lips around your nipple.

You gasp, arching up into him instinctively.

His tongue flicks softly at first—light, teasing laps that make you whine—then he sucks harder, pulling your nipple into the hot, wet heat of his mouth, rolling it gently between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging helplessly.

Heeseung hums against your skin—a deep, pleased sound that vibrates through your chest—then moves to your other breast, giving it the same slow, worshipful attention.

He suckles, slow and filthy, hands squeezing your waist, your hips, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You taste so good everywhere,” he murmurs against you, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight down between your legs.

You can feel your panties sticking to you now, wet and clinging, and you know he feels it too—his hands sliding lower, thumbs brushing just under the waistband teasingly, making you writhe.

Then, without a word, Heeseung drops to his knees again, kneeling between your spread thighs like you’re something holy.

His hands slide up your thigh slowly, thumbs pressing gently into the soft flesh as he takes it and spreads it as he leans in.

And then he kisses you right over the wet fabric of your panties. A gasp rips from your throat, sharp and desperate.

Heeseung groans softly, mouthing at your clothed pussy, his tongue dragging a slow, lazy stripe over the soaked cotton, making sure you feel everything through the thin barrier.

You whimper, hips bucking up into his mouth, but he just holds you down, big hands pressing into your thighs, keeping you still, helpless under his teasing.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmurs against you, breath hot and damp.

“Fuck, baby. You’re dripping through your panties.” You feel him smirk against you—‘cocky bastard’ you think—and then he licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit, pressing his mouth against the fabric like he wants to taste you through it.

You whimper his name, hips grinding against his mouth desperate for more. Heeseung chuckles—low and sinful—and pulls back just enough to admire the growing wet patch between your legs.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. “All for me.”

You can barely breathe—barely think—and he’s still fully dressed, still teasing, still completely in control.

You reach for him blindly, tugging at the hem of his hoodie.

“Off,” you plead, lust lacing your words. “Please, Hee… want you.”

Heeseung’s eyes darken even further, and finally, finally, he relents.

“Anything for you, pretty girl,” he says, voice pure filth wrapped in velvet.

He stands up slowly, grabbing the hem of his hoodie and pulling it off in one smooth motion—baring his lean, strong torso to you, the faint lines of his abs flexing as he moves.

You see the thin sheen of sweat on his skin, the flushed heat spreading across his chest.

Next, his sweats—he pushes them down, revealing his cock, thick and flushed, curved up toward his belly, a bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip.

Heeseung stands over you, fully naked now, chest heaving, cock flushed and leaking, and you can’t help it—your mouth waters at the sight of him.

You sit up slowly, feeling the heat between your legs throb with need, but right now, you want him to fall apart first.

Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock—hot, thick, pulsing under your touch—and Heeseung hisses between his teeth, hips jerking slightly.

“Baby…” he groans, voice strained, his hand instinctively finding the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair, grounding himself against the overwhelming need clawing through him.

You look up at him through your lashes, catching the wild, glassy look in his dark eyes—and then you lean forward and press a soft, tender kiss to the leaking tip of his cock.

Heeseung shudders violently, a broken sound escaping his throat.

“Fuck, baby—”

You smile and then drag your tongue in a long, slow stripe from the very base of his shaft all the way up to the head, lapping at the bead of pre-cum there like you’re savoring the taste of him.

Heeseung’s fingers tighten in your hair, a ragged breath tearing from his chest.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he rasps, hips twitching helplessly.

You hum against him, then part your lips and take him into your mouth—slowly, teasingly, letting the thick head of his cock glide over your tongue, feeling the heavy weight of him stretch your mouth deliciously.

Heeseung groans—a deep, helpless sound that makes you clench around nothing.

He’s trying so hard to stay still, trying so hard not to thrust into your mouth like he’s desperate to.

You take him deeper, inch by inch, feeling the slick, heated slide of his cock over your tongue, down your throat.

Your jaw aches slightly, but you don’t care—you want him, want all of him, want to taste and feel and ruin him.

His hand cradles the back of your head tenderly, thumb stroking the side of your neck, his body trembling under your worship.

“That’s it, babygirl,” he moans, his voice a wrecked, broken thing. “Taking me so good. Ah-!”

You bob your head slowly, building a lazy, messy rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, swirling your tongue around the sensitive underside of his cock every time you pull back.

Drool slips from the corner of your mouth, slicking his shaft, and Heeseung swears under his breath, his hips giving tiny, helpless thrusts he can’t seem to control anymore.

“You’re gonna make me cum, baby,” he gasps, warning you, giving you the chance to pull away—but you don’t.

You dig your nails into his thighs. You take him deeper, suck harder—own the way he falls apart for you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Heeseung moans, thighs trembling, and then he’s spilling into your mouth, hot and thick and overwhelming.

You hold him deep, swallowing every drop, feeling him pulse and jerk on your tongue, listening to the desperate, broken sounds he makes as you milk him through it.

When he finally stills, panting like he just ran a marathon, you pull back slightly, opening your mouth wide—showing him his release pooling in your mouth, mixing with your saliva.

You swirl it with your tongue. Heeseung groans, low and filthy, eyes dark and blown wide with lust and awe.

“Jesus, baby,” he chokes out. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You hold his gaze, smiling around the filthy mess he gave you—and then you swallow, slow and deliberate, throat working visibly.

Heeseung watches you like he’s ready to fall to his knees.

“Come here,” he rasps, grabbing your face in both hands, pulling you up into a messy, hungry kiss—almost like he needs to taste himself on your lips, like he can’t stand another second without you.

The kiss is filthy; wet and open-mouthed and desperate, his tongue tangling with yours, his body shuddering against you.

Heeseung breaks the kiss first—panting against your lips, trembling slightly. His hands roam your body like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to touch every inch of you to believe you’re real.

He moves instinctively to guide you back down onto the couch, trying to lay you out beneath him, to worship you like he promised.

But you don’t let him.

You press your palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid drum of his heart, and gently push.

Heeseung blinks up at you, dazed, confused, completely gone for you.

You don’t say a word.

You just look at him—eyes dark, lips swollen, body humming with power—and he obeys immediately, sinking back onto the couch with a soft, wrecked sound.

You stand up—barefoot, bare-chested, in nothing but those damp, clinging white panties.

His gaze devours you—moving slowly up the length of your legs, your thighs, your hips, your waist, your breasts.

He looks hungry, helpless, wrecked—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

You turn around slowly—giving him your back—and Heeseung lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the edge of the couch like he’s physically restraining himself from grabbing you.

You glance over your shoulder at him—smirking softly—and then hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Teasing.

You peel the fabric down inch by agonizing inch—over the curve of your ass, your thighs, your knees—moving with a lazy, sensual roll of your hips.

Heeseung’s breath hitches sharply behind you.

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress, heavy and searing on your bare skin.

When the panties slip past your knees, you feel a slick, sticky pull and as the panties slide down, a thin, glistening string of slick stretches from your soaked pussy to the fabric.

You hear it—the broken, helpless sound Heeseung makes.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, voice rough and raw. “Baby…”

You glance back again, catching the way his eyes are locked on the obscene sight, his hands now fisted tight against his thighs, his cock twitching visibly, already painfully hard again.

You let the panties fall to the floor, and step out of them gracefully, kicking them aside.

You don’t rush.

You don’t speak.

You just let him watch—let him see everything—the bare, plump curve of your thighs, the perfect curve of your ass, the slick shining between your legs, all for him.

You reach behind yourself—slowly, lazily—and run your fingers along the inside of your thigh, up to the slick heat between your legs, gathering it on your fingertips deliberately.

Heeseung swears again—a filthy, desperate sound—and you hear the faint thud of his head dropping back against the couch, as if the sight of you is too much to survive.

You turn around slowly to face him—naked, wet, radiant in the soft golden light of the studio—and you see him: completely undone. Eyes blown wide, lips parted, chest heaving.

Heeseung looks at you like you’re a goddess, a dream, something he’s too fucked to deserve but too in love to resist.

“Come here, baby,” he rasps, voice so rough it scrapes the air.

You take your time—walking toward him slowly, hips swaying, slick still shining between your thighs—and watch the way his jaw clenches, his fingers twitching like he’s dying to grab you.

But he doesn’t move.

He lets you come to him.

Lets you keep control, because he wants to see what you’ll do next. Because he trusts you completely. And you’re not done driving him crazy yet.

You climb onto his lap slowly, swinging one leg over him, feeling his hands automatically come to rest on your hips like magnets pulled to steel.

Heeseung looks up at you, flushed, breathless, wrecked.

Like you’re something holy.

Like you’re everything.

You settle onto his thighs, feeling the hard, hot weight of his cock pressing against your soaked folds.

His chest rises and falls quickly under you, every muscle in his lean body tight with restraint, with need.

You lean in, pressing your mouth to his in a messy, hungry kiss. It’s not soft, it’s desperate—tongues tangling, teeth clashing, hands grabbing.

You swallow his gasps, he swallows your whimpers.

It’s filthy and beautiful all at once.

While your mouths stay locked, you start to move your hips—slowly grinding your dripping pussy along his cock, slicking him up, teasing both of you with the obscene wet sounds filling the room.

Heeseung groans into your mouth, his hands flexing on your hips as he fights the urge to thrust up into you.

“Baby…” he breathes, voice cracking. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

You keep sliding up and down his length, the heavy weight of him dragging against your clit every time you grind your hips forward, making you gasp into his mouth.

Every pass smears your arousal over his cock, coating him, making him harder, hotter, pulsing between your thighs.

It’s slow torture—for both of you—but you love the way he falls apart under you.

You love how helpless he looks, how beautiful he is when he’s wrecked for you.

Eventually, you pull back from the kiss—panting, both of you dazed and shaking. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth—biting it, tugging it gently—before letting it go with a wet pop.

Heeseung’s eyes flutter closed for a second—like even that small act is enough to destroy him.

You sit up straighter, still grinding lazily, feeling his cock twitch under you.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you reach behind yourself, your fingers wrapping around the slick, hot length of him.

Heeseung’s hips jerk up instinctively, but you press him back down with a hand on his chest, smirking.

“Easy, baby,” you whisper.

Heeseung whines softly—actually whines—and you almost feel bad for how desperate he looks.

Almost.

You line him up with your entrance, the fat, swollen head of his cock pressing against your soaked, aching pussy and you both freeze there for a second, the air thick and electric between you.

You look into his eyes—really look—and see everything: the love, the lust, the devotion, the helpless awe.

And then he whispers.

“I love you,”

His voice rough and raw and so full of everything he is.

It knocks the air from your lungs. The way he says it, like it’s a prayer, like it’s a promise.

You smile, heart splitting wide open, leaning in just enough to press your forehead to his.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

And then you sink down onto him—slowly, deeply, completely—taking him inside inch by inch, stretching around him, filling yourself with all of him.

You both moan—loud, helpless, raw—clutching at each other like you might fall apart without the connection.

Heeseung’s hands tighten on your hips, but he doesn’t move.

He lets you have this—lets you take him exactly how you want, exactly how you need.

You bottom out, feeling the thick, aching stretch of him seated fully inside you, the way he fits so perfectly it’s almost unbearable.

You stay there for a moment—both of you shaking, gasping, barely holding on—and then you start to move.

Slow.

Lazy.

Sensual.

Grinding your hips in tight circles, rocking up and down on his cock, feeling every thick, delicious drag of him inside you.

Heeseung watches you, completely wrecked and completely in love. He lets you ride him at your own pace, his mouth dropping open in awe every time you sink down onto him again.

“You’re so hot,” he breathes, voice breaking. “So fucking perfect, my love.”

You smile through the haze of heat and pleasure—because he means it. You know he means every single word.

“So you keep saying.”

You ride him slow, deep, deliberate—grinding down onto him with every roll of your hips, taking him deeper than should be possible, making both of you gasp and shudder with every wet, filthy slap of skin on skin.

Heeseung groans beneath you, his head tipping back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to breathe through the pleasure.

His hands can’t stay still.

One slides down — grabbing a handful of your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, squeezing like he can’t help himself.

The other moves up — cupping your breast, groping shamelessly, thumb flicking across your nipple, making you whimper.

“God, you feel so good,” he pants, eyes glassy and wild, hips jerking up instinctively every time you grind down onto him.

You lean forward, hands braced on his shoulders, grinding your clit against the hard line of his pelvis with every movement, chasing more friction, more heat.

Heeseung surges up slightly—mouth finding your neck—and he kisses you there, messy and wet and hungry.

His tongue drags sloppily over your throat, mouth sucking at the sensitive skin just below your ear, teeth scraping lightly, leaving tingling trails in his wake.

You shiver violently, gasping, riding him harder without meaning to.

You know what he’s doing—know he’s trying to mark you up again, claim you in the most primal way he knows how.

You feel his mouth linger, sucking harder for just a moment, and you slap his shoulder lightly, breathless.

“Hee,” you gasp, half laughing, half moaning. “Don’t leave too many… You know I hate covering them up.”

Heeseung chuckles—low, filthy and so fucking smug.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he licks the spot he just sucked—tongue slow and hot against your skin—and murmurs against you:

“You look so beautiful wearing my marks, baby.”

You feel it—the deep throb of want at his words—and you clench around him hard, making him groan into your neck.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against your pulse, voice thick with love and lust and something darker underneath. “Only mine.”

You whimper, riding him faster now, grinding rougher, harder, your thighs starting to tremble with the effort.

The knot in your belly pulls tighter, heat building low and deep, your orgasm coiling inside you like a fuse about to snap.

Heeseung feels the change instantly. The hand playing with your tits slides down until his fingers find your clit.

He rubs tight, fast circles against the swollen bundle of nerves—perfect, relentless pressure—and the sensation is devastating.

You cry out—a raw, broken sound—your body clenching around him so hard he gasps, hips jerking up into you.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, eyes locked on yours, voice almost frantic. “Cum for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”

You grind down harder, chasing the friction, the heat, the desperate need clawing through you.

You’re so close.

You can feel it—your walls fluttering around him, your legs trembling, your mind going white with the overwhelming pleasure building inside you.

Heeseung keeps working your clit, keeps whispering filthy, beautiful things against your skin—and you break.

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave—huge and devastating.

It starts in your pussy—a sharp, blinding pulse deep inside—and then spreads outward, a fiery flood through your thighs, your belly, your chest, your vision blurring around the edges with the force of it.

You cry out, body seizing, back arching—blinded by pleasure, blinded by him.

Your mind whites out for a moment—but even through the shuddering, searing waves of your orgasm, you’re still aware of him underneath you.

Still aware of Heeseung’s cock, thick and hot, buried deep inside you. Still aware of his desperate moans, the way his hands clutch at your hips, trying to hold on.

You falter — just for a second — hips stuttering as the pleasure overloads you, but you don’t stop.

You refuse to stop.

You force yourself to keep moving—grinding down onto him, riding him through it, milking him with every slow, trembling roll of your hips, even as your own body shudders uncontrollably.

And then you feel it—feel him chasing you into the abyss.

Heeseung’s cock twitches violently inside you, and his breath breaks apart into guttural, frantic moans.

“Baby,” he gasps—voice shredded, desperate. “Baby, I’m gonna cum—”

You clench around him—deliberately—tightening your pussy around his pulsing length, dragging another helpless, broken groan from him.

You feel him jerk, feel the first thick pulse of his orgasm spill into you, hot and overwhelming, flooding you deep inside.

Heeseung cums hard — hips thrusting up helplessly into you, hands fisting in the meat of your hips, trying to anchor himself as you ride him through it.

You don’t let up.

You keep moving, slow and filthy and relentless, grinding down against him, coaxing every last spurt of cum from his cock.

Milking him dry.

You feel every twitch, every pulse—feel the way he tries to thrust up into you weakly, instinctively—feel the way his body trembles under yours, totally undone.

And you match him—your body clenching when he pulls back, relaxing when he pushes in, drawing him deeper, squeezing around him, refusing to let him go until there’s nothing left to give.

It’s too much—for both of you—the overstimulation bordering on unbearable, pleasure bleeding into pain, into something even deeper, even more raw.

Heeseung’s head falls back against the couch, his throat exposed, mouth open in a silent moan, eyes screwed shut as he rides it out.

You shudder through aftershocks, clinging to his shoulders, both of you shaking, sweating, completely ruined together.

Finally—finally—when his last drop is buried inside you, when your bodies can’t handle a second more—you collapse against his chest, trembling, both of you gasping for breath.

Heeseung wraps his arms around you instantly—holding you so tightly it almost hurts—pressing messy, desperate kisses to your hair, your shoulder, your neck.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, voice still wrecked. “I love you so, so much, my love.”

You nuzzle into him, feeling his cum leak slowly from between your thighs, feeling the messy, beautiful reality of what you just did together.

You smile weakly against his skin, your heart swollen and aching with how much you love him.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

He knows.

And so you stay there—tangled, trembling, filled—as the room hums softly around you, as the studio lights blur in your vision, as the world narrows down to just you and Heeseung, still breathing each other in.

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skzophreniic · 4 months ago

Text

Favorite Places to Have Sex

MDNI, 18+ content.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 when they wanna venture outside your bed

notes: this ended up longer than originally planned ngl. i find myself falling deeper and deeper into the void that is kim seungmin. pray for me ✊😔

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ CHAN

you already know what it is. chris practically lives at the studio, so why not fuck where he's most comfortable?

it always starts innocent enough. he's working late, you've invited yourself to the couch in the back, just scrolling through your phone. he calls you over to show you something he's working on and there just happens to only be one chair--the one he's currently settled on.

of course, he's not just going to let you stand, he's too much of a gentleman for that! he's kind enough to lend you his lap.

except now he can't focus. he's just trying to mix a track, but the way you shift on his lap whenever you point something out on the screen...yeah.

his fingers start tracing lazy circles on your thighs, voice dropping lower as he murmurs, "You’re distracting me, baby."

before you know it, his hands are gripping your hips, and you’re bouncing on his cock in the dim glow of his monitors, his low groans mixing with the bass from his unfinished song. The door is locked, but someone could still knock at any second—maybe a member, maybe a staff member and it's such a fucking vice, because on one hand, he doesn't give a shit. he wants them to hear, to know how good he makes you feel. it's the biggest thing that feeds his ego.

on the other hand, those sounds you make, the whimpers, the mewls, the lewd squelch your cunt makes when he's already made you cum twice but still can't stop rutting into you...yeah those are only for his ears.

he's pretty open to using his own moans though. have you listened closely to the backtrack of railway?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ LEE KNOW

minho is obsessed with eye contact, so it’s no surprise that his favorite place is in front of a mirror. he wants you to see everything—the way your body moves, the way your face twists in pleasure, the way he controls every reaction you have.

you're insecure about your body? the sounds you make? yeah, no. every fucking thing about you is his biggest turn on, and he's just not okay with you not knowing that.

he’ll start slow, teasing you with featherlight touches, whispering in your ear, "look at yourself, baby. look how pretty you are for me." his hands will guide your movements, forcing you to watch the way he ruins you. and just when you think he’s going to let you close your eyes, he grips your jaw, turning your head toward the reflection. "I said, watch."

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ CHANGBIN

gym. yeah i said it, i don't care how basic it is.

he will sweetly ask you to come work out with him, super super early in the morning or super late at night, when nobody's around. he'll tell you it's because he gets too shy to take off his shirt when other people are around but gets too hot and uncomfortable with it on.

you fall for it every time. sweet thing.

binnie loves seeing you all sweaty and out of breath. there’s something about watching you work out that drives changbin crazy—maybe it’s the way your body moves, the little whimpers when you push yourself too hard, the way you stretch in all the right ways.

one second, he’s spotting for you, the next, he’s pinning you against the weight bench, gripping your thighs, telling you to let him do all the work now. "you wanna stretch a little more, baby?"

next thing you know, he’s pinning you against the mirror, your fingers leaving smudged prints on the glass as he fucks into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight. he groans against your ear, voice thick with need,

"you've worked so hard today, baby," he'll grunt into your ear. "let me take care of you now."

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ HYUNJIN

hyunjin’s art studio is his sanctuary, the place where he’s most creative, where he loses himself in his work for hours at a time.

it always starts innocently enough. it's your birthday, and he wants to paint a portrait of you in that cute little sun dress he gifted you. that short, skimpy little sun dress he gifted you. and he needs you on his lap. for the creative process. spefically with your dress up, panties pushed aside, and his cock nestled deeply inside of you.

also for the creative process.

"you gotta sit still for me, pretty." he murmurs, leaned back against the couch, his gaze focused on his canvas. "or else this will take longer."

it's horrendously delicious, the way he makes you warm his cock while he works, refusing to let you move. he doesn't even fucking react, a hundred precent focused on making you the best portrait.

when he's done though, and only if you've been good and didn't move, he'll set his supplies aside to dry and let you fuck yourself on him. let you use him any way you want it.

and if you haven't been good, the only thing you're getting off on is his thigh. if you're lucky. tough luck.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ HAN

jisung has no patience. if he wants you, he wants you. which is why you end up fucking in the car so often—no waiting, no hesitations, just pure, impulsive desire.

it usually happens after late-night drives. the city lights blur past as he grips the wheel, one hand occasionally straying to your thigh, drumming against your skin. it's so fucking soft against his fingers, he's already hard. and you just had to wear that little skirt that gives him easy access.

"you're driving me crazy," he mutters, trying to keep his eyes on the road, shifting in his seat. he's only just got his fucking license, he could hardly drive with the music on yet, much less with you sitting there like that.

he’s aching for you.

so when he pulls into some dark, empty parking lot, hands clenched around the steering wheel like he’s trying to keep himself in check, you decide to put him out of his misery.

you lean over, fingers already working at his belt.

he whimpers. actually fucking whimpers.

his cock is already hard, leaking, twitching against the cool air, and when you wrap your fingers around him, he bucks into your hand with a choked gasp.

"f-fuck, baby, please—"

yeah...you're not going home any time soon.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ FELIX

felix is dangerously charming, and he knows exactly how to turn an innocent moment into something sinful. it usually starts with something as simple as baking together, fingers covered in flour, soft laughter filling the space.

but then, his hands start lingering—a light touch on your lower back, a casual squeeze of your thigh, his voice dropping an octave as he murmurs, "You're making a mess, baby."

the moment he sees you licking something off your finger, tilting your head like you’re teasing him? yep, you're fucked. not quite literally yet tho.

before you know it, he’s lifting you onto the counter, lips trailing down your neck as he spreads your thighs, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat building between you both. the half-mixed batter is forgotten, the kitchen filled with breathless moans instead, his hands spreading your thighs apart, eating you out like a man starved.

which he is. he's always fucking starved for you.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ SEUNGMIN

the library is the last place you’d expect seungmin to be this filthy.

It always starts so subtly. he's supposed to be helping you study for your finals, flipping through textbooks in the quietest corner of the library. but then his hand finds your thigh under the table, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles.

"focus," he says, when he look at him sharply, voice perfectly neutral.

like he isn’t the one distracting you.

you try. poor thing, you really do. but his touch is persistent, featherlight strokes just beneath the hem of your skirt, moving higher, higher—so painfully slow that it’s infuriating.

"seungmin," you whisper, an urgent warning.

He doesn’t even glance up from his book. "what?"

you shoot him a glare, shifting in your seat to escape his touch, but his grip tightens just slightly—a silent command. Stay still.

"you should really be paying attention," he murmurs. "or do you need some extra motivation?"

oh he'll tell you that if you make it through the chapter like this that he'll reward you, give you what you really want. he'll keep you on the edge, till you're finally right there, so close--

he pulls away completely, returning to his textbook like nothing happened.

"you should finish your work first," he says, flipping a page. "i’ll think about rewarding you later."

the audacity.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ JEONGIN

his childhood bedroom.

you heard me.

the posters on the walls, the old books cluttering his desk, the twin-sized bed that barely fits both of you—it’s all so him. It should be innocent, just a short visit to his parents’ house, just a normal night.

or so you thought.

it starts with you lying next to him under the covers, whispering and giggling, trying not to wake anyone. he’s got one arm lazily draped over your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. but then his hand slips lower—too low for something so casual—and suddenly, that mischievous smirk is on his lips.

"you’re being quiet," he teases, voice barely above a whisper. "something wrong?"

um yeah, something’s wrong. his parents are asleep down the hall. the walls are thin.

that’s the thrill—how you stiffen when he presses against you, how you grip his wrist when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

"aw, baby, that's just too bad" he coos, smirking against your skin. "You’re gonna have to be quiet for me."

the bed creaks when he shifts, pressing his weight against you, and he pauses—just for a second—listening for any signs of movement outside the door. when all remains quiet, he grins, his hand slipping beneath your pajama shorts, and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning.

"shh," he breathes, pressing a finger to your lips. "if you wake them up, you’ll have to explain how their sweet, innocent jeongin has you like this."

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yungistiny · 2 months ago

Text

spoiled rotten

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which your boyfriend has become spoiled rotten and it’s all your fault

warnings: soft dom yunho, established relationship, oral fixation, praise kink, head pushing, possessive softness, semi public sex, shower sex

genre: smut

pairing: yunho x afab reader

word count: 1.1k

note: this was an anonymous request and i enjoyed writing it a little too much🤭

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Yunho was starting to realize he had a problem.

A very, very specific problem.

And it started the first time you got on your knees for him without being asked.

It had been a surprise, something spontaneous, playful, but he never quite recovered. After that, he needed it. Craved it. Like some part of him had unlocked and now he couldn’t close the door.

He was never mean about it. He wasn’t rough. If anything, it was worse, he was sweet, doting, grateful in a way that made your stomach twist. And every time your lips touched him, he whispered your name like a secret and held your head like he was praying.

It wasn’t just sex for him. It was worship.

And he wanted it everywhere.

It started that night in the studio. Just the two of you, past midnight, a track looping through the monitors while Yunho adjusted the mic. He had told Hongjoong he had a song he wanted to do himself for the next comeback. His hoodie sleeves were shoved to his elbows, neck flushed from hours of singing. You slipped in quietly, leaned on the wall, and watched him.

“Five minutes,” he muttered. “I just need one more take.” He was easily starting to see why Hongjoong and Mingi got so frustrated in the studio.

You crossed the room and dropped to your knees between his long legs without a word.

He blinked. “Baby…”

You looked up at him, innocent. “Don’t stop. I’ll be quiet.”

“Shit,” he whispered, eyeing the door to the studio. It was late, most were already home.

His hips lifted automatically, letting you pull his sweats down, his dick already half hard from the sight of you kneeling there like you belonged.

You licked slow, tracing the underside of his length and he had to hit pause on the recording mid breath.

“I’m never gonna finish this track,” he groaned, hand sliding into your hair. “Go on, baby. Take me.”

You did, slow, deep, tongue teasing, lips soft. He gripped the armrest with one hand and you with the other, guiding your rhythm like it hurt him not to thrust.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” he whispered. “No one…. no one can take me like you do.”

You moaned around him and his hips jerked, thighs tightening under your palms. His breath hitched, ragged, and then he came with a deep, needy groan, fingers fisted in your hair as he pulsed hot down your throat.

You swallowed everything.

He stared at you, chest heaving. “I’m never finishing that song.”

You just smiled.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Then it was the dance practice room.

You knew the rest of the guys had already called it a night when Yeosang dragged into the apartment.

“Where’s Yunho?” You furrowed your brows not seeing your boyfriend.

Yeosang tossed his hoodie onto the couch and started walking to the bathroom for a hot shower to soothe his aching muscles. “You know him. If he doesn’t perfect the choreography, he won’t stop until he does.”

So you went to the studio, the KQ building empty other than a few staff and security. You found him, shirtless, sweaty, sweatpants hanging low on his waist. He gripped a wet towel, wiping at his flushed face.

He noticed you in the mirrors, walking up behind him. And there was something about those mirrors….

“Fuck…” you had ended up on your knees of course, this time moaning and gagging as you let him just fuck out his frustrations with your mouth. He watched the reflection of you taking him through the mirrors and he swore it was the best thing he ever saw.

“So good to me…” his voice was breathless, deep, almost growling at the sight. “You should see how good you look….. mouth so fucking perfect…”

He came with a whimpering growl of your name and you swallowed every drop.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Next came the gaming chair.

He was in the middle of a co op game, headset on, talking shit with San when you slid under the desk and tugged his shorts down. His dick was already hard, half from the adrenaline, half from how well he knew you.

“What the fuck…. hold on,” he choked. “I gotta mute….”

San was still talking, but Yunho’s hand was already in your hair, grip tightening, holding your head in place.

“You love doing this to me,” he said, voice low as you licked along the tip. “You wait until I can’t say no.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. He tasted too good, and he looked even better, one hand white knuckled on the keyboard, the other flexing in your hair as he tried to pretend he wasn’t getting the best head of his life mid match.

“You’re insane,” he groaned. He took slight control, his hand that was free, still holding your head, making you gag on him just a little bit, you gasping for breath when he let you go.

He bit his lip, trying not to moan, and failed. You heard the headset disconnect with a frustrated noise before Yunho said, “Fuck it. They can lose without me.”

His hips bucked, and then he was pushing deeper, both hands now holding your head, gentle but insistent, a head pusher in the softest sense. “God….. yes, just like that…”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The next morning, he returned the favor.

You were already in the shower, eyes closed under the spray, when he stepped in behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“You spoil me,” he whispered into your neck. “Let me spoil you.”

You barely got the words out before you were pushed gently against the tile, and Yunho was on his knees for you. His hands slid up your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was licking into you like it was his last meal.

“Fucking heaven,” he moaned, voice vibrating against you. Your fingers tangled in his wet hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning when you gasped his name.

“Stay still,” he murmured, locking his arms around your thighs. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His tongue was merciless. Slow. Deep. He pushed two fingers inside and curled them just right, and when you started to tremble, he grinned.

“Give it to me, baby. Let me taste how good you feel…” his fingers were thrusting fast, curving, hitting that spot that if it weren’t for the shower mixing, the clear arousal squelching and sloshing with every thrust of his fingers would of been very noticeable.

You came against his mouth, loud and aching, and he kept going until you were a shivering mess under the shower, holding his head like he was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

He made sure to kiss his way all the way up your body, the shower still spraying above you, and then his mouth crashed against your own, messy, wet, tasting you on his tongue.

You moaned into it.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Later that day, he was on the couch, man spreading like a damn throne belonged to him, head tilted, hand down his shorts, lazily teasing himself. You had gone out with some friends and he was starting to get needy.

As soon as you made it back, stepping through the front door of the apartment, you didn’t even get a chance to say anything. He just looked at you with that damn puppy look and boba eyes, pleading.

You walked to him, dropping to your knees, pressing kisses to the insides of his thighs exposed from the basketball shorts he had on, before pulling him out. He was already leaking, twitching against your lips.

“Missed this mouth,” he said, eyes fluttering shut as you started to suck. “I live for this mouth…”

His fingers threaded into your hair again, soft but firm, guiding you as your lips stretched around him, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowed.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered. “Take it…. just like that, baby, you’re so good to me…” He groaned, loud and open mouthed, and then the front door once again opened.

Yeosang’s voice froze everything. “I got some kimchi from my…. OH MY GOD!”

You both looked up. Yunho didn’t flinch. You, mortified, froze mid motion over getting caught.

Yeosang was already halfway down the hall, one hand over his eyes. “THIS IS OUR LIVING ROOM…”

“Knock next time,” Yunho called casually, still stroking your jaw. “We’re busy.”

You heard Yeosang swear all the way to his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him and a few minutes later loud muffled music could be heard.

Yunho just looked down at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You didn’t stop.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

He smiled, soft and warm and utterly in love.

“That’s my girl.”

Maybe you had been spoiling him a little too much….

Completely spoiled rotten.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies

#I stand behind yunho being a head pusher #yunho #jeong yunho #yunho smut #yunho x you #yunho x reader #ateez #ateez fic #ateez fanfic

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kryllia · 6 months ago

Text

Through His Eyes

Yandere boyfriend x reader

art from pinterest

Prequel

The first time you met Aiden, he felt like a breath of fresh air. His smile was soft, his words laced with sincerity, and his eyes—oh, those eyes—were warm pools of honey that seemed to melt away all your worries. He was perfect, almost too perfect, but you never dared question it. After all, wasn’t this what everyone wanted? Someone who understood you without words, someone who loved you so wholly and selflessly?

Aiden was the embodiment of devotion. He knew your coffee order by heart, memorized your class schedule within days, and always texted you right when it was needed most. If you were stressed after a long day, he’d already be waiting at the door with your favorite snacks and that soft, knowing smile. It was as if he could read your mind.

And in a way, he could.

But you didn’t know that yet.

It wasn’t until much later—much too late—that you realized Aiden wasn’t just attentive. He was obsessive.

Aiden sat in his dimly lit room, multiple monitors casting a faint bluish glow on his face. Each screen displayed a different angle of your apartment: the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom. His eyes lingered on the feed from the bedroom camera as you shuffled under the covers, sighing softly before drifting off to sleep.

He sighed too, mirroring you from miles away.

“You look so peaceful like this,” he whispered to no one in particular, his finger tracing the outline of your face on the screen. “So beautiful... mine.”

His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his trance. It was the tracking app. You had left your phone on the nightstand, unmoving for the past hour. He smiled, knowing you were safe, knowing you were his.

You had always wondered how Aiden seemed to know everything so well. He’d always have your favorite song playing in his car, always know when illness was about to hit before symptoms even showed. It was... uncanny. But it felt good. It felt like love.

“Do you ever get tired of being so perfect?” you teased one evening, sitting across from him in a cozy cafe.

Aiden chuckled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Perfect? Oh no, I just... pay attention to the things that matter.”

You.

It was always you.

The first red flag appeared on a rainy Thursday night. You had been at work late, phone dead, and bus delayed. When you finally got home, drenched and exhausted, Aiden was already there—waiting by the door, umbrella in hand.

“How did you...?” you stammered.

His smile didn’t waver. “You mentioned your shift would be longer today, remember? I wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

You shrugged it off. Aiden was sweet. Too sweet to question.

But the nagging feeling in your chest wouldn’t go away.

It wasn’t until weeks later, when you stumbled upon a small black device tucked discreetly behind a picture frame in your bedroom, that reality came crashing down.

A camera.

Your hands trembled as you held it up, your breaths shallow. Your mind raced as puzzle pieces began snapping into place: the perfectly timed texts, the way he always seemed to know where you were, the way he... watched.

Your phone buzzed.

Aiden: Are you okay, sweetheart? You seem upset.

The camera was still in your hand.

He knew.

When Aiden arrived at your apartment that night, his smile was softer than usual, his eyes alight with something... dangerous.

“You found it, didn’t you?” he said quietly, stepping into your space.

Your voice trembled. “Why, Aiden? Why would you—?”

“Because I love you,” he interrupted, his voice trembling with an intensity that sent chills down your spine. “Don’t you see? I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you.”

His hand reached for yours, but you pulled away.

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered.

His expression crumbled, hurt flashing across his face. “No, no, please don’t say that. I’d never hurt you. I just... I just needed to be sure. I needed to keep you safe. They don’t love you like I do. They don’t understand you like I do.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but behind them, you saw something unhinged. Something feral.

“You don’t have to run from me,” he pleaded, stepping closer. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Your phone was in your hand now, your finger hovering over the emergency call button.

He saw it.

Aiden lunged.

Hours later, you woke up to the feeling of soft fabric against your cheek. You were lying on a plush bed in a room you didn’t recognize. The windows were covered, the air filled with the faint scent of lavender and... him.

Aiden.

You tried to sit up, but your wrists were bound with silken ropes—tight enough to hold you, soft enough not to bruise.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Aiden’s voice cooed from the corner of the room. He stepped into view, his face illuminated by the faint glow of a bedside lamp.

“You’re safe now. No one can take you away from me here.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I love you so much. You understand that, don’t you?”

His eyes glistened with something almost holy, like he truly believed every word he said.

In that moment, you realized one thing with chilling certainty:

You belonged to him now.

And he was never going to let go.

#yandere #yandere blog #yandere boy #yandere male #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere boyfriend #soft boyfriend

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

She’s a Menace

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has to deal with quite a distraction while on his sim (or in which there are definitely worse reasons to crash than you on your knees in front of him)

Warnings: 18+ content

Note: Max Verstappen is a four-time World Drivers’ Champion, so I leave you with this in celebration

Max squints at the screen, the blue glow of the monitors highlighting the concentration etched on his face. The steady hum of his sim rig fills the room as he grips the steering wheel, eyes locked on the track ahead. The chat is already buzzing with excitement, a stream of messages flowing faster than the race itself.

He leans forward slightly, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pushes for the perfect line through the next corner. This is supposed to be a casual race with Team Redline, but Max never does anything halfway.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a flicker of movement. His heart stutters, but he keeps his gaze trained on the screen. Just focus. But then you’re there, slipping under his desk with the kind of stealth that makes him question how well he really knows you.

“Hey, what are you-” His voice is low, more of a mutter to himself as you settle in the cramped space, your hand resting lightly on his knee. He almost laughs at the absurdity, but then he feels the warmth of your palm through the fabric of his jeans, and his breath hitches.

“Max?” Your voice is sweet, innocent. The kind of innocent that makes his blood rush south.

“Not now,” he whispers harshly, trying to sound firm, but the effect is ruined by the way his voice catches on the last word. He clears his throat, gripping the wheel tighter. “I’m in the middle of a race.”

“I know,” you say, and he can practically hear the smile in your voice. “That’s why I’m here.”

His eyes flicker down for just a second — just a second — but it’s enough for him to miss his braking point. The car skids off track, and the chat explodes in a mixture of surprise and good-natured ribbing.

“Shit,” he mutters, jerking the wheel back to recover. He can hear his teammates’ voices through the headset, but they’re a distant buzz compared to the sensation of your fingers trailing up his thigh.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, trying to keep his voice low enough that it doesn’t pick up on the mic.

“Just helping,” you reply, your breath hot against his leg as you shift closer. “You seemed tense.”

“Tense?” He echoes, his voice tight with disbelief. “You’re not helping.”

“Are you sure?”

You lean in, your lips brushing against the inside of his knee, and he sucks in a sharp breath. His grip on the wheel falters, the car veering dangerously close to the edge of the track again.

“Stop,” he manages to say, but it’s more of a plea than a command. “Seriously, I-”

The next corner is coming up fast, too fast. He needs to focus, but then you lick a slow, deliberate line up his thigh, and it’s like every coherent thought evaporates from his brain. His foot jerks on the pedal, and the car slams into the wall with a crunch that makes him wince.

“Max, what the hell happened?” One of his teammates asks through the headset, genuine concern in his voice.

“Uh,” Max swallows, trying to keep his voice steady, “I think Sassy’s messing around. You know how she gets.”

“Sassy?” You repeat, muffling a laugh against his leg. “Really?”

Max doesn’t dare look down at you, his face burning as he tries to get the car back on track. “Yeah, Sassy,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s …you know …”

“A menace?” You offer, sliding your hand higher until it’s dangerously close to something that would definitely get picked up by the mic.

“Distracting,” he corrects, his voice cracking just slightly. “Very distracting.”

“Hmm.” You hum thoughtfully, your fingers tracing patterns that make his pulse race. “I thought you were good at handling distractions.”

Max clenches his teeth, trying to will away the flush spreading across his cheeks. “This is different,” he bites out, his knuckles white on the wheel. “You’re-”

He cuts off with a strangled noise as your lips brush against the zipper of his jeans. His head falls back for a split second, eyes squeezing shut. The chat is a blur, his teammates’ voices barely registering over the pounding of his heart.

“You okay there, Max?” Someone asks, clearly picking up on his unusual silence.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, forcing the words out in a breathless rush. “Just — Sassy’s really being a pain tonight.”

“Oh, Sassy’s being a pain, is she?” You tease, your fingers deftly working at his zipper.

Max’s heart leaps into his throat as he feels the fabric give way under your touch. “Don’t-” He starts, but it’s too late. You’re already working him free, your breath ghosting over his skin, and he feels like he might actually die right here, on stream, in front of thousands of people.

He can barely see the track now, his vision blurring at the edges as you take him into your mouth. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of your tongue drawing a low, involuntary groan from his chest. He tries to bite it back, but it slips out before he can stop it.

The sound of his own voice brings him back to reality with a jolt, and he scrambles to mute the mic before anyone can ask questions. He fumbles, nearly dropping the wheel in the process, but finally manages to switch off his headset.

“God, you’re going to kill me,” he gasps, his voice hoarse as he looks down at you.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re doing great, by the way. Really holding it together.”

“Barely,” he mutters, his hand slipping from the wheel to tangle in your hair. He knows he should stop you, that he should be focused on the race, but the way you’re looking at him — like this is all some delicious game — makes it impossible to think straight.

“You’re such a good driver, Max,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the tip of him, and his whole body jerks in response. “But I wonder how good you are at multitasking.”

“I’m not,” he breathes out, his hand tightening in your hair. “I’m really not.”

“Sure you are.” You smile against him, and the sensation sends a shiver down his spine. “You just need a little more practice.”

“I’m going to crash again,” he warns, but it’s weak, almost a whimper as you take him deeper.

“Mmm,” you hum around him, and his hips buck involuntarily, the wheel spinning out of his grip as the car careens off the track once more.

He bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood, but he can’t stop the moan that rumbles in his chest. “Fuck,” he mutters, his free hand gripping the edge of the desk like a lifeline. “Fuck, fuck-”

You pull back just enough to let your breath cool the wet skin, and his whole body shudders. “Max,” you purr, your voice a sinful mix of sweet and sultry. “What would Sassy think if she knew you were blaming her for this?”

“She-” His breath hitches as you lick a slow line up his length. “She would definitely not approve.”

“Maybe you should apologize to her later,” you suggest, and then you’re taking him back into your mouth, and he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but fall apart.

“Yeah,” he gasps out, the word barely audible as you suck harder, your hand sliding up to cup him in a way that makes his vision go white at the edges. “Definitely. Later.”

You hum in agreement, the vibrations driving him to the edge faster than he’d like to admit. He knows he’s losing control, knows that anyone paying attention to his stream can see how erratic his driving has become, but he can’t bring himself to care.

All that matters is you, your mouth on him, your tongue working him in ways that make his toes curl inside his socks. His head drops back against the chair, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets himself drown in the sensation.

“Fuck, you’re-” he chokes out, the words getting lost in a strangled moan as you take him even deeper, your nose brushing against the base of him. He feels the world tilt on its axis, the car crashing into the wall once more, but it’s a distant concern, something he can’t even begin to process right now.

His hand tightens in your hair, guiding you, urging you on as he teeters on the brink. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice a desperate rasp. “So close-”

But you already know, you always know, and the way you speed up, the way you suck him in like you’re starving for it, pushes him right over the edge. His whole body tenses, his hips jerking as he comes with a guttural moan that he knows would have been embarrassing if he weren’t so far gone.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again, the word shaky as you continue to work him through it, your movements slow and gentle now, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from him until he’s a boneless heap in his chair.

He’s vaguely aware of the game still running on the screen in front of him, the car idling against the wall, the chat a blur of confusion and speculation. But all he can think about is the way you’re licking him clean, your tongue gentle and deliberate as you savor every lingering moment of his release. His breath comes in shallow gasps, the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through his body, leaving him utterly spent.

“Jesus,” he finally manages, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His fingers slip from your hair, trailing down to rest on your shoulder. “You … I don’t even know what to say.”

You look up at him from beneath the desk, your eyes sparkling with mischief and something darker, more intimate. “Say thank you,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice as you place one final kiss on him before tucking him back into his jeans.

Max chuckles breathlessly, running a hand through his hair. “Thank you,” he echoes, but it’s more than just gratitude — it’s awe, admiration, an acknowledgment of just how thoroughly you’ve unraveled him.

“You’re welcome,” you purr, crawling out from under the desk with a grace that seems unfair, given what you’ve just done to him. As you straighten up, you brush a hand over your clothes, smoothing out any wrinkles as if you haven’t just reduced him to a quivering mess.

Max watches you, still dazed, as you take a seat on the edge of the desk, your fingers idly tracing the lines of the virtual steering wheel on the screen. “You should probably get back to your race,” you say casually, though the satisfied smirk on your lips tells him you know exactly what kind of chaos you’ve left in your wake.

“Race?” He blinks, trying to reconnect with reality. The reality where he’s supposed to be streaming, where thousands of people are watching, where he’s just crashed his car in the most embarrassing way possible. “Oh, fuck.”

You laugh softly, clearly enjoying his distress as he scrambles to put his headset back on. The game is still running, but the car is totaled, and his teammates are probably wondering why he’s been completely silent for the past few minutes.

Max clears his throat, trying to summon some semblance of professionalism as he un-mutes the mic. “Sorry, mates,” he says, his voice cracking slightly as he glances at the chat, which is now filled with endless variations of what happened? “Uh, Sassy … Sassy knocked something over. Had to deal with that.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, followed by the sound of someone barely holding back laughter. “Sassy, huh?” One of his teammates finally says, amusement clear in his voice. “Sure it wasn’t something else?”

“Yeah, mate, you sounded a bit — preoccupied,” another one chimes in, and Max can practically hear the grin in his voice.

Max shoots a glare in your direction, but you just smile sweetly, completely unrepentant. “Just a bit of a distraction,” he says, forcing a laugh that he hopes sounds natural. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Mmhmm,” his teammate replies, clearly unconvinced. “Well, whatever it was, you might want to keep it in check. You’re not exactly in winning form right now.”

Max groans internally, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll focus, promise.”

But as he puts his hands back on the wheel and tries to get back into the game, his thoughts are still swirling around what just happened, how thoroughly you’ve taken him apart and put him back together. He can feel the ghost of your touch on his skin, the way your lips felt against him, the sound of your voice whispering his name in that sinfully sweet tone.

You, however, seem entirely unbothered by the chaos you’ve caused. You hop off the desk and start to leave the room, but not before pausing in the doorway to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Oh, and Max?” You say, your voice just loud enough for the mic to catch it, ensuring that everyone in the stream hears. “Next time, don’t give our cat the credit for my handiwork.”

Max’s eyes widen in horror as the implications of what you’ve just said sink in, and the chat goes wild with speculation. He can’t believe you’ve just thrown that grenade and walked away, leaving him to deal with the fallout.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his face burning as he hears the barely suppressed laughter of his teammates through the headset. He quickly fumbles to mute his mic again, before the noise from the chat can start bleeding through his headphones.

From the other side of the house, you can hear Max still muttering, cursing under his breath as he tries to explain away what just happened, though it’s clear from the chaos in the chat that he’s not fooling anyone. You’re pretty sure “Sassy” is going to become the new code word among his fans for a long, long time.

You can’t help but smile to yourself as you walk away, already planning the next time you’ll disrupt his perfectly controlled world with a bit of your own brand of chaos. Because you know Max — no matter how much he complains, he secretly loves every minute of it.

***

Max clicks out of the game, his heart still racing — not from the competition, but from the aftermath of your little stunt. His teammates had ribbed him mercilessly for the rest of the race, making it impossible to focus, and he’d finally had to give up entirely when it became clear he was more liability than asset.

But that’s fine, he thinks, as he heads to your shared bedroom. You’d wanted to play, and now it’s his turn.

He pushes open the door quietly, the soft sound of your breathing drawing him in. You’re sprawled out on the bed, lounging in a silk robe that clings to your curves in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. One leg is draped lazily over the edge, your foot brushing against the floor, and your head is tilted back against the pillows, eyes half-closed in what looks like pure satisfaction.

Max pauses in the doorway, taking in the sight of you. The low light casts a warm glow over your skin, making the fabric of your robe shimmer as it catches the subtle movement of your body. You don’t see him at first, too caught up in your own thoughts, and he uses that moment to just watch you, to drink in every detail.

He’s still not entirely sure how he got so lucky, how he ended up with someone who could turn his world upside down with just a look, a touch, a whispered word. But he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’d taken control earlier, had driven him to the brink of insanity with your teasing, your lips, your tongue … but now, now it’s his turn.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, his voice low, almost a growl, as he steps into the room. You startle slightly, eyes snapping open, but then you relax, a slow, lazy smile spreading across your lips.

“Immensely,” you reply, stretching like a cat, your robe parting just enough to give him a tantalizing glimpse of what’s underneath. “Though I was wondering when you’d finish up in there. Took you long enough.”

Max’s eyes narrow, though there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re awfully confident for someone who just crashed me into a wall in front of thousands of people.”

You laugh softly, completely unrepentant, as you prop yourself up on one elbow. “You needed to be taken down a peg. I figured I was doing the world a favor.”

“Oh, is that right?” He crosses the room, his gaze dark and intent, and you shift slightly under the intensity of it, though you don’t look away. “Well, I think it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before he reaches the walk-in closet, pulling open the door and flicking on the light. The space is meticulously organized — suits, Red Bull-branded shirts, shoes all lined up with military precision. But it’s the back corner that interests him tonight, the small, nondescript box that he keeps tucked away behind a row of neatly hung jackets.

He retrieves it with a sense of satisfaction, running his fingers over the smooth wood before he opens it. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, are the toys he’s collected over time. Some are simple, others more complex, but each one has a purpose, a particular use that he knows will drive you wild.

He hears you shift on the bed, a small rustle of fabric as you sit up a bit straighter, curiosity piqued. He doesn’t turn around just yet, letting the anticipation build as he selects a few choice items, things he knows you love, things he knows you can’t resist.

When he finally turns back to you, the box in hand, your eyes widen slightly, and you bite your lower lip — a telltale sign that your confident façade is starting to crack. Good.

“What are you planning to do with those?” You ask, though your voice wavers just enough to give away the thrill that’s running through you.

Max sets the box down on the bed beside you, his gaze never leaving your face as he leans in close, so close that you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin. “I’m going to make you beg,” he says simply, the words a promise, a challenge.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down, your eyes locked with his as you try to maintain some semblance of control. “You can try,” you whisper, though the defiance in your voice is already weakening.

He doesn’t respond with words — he doesn’t need to. Instead, he reaches for the silk tie at your waist, slowly, deliberately tugging it loose until the robe falls open, exposing the soft, bare skin beneath. You shiver as the cool air hits your body, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes rake over you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

Max takes his time, tracing a finger down the line of your collarbone, over the curve of your breast, the flat plane of your stomach. You watch him, transfixed, your breathing growing shallow as his touch ignites a fire beneath your skin.

When he finally reaches for one of the toys — a sleek, slim vibrator that he knows you love — you feel a surge of anticipation, your body already responding to the thought of what’s to come.

He clicks it on, the low hum filling the room, and you can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips as he trails it along the inside of your thigh, just teasing, just enough to make you squirm. “Max …” you breathe, your voice shaky, and he smiles, a slow, wicked smile that sends a thrill of both excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips. “We’re just getting started.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he presses the vibrator against you, right where you’re most sensitive, the sudden burst of pleasure making you cry out, your hips bucking instinctively against the pressure. But Max holds you in place, his grip firm, his eyes never leaving your face as he watches your every reaction.

“Look at you,” he whispers, almost to himself, his voice filled with something akin to awe as he takes in the way your body responds to his touch, the way you can’t help but arch against him, your hands clutching at the sheets. “So beautiful …”

You can’t form a coherent response, your mind too clouded with pleasure, too focused on the way the vibrator is driving you closer and closer to the edge. But Max isn’t done with you — not even close.

He switches to a lower setting, drawing out the sensation, making you writhe beneath him as he pushes you to the brink but refuses to let you fall over it. “Max, please …” you whimper, your voice barely more than a breath, but he only chuckles, clearly enjoying the way you’re already coming undone beneath him.

“Not yet,” he says, his tone teasing, as he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that’s as much about control as it is about passion. You can feel the smirk on his lips as he swallows your desperate moans, the vibrations from the toy matching the rhythm of his kiss, each one driving you closer to that sweet release.

But he doesn’t let you have it. Not yet.

He pulls back, the vibrator slipping away just as you’re about to tip over the edge, leaving you gasping, trembling with need. You make a small sound of protest, your body arching towards him, but he only smiles, a look of pure satisfaction on his face as he watches you struggle to catch your breath.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” He asks, his voice low and husky as he reaches for something else from the box — a small, delicate clamp that he knows will drive you wild. He catches one of your nipples between his fingers, rolling it gently before attaching the clamp, the sharp sting of it sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you.

You cry out, your hands fisting in the sheets as the sensation takes over, and he doesn’t give you a moment to recover before he attaches the other one, his hands firm and steady even as you squirm beneath him.

“Max … Max, please …” you beg, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them, but he only shakes his head, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, panting, utterly at his mercy.

“Not until you’re screaming for me,” he says, his voice a promise, a threat, as he turns the vibrator back on, this time at a higher setting, pressing it against you with enough force to make you see stars.

It’s too much, too intense, the pleasure building and building until you’re on the verge of breaking, but Max holds you there, right on the edge, refusing to let you fall until you’re practically sobbing with need.

“Please, Max, please …” you cry, your voice broken, desperate, and finally, finally, he relents, his hand moving faster, the vibrations intensifying until you’re shattering beneath him, your entire body convulsing with the force of your release.

You scream his name, the sound ripping from your throat as the pleasure crashes over you, wave after wave, until you’re left trembling, barely able to catch your breath. Max doesn’t let up, his hand steady, relentless, pushing you through one orgasm and into the next until you’re nothing but a quivering, incoherent mess beneath him.

When he finally pulls back, turning off the vibrator and removing the clamps with a gentleness that’s at odds with the intensity of what just happened, you’re too spent to even lift your head. Your body feels like it’s made of jelly, every nerve ending still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Max watches you for a moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, before he leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, as if he’s trying to bring you back down from the high he just sent you to. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from your face, and you lean into the touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to steady your breathing.

You’re too tired to respond, too worn out to even think about moving, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He moves off the bed, and you hear the soft rustle of fabric as he picks up the discarded toys, the quiet click as he puts them away in the box.

When he returns to your side, he’s holding a bottle of water, and he gently lifts your head, pressing the cool rim of the bottle to your lips. You take a sip, the water refreshing as it slides down your throat, and Max gives you a small smile, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a tender gesture.

“Feeling better?” He asks, his tone lighter now, teasing, as he sits down beside you on the bed. You nod, still too exhausted to speak, and he chuckles softly, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not going to try that again anytime soon, are you?” He raises an eyebrow as he leans back against the headboard, one arm draped casually over your shoulders. There’s no real edge to his words, no anger — just a quiet amusement, as if he’s already looking forward to the next time you challenge him.

You manage a weak smile, your head resting against his chest as you let out a soft, contented sigh. “I might,” you murmur, your voice still a little shaky, but there’s a hint of defiance in it, a spark that tells him you’re not completely defeated.

Max laughs at that, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through his chest and into your ear, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm. “We’ll see about that,” he says, his voice warm and full of affection.

For a while, the two of you just sit there, wrapped in the comfortable silence that only comes after something so intimate, so intense. Max’s hand never stops moving, his touch soothing and grounding as he holds you close, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, you let out a soft sigh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You’re too good to me,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, but the words are full of gratitude, of love.

Max’s gaze softens, and he leans down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a gentle caress. “I love you,” he says simply, and the words are so full of sincerity, of emotion, that they take your breath away.

You smile against his lips, your heart swelling with warmth as you snuggle closer, feeling safe, cherished, and utterly content. “I love you too,” you whisper back, and for a moment, the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, blissful bubble.

Max holds you like that for a while longer, until your breathing evens out, and you start to drift off to sleep. He shifts slightly, pulling the covers up over you and tucking them in around your body with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

Just as you’re about to fall asleep, you hear him murmur something, his voice low and full of affection. “Rest now,” he says, his fingers brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

And with that, you finally allow yourself to relax completely, letting the warmth of his embrace and the soft, steady beat of his heart lull you into a deep, peaceful sleep.

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moonlightwritingf1 · 6 months ago

Text

The Ultimate Distraction | LN4

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N and Lando, a new couple just a month into their relationship, are still exploring the exciting depths of their connection, both emotionally and physically. While visiting Lando’s apartment in Monaco, Y/N finds herself craving his attention late one night as he’s absorbed in a gaming session in the room next to his bedroom. Unable to resist her desire, she decides to surprise him by slipping under his desk.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 word count ━━━━━━━ 1.5k

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content

The soft glow of Lando’s gaming monitor cast shadows across the room, illuminating his focused expression as his fingers danced over the keyboard. He was in the zone, his racing game demanding every ounce of his attention. The hum of the PC and the occasional click of the mouse were the only sounds breaking the silence of the late Monaco night.

Y/n lay in bed just a room away, staring at the ceiling. He’s been at it for hours, she thought, her pulse quickening with a mix of frustration and desire. She had tried to distract herself, scrolling through her phone, reading a book, even attempting to sleep. But the memory of Lando’s hands on her skin, the way he whispered her name when they were alone together, kept pulling her back.

She shifted in bed, feeling the heat building between her thighs. I want him. The thought was insistent, almost maddening. She glanced at the clock—it was past midnight. And there he was, still glued to his PC, oblivious to the world outside his screen.

Enough waiting.

With a determined breath, Y/n slipped out of bed, her bare feet padding softly across the cool floor. She wore nothing but one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts, the fabric brushing against her thighs as she moved toward his room. Her heart pounded in her chest, not from nervousness, but from anticipation. She knew exactly what she wanted.

Lando didn’t notice her at first, too engrossed in his game. His headset blocked out any sound, his eyes locked on the monitor as he navigated a tricky corner on the virtual track. Y/n paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, the faint scruff on his jaw, the way his lips twitched into a small smirk when he nailed a perfect drift—it all stirred something deep inside her.

He’s so hot when he’s focused like this.

Without a word, she dropped to her knees and crawled under his desk, the space cramped but manageable. Lando’s legs were bracketed by the chair, his jeans-clad thighs inches from her face. She could smell his cologne, subtle but intoxicating, mingling with the faint musk of his body. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the button of his jeans, her breath hitching when she felt the warmth radiating from him.

Lando froze mid-game, his hand hovering over the mouse. “What the—” he started, his voice muffled by the headset. He leaned back slightly, trying to peer under the desk. “Y/n? What are you doing?”

She looked up at him, her eyes glinting with mischief in the dim light. “Shh,” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. “Keep playing.”

“Wait, what?” he stammered, his voice higher than usual. But before he could protest further, Y/n undid his jeans and pulled them down just enough to free his hardening length. Her warm breath ghosted over his skin, and Lando’s breath hitched.

“Jesus, Y/n,” he muttered, his grip tightening on the edge of the desk. But instead of stopping her, he found himself unable to move, trapped between shock and arousal.

Y/n didn’t give him time to think. She leaned forward, her lips wrapping around him in one smooth motion. Lando let out a strangled groan, his head falling back against the chair. “Fuck,” he hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily.

But Y/n wasn’t done teasing him. She pulled back slowly, her tongue tracing the sensitive underside of his shaft before taking him into her mouth again, deeper this time. Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking in tandem with her mouth, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

“Y/n, I can’t—” Lando started, his voice strained. He fumbled for the headset, tugging it off and letting it dangle around his neck. “You’re going to make me lose.”

“Then don’t lose,” she murmured, her lips still pressed against him. She gazed up at him through her lashes, her eyes dark with desire. “Keep playing.”

Lando groaned, torn between the game and the woman currently driving him out of his mind. His hand hovered over the keyboard, unsure whether to keep going or surrender completely. But Y/n’s insistence was impossible to ignore. With a shaky breath, he turned his attention back to the screen, his fingers trembling slightly as they resumed their position.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he sounded wrecked already.

Y/n smirked, her lips curving around him as she picked up the pace. Her tongue swirled around the tip, eliciting another sharp intake of breath from Lando. She could feel him struggling to focus, his movements on the keyboard growing sloppier with each passing second.

“Concentrate,” she teased, her voice low and sultry. “Unless you want to crash.”

Lando gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. “You’re making this fucking impossible,” he growled, though his resolve was clearly crumbling.

She hummed in response, the vibration sending a thrill through him. Her hand tightened around his shaft, her strokes becoming faster, more insistent. Lando’s breathing grew ragged, his concentration shattered as pleasure overwhelmed him.

“Y/n, I’m serious,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you don’t stop—”

She didn’t let him finish. Instead, she took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate him. Lando swore under his breath, his hips bucking instinctively. The controller slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the desk as he reached for her hair, tangling his fingers in the strands.

“Fuck the game,” he muttered, his voice rough with need. But Y/n pulled back, her lips slick and swollen as she looked up at him with a mischievous grin.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re not quitting. Not yet.”

She leaned forward again, this time flicking her tongue against the sensitive spot just beneath the head, eliciting a shuddering moan from Lando. Her hand moved in sync with her mouth, her strokes deliberate and slow, dragging him closer to the edge without letting him fall.

“Y/n,” he gasped, his free hand clutching at the armrest of his chair. “I can’t—you’re killing me.”

She ignored his plea, her focus entirely on him. Her lips sealed around him once more, her tongue swirling as she took him deeper, pushing herself further than before. Lando’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to maintain control.

On the screen, his car veered off the track, spinning out in a cloud of virtual dust. Lando didn’t even notice, too consumed by the sensations coursing through him. His fingers clenched in her hair, gently guiding her movements, urging her to take him even deeper.

“So good,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “God, you’re so fucking good at this.”

Y/n responded by hollowing her cheeks, the suction intensifying as she increased the pressure. Her hand moved faster, matching the rhythm of her mouth, every stroke bringing him closer to the edge. She could feel him trembling beneath her, his thighs tense, his breath hitching with every pass of her tongue.

“Y/n, I’m close,” he warned, his voice strained. “Too close.”

But instead of pulling back, she doubled down, her mouth working him with relentless precision. Her other hand reached up to fondle him, her fingers grazing over sensitive flesh, pressing against him in just the right way. Lando’s grip on her hair tightened, his body tensing as pleasure coiled tightly in his core.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips bucking upward, unable to hold back any longer. “Y/n, I—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her mouth enveloped him completely, swallowing him as he finally gave in to the overwhelming sensation, waves of pleasure crashing over him. His entire body stiffened, his release spilling into her waiting mouth, each pulse accompanied by a choked gasp from his lips.

For a moment, everything was still, the only sound in the room Lando’s ragged breathing as he slumped back in his chair, utterly spent. Y/n pulled back slowly, her lips brushing against him one last time before she settled back on her heels, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

“Told you,” she said softly, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “You didn’t have to stop playing.”

Lando stared at her, his chest still heaving, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. “You’re unbelievable,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse. He reached for her, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped her cheek. “Come here.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes locking with his, before crawling out from under the desk and standing up. Lando wasted no time, pulling her into his lap and capturing her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hands roamed over her body, eager to return the favor, to show her just how much she affected him.

But Y/n pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss with a soft laugh. “Not yet,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down his chest. “You still haven’t finished your race.”

He groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, though there was no real malice in his tone.

She smirked, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “Then consider me your favorite executioner.”

852 notes · View notes

w1w2 · 3 months ago

Text

Twin

Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 13k

Synopsis: After leaving Jennie before their debut, Y/N never truly moved on. But when she hears Jennie’s latest song, old wounds resurface along with unanswered questions. Will they finally face the past they never truly left behind?

Requested by Anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The dim glow of the studio monitors cast long, flickering shadows across the empty room. The only sound was the soft hum of the speakers, filling the space with something hauntingly familiar. Y/N sat motionless before the mixing board, fingers resting against the cool metal fader, her other hand curled into a loose fist on her lap.

A slow inhale. A sharp exhale.

She had produced this track for an artist under SM, a rising soloist with a delicate voice, the kind that carried emotion effortlessly. But no matter how hard she tried to separate herself from it, the song was not theirs.

It was hers.

The chord progression, the way the notes stretched like fingertips reaching for something already gone, the way the vocalist’s voice wavered, just barely, on the high notes. It wasn’t just music. It was a memory.

The kind of song that felt like déjà vu, like standing in the middle of a dream where you already knew the ending but wished, desperately, that this time it would be different.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Y/N allowed herself to sink into it.

And then the chorus hit.

Her breath caught, the sound cutting through her like glass. The ache in the melody, it wasn’t just familiar. It was identical.

Identical to the way Jennie’s voice used to tremble at 2 AM when exhaustion pressed too heavily on her bones. Identical to the way she used to hum mindlessly between practice sessions, back when they were just kids chasing a dream too big for their hands.

Identical to the way she had sounded the night Y/N walked away. A phantom pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and unforgiving.

Jennie.

The name echoed through her mind like an unfinished lyric.

Before she could stop herself, Y/N’s fingers twitched against the console and pressed pause. The silence that followed was deafening. A deep, suffocating kind of silence, the kind that filled the spaces where words were never said.

The kind Jennie had left behind.

Y/N swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if it would push back the burn in her eyes. She had spent years perfecting the art of walking away, leaving the past where it belonged.

But some things, no matter how much time passed, never really left.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her pulse still uneven from the song that had been playing just moments ago. The weight in her chest hadn’t lifted, it had only settled deeper, like an anchor dragging her down.

Without thinking, she turned away from the soundboard, her gaze landing on the wooden desk drawer beside her. A familiar habit. A dangerous one.

Her fingers hesitated for only a second before curling around the handle.

The drawer creaked open.

Inside, a neat stack of envelopes lay in quiet confession. The edges were worn, yellowing slightly with age, some folded so many times the creases had nearly torn through the paper. A graveyard of words left unsaid.

Letters.

Dozens of them, written in moments of weakness. Moments when the silence was too loud. When she had wanted to reach out but couldn’t. When she had almost broken her promise to stay gone.

Her fingertips ghosted over the stack, tracing the curves of her own handwriting on the front of each envelope. Always addressed to the same person.

Back then, writing had been the only thing that kept her from drowning. Because if she wrote to Jennie, she could pretend, just for a little while, that Jennie was still listening.

Her hand wavered before settling on the letter at the very top.

The first one.

She had written it the night she left. Alone in a hotel room, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked window, the world outside moving forward while she sat frozen in place.

She lifted the fragile paper, its corners slightly curled, the ink smudged in places where her hands had gripped it too tightly. Her handwriting was smaller than usual, hesitant. As if even the letters had known they weren’t meant to reach their destination.

But she didn’t need to open it. She already knew what it said.

Jennie, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I need you to know. I never wanted to leave you…

Her chest tightened.

The words had felt like a confession then. Now, they felt like a wound that never fully healed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the letter so tightly it crumpled slightly between her fingers. How pathetic was this? After all these years, Jennie’s name still had this power over her.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

Y/N inhaled sharply, stuffing the letter back into the drawer, slamming it shut before turning around. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just been holding the past in her hands.

The knock had barely faded when the door creaked open.

“Y/N, you in here?”

Minhyuk stood in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, a takeout coffee in the other. His usual easygoing expression was tinged with something more hesitant today, like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.

“You didn’t answer my messages,” he said, stepping inside and placing the coffee on the desk. “Figured you were drowning in work again.”

Y/N forced a small smile. “Lost track of time.”

“Figured.” He gestured to the screens. “You working on the final mix for the new soloist?”

“Yeah, just tightening up the chorus.” She reached for the coffee, grateful for the excuse to keep her hands busy. The warmth seeped through the cup, grounding her.

Minhyuk hummed in approval, but then his gaze flickered, just for a second, toward the drawer she had shut only moments ago. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he’d noticed her tension.

And then, just as she was about to steer the conversation back to work, he said it.

“Oh, have you heard? Jennie Kim is releasing an album.”

Y/N froze, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

Minhyuk didn’t notice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. “You must’ve heard about it. Everyone’s been talking about it since Mantra dropped. But there are rumors that the album includes a really personal song.”

Her stomach twisted.

She pressed her lips together, keeping her expression neutral. “Good for her.”

Minhyuk took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. “Looks like it’s gonna be a big one.”

Y/N nodded, forcing herself to appear indifferent. “She always does well.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but there was something searching in his gaze, something cautious. “It’s just… a lot of people are saying it’s different this time. That it’s, like, deeply personal.” He paused, as if debating whether to say more. “Some fans think that one of the songs is about someone specific. Her ex to be exact.”

The words hit her somewhere deep, but she refused to let them show. Instead, she let out a small, dry laugh. “Fans say a lot of things.”

Minhyuk studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head with a smirk. “You really never crack, huh?”

She only shrugged.

Minhyuk hesitated but didn’t push further. Instead, he tapped his tablet against his palm. “Anyway, we have a meeting in twenty. Thought I’d remind you before you bury yourself in work again.”

“I’ll be there,” she assured him.

With that, he nodded and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The room fell silent again.

Y/N let out a slow breath, turning back to the desk. Her gaze fell to the drawer, the one that held years of words she never said, years of pain she never let herself feel.

She didn’t reach for it this time.

Instead, she grabbed her headphones and pressed play on the track she had been working on. She drowned out the silence with music.

The track she had been working on filled the studio, soft yet aching, each note stretching like a half-formed memory. It was a good song, melancholic, intentional, but something about it felt unfinished. Like a letter that trailed off before the final words.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes flickering to the coffee Minhyuk had left behind. The steam had faded, but the scent still lingered, warm, familiar. It reminded her of another time, another studio.

A different cup of coffee, set beside a messy pile of lyric sheets. Fingers wrapped around hers, a quiet giggle in the dimly lit room.

"Here, try mine. You’ll like it better."

A decade had passed, but the memory was still sharp. Y/N let her eyes close, just for a moment, letting it pull her under.

And just like that, she was back.

The YG practice rooms were never truly quiet.

Even at 3 AM, the building still pulsed with life. Music drifted through the halls, some tracks half-finished, others playing on a loop as trainees pushed through exhaustion. Sneakers scuffed against polished floors. Distant voices hummed unfinished melodies, notes blending into the steady hum of the air conditioning.

Inside one of those rooms, Y/N sat with her back against the mirror, legs stretched out in front of her, damp strands of hair clinging to her skin. Her limbs were sore, but it was the kind of ache that felt good. The kind that reminded her she was getting closer.

Across from her, Jennie lay sprawled on the floor, arms stretched wide, her chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. She was still catching her breath from their last run-through, sweat glistening at her temples.

“We’re insane,” Y/N muttered, tilting her head against the cool glass. “It’s literally the middle of the night.”

Jennie turned her head, dark eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. “So? You’re still here.”

Y/N huffed, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure you don’t pass out from overworking yourself.”

Jennie grinned, slow and lazy, rolling onto her side to face her. “That’s cute. You think you’re the responsible one.”

Y/N nudged her shin with the tip of her shoe. “Shut up.”

Jennie laughed, that soft, breathy sound that Y/N had grown to love. It wasn’t the polished laugh Jennie used for cameras, nor the teasing one she shared with their members in training. No, this was different, quieter, realer, something only meant for moments like this.

The room settled into silence, the kind that stretched without pressure.The track they had been practicing to had ended long ago, but neither of them moved to play another.

With Jennie, silence never felt empty. It wasn’t the kind that begged to be filled with meaningless words or restless movements. Instead, it settled around them like a familiar melody, unspoken, but understood.

Jennie shifted beside her, pushing herself up onto her elbows, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling.

"Do you ever think about it?"

Y/N turned her head slightly, studying the way Jennie’s expression softened in thought. "Think about what?"

Jennie let out a slow breath, her voice quieter now. "The future. What it’s going to be like when we debut."

Y/N smirked, tilting her head.

"When, huh? Not if?"

Jennie turned to her then, one brow arched, eyes sharp despite her exhaustion. "Are you planning to fail?"

Y/N chuckled, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "Fair point."

Jennie rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the small smile playing at her lips. "Come on, just humor me."

Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the mirror, pretending to think. “Alright. Let’s see… We debut, obviously. Become the biggest girl group in Korea. You’ll be the ace. Rap, vocals, visuals, everything. I’ll be the chaotic fan favorite.”

Jennie let out a quiet snort, shaking her head in amusement.

"Obviously."

Y/N’s grin widened. "We’ll travel the world, win Daesangs, perform at Coachella… make history." She said it like it was inevitable, like the universe had already carved their names into the stars.

Jennie’s smile softened, the teasing glint in her eyes fading into something quieter, something more fragile. She hesitated, just for a second, before murmuring, "Together?"

Y/N’s breath caught.

It was one word, simple, almost careless. But it wasn’t casual. Not when Jennie was looking at her like that, like the answer meant everything. Like Jennie was asking about more than just debuting.

Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The air between them felt heavier, warmer, charged with something unspoken.

She wet her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Together.”

Jennie held her gaze for a second longer before dropping her head back against the floor with a soft sigh.

“Good,” she whispered.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Their bodies were exhausted, but their hearts felt light. They were young, stupid, reckless, and completely convinced they could take on the world.

The countdown to debut should have been the most exciting time of their lives. Instead, it was suffocating.

Every morning began with a weigh-in. The number on the scale determined everything, how much they ate, how much they trained, how much they were worth in the eyes of the company. If it wasn’t low enough, there were consequences. Extra hours of cardio. Meals taken away. A warning that they were replaceable.

“Idols don’t have baby fat,” the trainers would sneer. “You either lose it, or you lose your spot.”

Y/N quickly learned how to quiet her hunger, how to sip on ice water until the gnawing in her stomach became something distant, something easier to ignore. Jennie was better at pretending it didn’t bother her, but Y/N saw the way she gripped the sink each morning, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Then came the rehearsals.

16-hour training days that stretched long into the night. Choreographers drilled them relentlessly, barking corrections that burned like lashes across their skin.

“Again. Again. Again.”

It didn’t matter if their legs shook from exhaustion, if their bodies screamed for rest, they weren’t allowed to stop. Mistakes weren’t tolerated. Trainees who couldn’t keep up disappeared without warning.

Evaluations were worse.

Every month, they stood in a cold, silent room while executives picked them apart like livestock at an auction. Their singing, their dancing, their faces, their bodies, everything was up for scrutiny.

“Your voice lacks color.” “Your expressions are lifeless.” “Your thighs are still too thick.”

Each critique carved into them, piece by piece, until they were hollow enough to be filled with whatever the company wanted them to be.

Privacy was a luxury they no longer had. Cameras watched their every move, managers monitored their diets, and every word they spoke felt like it could be overheard. They weren’t just trainees, they were investments, carefully molded into perfection. People stopped seeing them as girls with dreams and started seeing them as future idols, marketable and polished.

At first, Y/N convinced herself it was all part of the process. The exhaustion, the hunger, the bruises, just stepping stones on the path to success. Endure it now, and the reward will come later.

Jennie believed that, too.

“It’s just for now,” she’d murmur against Y/N’s temple in the quiet hours of the night, when the world outside the practice room ceased to exist. “Once we debut, it’ll get better.”

In those stolen moments, half-asleep, bodies aching, they allowed themselves to dream. They whispered about the future, about the world tours they’d conquer, the awards they’d win, the music they’d make together.

"Just a little longer," Jennie would say, fingers brushing against Y/N’s wrist, grounding them both. "We’re so close."

And Y/N wanted, desperately, to believe her.

But it didn’t get better.

The closer they got to debut, the worse it became. Training days stretched into sleepless nights, their bodies pushed beyond their limits, their minds fraying at the edges. Hunger settled in their bones, exhaustion blurred the weeks together, and there was no room to stop, no space to breathe.

Speaking out wasn’t an option. Complaining wasn’t tolerated. Refusing wasn’t allowed. Instead, they were met with the same cold reminder.

“Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?”

So Y/N forced herself to keep going. She swallowed down her doubts, shoved away her exhaustion, ignored the nagging voice in her head that whispered, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

And then the rumors started.

Trainees gossiping in hushed voices, stolen glances from staff members, managers suddenly checking their phones more often when Jennie and Y/N were around.

At first, they ignored it.

Rumors were always circulating in YG. Someone was dating. Someone was getting kicked out. Someone had secretly undergone plastic surgery. It was just noise, the kind that came with living under constant surveillance.

But this time, the whispers followed them wherever they went.

“Did you hear?” “I thought they were just close, but…” “They’re reckless. Don’t they know how strict the company is?”

Jennie brushed it off, insisting it would pass. But Y/N saw the way she glanced over her shoulder more often, how her fingers hesitated before reaching for Y/N’s hand when no one was looking.

Then, the instructors started watching them more closely.

At first, it was just glances, lingering a second too long, a shift in tone, corrections that felt more like warnings. Then, it became something else. Their critiques grew sharper, no longer about technique but about image. Something had changed. Someone had been watching.

One night, as they were gathering their things after practice, a voice cut through the air.

"Jennie. Y/N. The executives want to see you."

A slow, sinking feeling settled in Y/N’s stomach, heavy and inescapable.

They knew.

The office was eerily silent when they stepped inside, the kind of silence that made it impossible to breathe. A long table stretched before them, lined with YG’s higher-ups, their faces blank, detached, impossible to read. The air was thick with something unspoken, pressing against Y/N’s ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.

Jennie sat beside her, back rigid, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to.

One of the executives leaned forward, threading his fingers together, his voice slow and measured, as if he were delivering nothing more than a routine business report. "We’ve been hearing things."

Y/N felt her pulse quicken, the cold weight in her stomach turning to ice.

"Things that cannot be tolerated."

The words were devoid of emotion, as if everything they had given, the sleepless nights, the injuries, the sacrifices, meant nothing in the face of company policy. It didn’t matter that they had spent years molding themselves into perfection, shaping every breath, every movement, every thought to fit into the carefully curated image of an idol.

As if they were disposable. As if they hadn’t bled for this dream.

"You know the rules."

No dating. No distractions. No personal lives. The meaning was clear. Idols belonged to the company. Not to themselves.

Jennie inhaled sharply beside her, the sound barely audible, but Y/N could feel the way she tensed, her fingers twitching slightly before curling into fists.

She already knew what they were going to say, but still, when the words came, they hit like a knife straight to the gut.

"End it."

Jennie didn’t move. She didn’t argue, didn’t beg, didn’t fight, not here, not in front of them, but Y/N could feel the way her body locked beside her, the way her breath turned unsteady, the way her silence screamed louder than any words ever could.

"If this continues, there will be consequences."

It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.

Silence stretched between them, suffocating, unyielding. Y/N forced herself to lift her gaze, to meet their eyes even as her throat burned with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

Debut or love.

They weren’t allowed to have both.

The practice room was empty, yet the air felt thick, pressing down on them like a weight neither of them could shake. The mirrors stretched endlessly around them, reflecting back the ghosts of everything they had been, everything they were about to lose.

Jennie sat cross legged on the floor, her head bowed, strands of dark hair falling over her face like a curtain. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers curled too tightly, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Y/N stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, but it did nothing to stop the unraveling.

It was almost cruel.

This room had been their sanctuary once. The place where late night practices blurred into whispered dreams, where exhaustion faded into laughter, where stolen moments made all the suffering feel worthwhile. Now, it would be the place where it all ended.

Jennie exhaled slowly, but Y/N could hear the tremble in it.

"Stay with me."

The words were soft, barely more than a breath, but they struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to.

But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t keep starving, breaking, hiding. Couldn’t keep swallowing herself whole just to fit inside someone else’s mold. Couldn’t keep hoping for a future that had never really been theirs to begin with.

Jennie lifted her gaze then, eyes glossy, filled with something raw and desperate.

"Just a little longer."

Her voice cracked, splintering at the edges, and Y/N felt something inside her shatter along with it.

That was all Jennie had ever asked of her. Just a little longer. Just a little more pain. Just a little more sacrifice. Just a little more of herself.

But what was left of her to give?

Jennie was built for this world. Born to endure. Made to shine. She could withstand the pain, the hunger, the scrutiny, because she saw something beyond it, something worth all the suffering. Y/N didn’t. Not anymore.

Her throat tightened. She forced herself to swallow, to breathe, to push past the ache clawing at her ribs.

"I can’t."

Jennie flinched, a sharp inhale, like she’d been struck.

Silence stretched between them, heavy, unbearable. Y/N’s body screamed at her to take it back, to say anything to ease the hurt in Jennie’s eyes, to promise that they would find a way to survive this.

But Jennie said nothing.

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to fight, to beg, to convince Y/N to hold on just a little longer, but the words never came. Slowly, her shoulders dropped, her fingers loosened, her posture crumbled just enough for Y/N to see the heartbreak bleeding through the cracks.

And Y/N knew.

Jennie would never beg. Not for this. Not even for her.

Even with unshed tears clinging to her lashes, Jennie was still Jennie Kim. Poised, composed, unshakable. The girl who was meant to stand beneath the brightest lights, adored by millions.

Y/N had never felt smaller. She took a step back. Then another.

Jennie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She wouldn’t stop her. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she loved her too much to make her stay.

At the door, Y/N hesitated. She looked back at the girl who had been her best friend, her first love, her home. She wanted to say something, anything, to make this hurt less.

But there was nothing.

So she turned and walked away. Jennie didn’t call after her.

The memory lived in the back of her mind, untouched for years, buried beneath time and distance. But some things never truly fade. Some moments linger, surfacing when least expected, like now, as she stood in her apartment, heart pounding, breath unsteady.

Y/N wasn’t running. Not really.

She told herself that over and over again as she threw a few essentials into a duffel bag, grabbed her headphones, and booked the earliest train out of the city. This wasn’t avoidance. It was just… space. A temporary retreat. A weekend to breathe.

But even as the train pulled out of Seoul Station, she could still feel it, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, the buzz of the city trailing after her like a shadow. It was inescapable.

Jennie Kim had finally released her first full-length solo album, and the world was losing its mind.

Seoul had been unbearable today, an electric storm of flashing billboards, trending hashtags, and endless conversations orbiting around one person. It didn’t matter where she went, studios, streets, every screen, every voice, every radio station played the same name on repeat.

Jennie. Jennie. Jennie.

The Jennie Kim. Global icon. Record breaking artist. The kind of star who didn’t just shine, she burned, leaving an imprint on everything she touched.

The album had dropped at midnight, and the industry had erupted.

Critics were already calling it a masterpiece, the kind of project that defined not just a career, but an era. Fans flooded social media, dissecting every track, every lyric, every hidden meaning buried in Jennie’s music. Industry giants were hailing it as one of the most important albums of the decade.

Y/N had spent years in the industry herself, just on the other side of it. She knew exactly what today meant.

And she wanted no part of it.

For years, she had kept her head down, working behind the scenes as a producer, crafting music for idols who still had stars in their eyes. She had built a name for herself in a different way, one that didn’t demand cameras flashing in her face, one that let her create without suffocating under the expectations that came with it.

She had done everything right. She had moved forward. She had left that life, that dream, that person behind.

And yet, no matter how much distance she put between herself and the past, some things never really let go.

So she left.

Booked a train ticket to Busan, let Seoul shrink behind her, let the rhythmic hum of the tracks drown out the noise in her head. Maybe, if she was lucky, a different sky, a different city would quiet the ache that still refused to fade.

The waves stretched lazily toward her feet before slipping away again, their rhythm steady, hypnotic. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of grilled seafood and coffee drifting from the boardwalk behind her. Somewhere in the distance, the city hummed, soft, unobtrusive, distant enough to fade into the background.

Busan was quieter than Seoul, but even here, life pulsed on. Couples wandered along the shore, their laughter carried by the wind. A few kids chased each other near the water, their shrieks of joy rising over the waves.

Y/N stayed where she was, hoodie pulled low over her face, sneakers half buried in the cool sand. She had been sitting here for hours, watching the sky melt from soft blue to gold, then to dusky pink.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dim, playing through an old-school R&B playlist. The kind of music that had always been a comfort. Something soft. Something familiar. Something that didn’t hurt.

Ashanti’s voice drifted through her earbuds, blending seamlessly with the crash of the tide. She wasn’t really listening. The songs bled together, fading into the background, nothing more than a quiet hum to fill the silence.

She let her mind drift, let the wind pull at the loose strands of her hair, let herself breathe. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing pressing down on her chest.

And then.

"It’s like I’m writing a letter And I put in a twelve-ounce bottle of Heineken…"

Y/N’s breath stilled.

A quiet tension gripped her muscles before her mind could even process why. Something about the voice, the melody, the way the words settled in the air around her, it struck like a presence she hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for.

Then, recognition crashed into her, swift and unforgiving.

Jennie.

She jolted upright so fast that her hands slipped against the sand, sending grains spilling over her jeans. Her heart pounded as she fumbled for her phone, barely registering the cold metal beneath her fingers. The screen lit up in the dimming light, and there it was, staring back at her.

twin – JENNIE

The world tilted slightly.

Of all the songs in the world, of all the tracks that could have shuffled into her playlist, it had to be this one. Out of the millions of possibilities, it had to be her.

Jennie’s voice poured through the speakers, smooth and deliberate, carrying a weight that settled deep in Y/N’s chest. There was something sharp beneath it, something quiet and unrelenting, threading itself between her ribs like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.

"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya When I’m bumping Ashanti, yeah, on the beach, yeah."

A slow, unsteady breath left Y/N’s lips, but it wasn’t enough to steady her. The air caught in her throat, tangled somewhere between disbelief and something heavier, something dangerous.

Her grip tightened around the phone, fingers pressing into the edges as if grounding herself would make a difference. But the truth was, it wouldn’t. Because this wasn’t just a song. It wasn’t some distant, abstract heartbreak ballad written for a faceless love lost to time.

It was them.

Every lyric, every pause, every aching note, it was a story, and she was in it. Jennie wasn’t just singing about the past. She wasn’t just weaving a melody out of old wounds and untold confessions.

She was remembering. She was reliving it.

And now, so was Y/N.

Y/N’s nails dug into her palm, the sharp bite of pain a desperate attempt to keep herself anchored, to keep the past from crashing into her all at once. It was a losing battle. The memories rose too fast, too strong, slipping through the cracks she had spent years sealing shut.

She had told herself that she won’t think about that night anymore, that time had softened it, blurred the edges, made it something distant, something she could acknowledge without feeling.

But music had a way of unearthing things.

And this wasn’t just music.

The practice room flickered to life behind her eyelids, the weight of silence pressing down like it had all those years ago. The air had been thick, stifling, full of things neither of them knew how to say. Jennie’s voice had been so small, so unlike her usual sharp confidence, just a whisper, but it had wrecked her.

Stay with me.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could erase the memory, as if she could unhear the way Jennie’s voice had cracked, as if she could unfeel the unbearable pull in her chest that had begged her to say yes.

But she hadn’t.

She had walked away.

And now, years later, sitting on a quiet beach miles away from the life she had once fought to escape, it didn’t matter how much distance she had put between them. The ache still lived inside her, dormant but never gone.

She had left Seoul to avoid this, to escape the inevitability of Jennie’s voice reaching her, pulling her back into a storm she had spent a decade outrunning.

And yet, here she was, sitting on the sand, staring at a name on her screen, heart breaking open like it was that night all over again.

The ocean stretched endlessly before her, waves lapping in a steady rhythm, unbothered, indifferent. She wished she could feel the same. But no amount of distance, no amount of salt air, could drown out the weight pressing against her ribs.

Two more days. That’s what she told herself. Just two more before she returned to Seoul, to reality, to the mess she had abandoned in her wake.

She should have known better.

Because the past had a way of finding her, no matter how far she ran.

The message came on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday, arriving with the kind of casual audacity that only Wendy and Irene could manage. Y/N had been lost in work, headphones slipping from her ears as she focused on layering harmonies, smoothing imperfections, and details only she would notice. It was muscle memory by now, adjust, refine, perfect. A process that left little room for distractions.

Her phone vibrated against the desk.

She ignored it at first, fingers still moving over the controls, mind still tethered to the track. But the messages kept coming, insistent, persistent. With a sigh, she reached for her phone, expecting nothing more than another dinner invite, another inside joke.

Group Chat.

Wendy: “Guess who has an extra VVIP pass for The Ruby Experience?”

Y/N frowned, the words not quite sinking in at first. The Ruby Experience. She had heard the name countless times in the past days, but never aloud, never in direct relation to herself. The realization settled slowly, creeping in at the edges before striking all at once.

Jennie’s concert.

The first solo concert. The one that had sold out in minutes. The one that was already being hailed as historic before the stage lights had even been tested. The one the entire industry had been waiting for.

A second message followed before she could even process the first.

Irene: “No excuses. You’re coming.”

Wendy: “It’s been years, Y/N.”

Years.

The word lingered longer than it should have, wrapping around her like an unwelcome echo.

She should say no. She wanted to say no. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, a response forming on instinct.

Y/N: “I don’t think,”

Another message cut her off.

Irene: “You owe me dinner if you decline.”

Wendy: “And drinks.”

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. Cowards. They weren’t even pretending this was about the concert itself. They weren’t pushing just because it was an event, they were pushing because of her.

Because no one had to say Jennie’s name for her presence to be felt. Because no matter how much time had passed, Jennie Kim’s name still carried weight in her chest, still felt dangerous in her mouth.

Like something sacred. Like something broken. Like something she had never really learned to live without.

Y/N: “Fine. But if it gets weird, I’m leaving.”

Her fingers hesitated for the briefest second before pressing send, but it was too late. The message was out, irreversible, the decision made. And yet, as the confirmation flashed on her screen, a sharp knot twisted in her stomach, the finality of it settling in too quickly, too heavily.

She told herself it was just an event. Just one night. A fleeting moment in a crowded venue, nothing more.

But deep down, she knew better.

Because the past had never been content to stay buried, especially not when Jennie Kim was a part of it.

The venue pulsed with energy, an undercurrent of anticipation vibrating through the walls. Even from the seclusion of the VIP lounge, Y/N could feel it, the unmistakable electricity of a sold-out arena, the collective breath of thousands waiting for one woman to take the stage.

Ruby’s signature red bathed the space in a warm glow, a stark contrast to the sleek black leather couches and glasses balanced on polished tables. The industry’s elite moved around her, exchanging handshakes and half-empty compliments, but Y/N barely heard them.

She tried to focus on Irene and Wendy’s conversation, nodding at the right moments, laughing when expected. It should have been easy, pretending, performing. She’d spent years perfecting the art.

But then, the sound of her name, spoken with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, made her shoulders stiffen.

"Y/N?"

She turned.

Rosé stood just a few feet away, a champagne flute hanging loosely from her fingers, forgotten. Her blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and despite the dim lighting, there was no missing the flicker of recognition in her gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Years.

That’s how long it had been since they had last stood face to face. Since they had last spoken without a stage, a screen, or a continent between them. But there was no hesitation in Rosé’s expression. No bitterness. Just quiet surprise.

"You’re here," she said, as if confirming it for herself.

Y/N swallowed, forcing a small, knowing smile. "So are you."

Rosé let out a breath, shaking her head with a quiet huff. "Flew in from LA yesterday. There was no way I’d miss this."

Of course not.

This was Jennie’s night, the kind of moment no one who had ever truly known her would dare to miss, and they both understood that without needing to say it.

Rosé studied her for a moment, head tilting slightly, something curious, maybe even cautious, flickering in her eyes.

"I didn’t know you’d come," she admitted, her voice softer now, like she was searching for something unspoken in Y/N’s expression.

There were countless ways she could answer, a hundred variations of the truth sitting on the tip of her tongue, each one easier than the one before. But in the end, honesty slipped through before she could stop it.

"Neither did I."

Rosé stilled, lips parting just slightly, something shifting in her gaze, not quite surprise, not quite understanding, but something close to both. Y/N hadn’t planned to be here. She had spent years avoiding moments like this, convincing herself that distance was the only thing keeping her upright.

And yet, despite every reason not to, she had come anyway.

A beat passed, the noise around them fading into something distant, inconsequential. Then, as if remembering herself, Rosé straightened, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You know, I was going to say something smug about how you finally decided to show your face, but…" She hesitated, eyes softening. "I’m just glad to see you."

The sincerity in her voice caught Y/N off guard, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She exhaled, looking down briefly before meeting Rosé’s gaze again.

"Congratulations, by the way."

Rosé blinked, caught off guard for just a second.

"For Rosie," Y/N clarified, her voice even, measured. "And for APT."

For a moment, Rosé said nothing, but something flickered in her expression, first surprise, then warmth, settling into something quieter, something understanding.

"You kept up."

Y/N didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. The silence between them spoke louder than any words could, carrying years of history, of distance, of things left unsaid.

Slowly, Rosé’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her voice light but edged with something fond. "You’re still terrible at pretending you don’t care."

Y/N exhaled, rolling her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. She shook her head, already regretting this conversation. "Shut up."

Rosé chuckled, and just like that, the years between them felt a little less heavy. There was still distance, still space carved out by time and choices, but in this moment, neither of them were looking at the past.

Only at what remained.

The moment the lights dimmed, the stadium roared to life. A wall of sound crashed over Y/N, the force of it rattling in her chest, reverberating in her bones. It wasn’t just excitement, it was worship. The kind of adoration reserved for legends.

Thousands of voices called her name.

"Jennie! Jennie! Jennie!"

The ground vibrated beneath her feet, the sheer magnitude of it swallowing the VIP lounge in its wake. And then a single note cut through the chaos.

Low. Resounding.

The stage bathed in red, and Jennie rose.

She emerged from the floor in a slow, deliberate ascent, bathed in crimson light, a vision against the darkness. The opening chords wove through the air like a spell, wrapping around the crowd, pulling them into her world.

The moment she lifted the mic to her lips, the stadium erupted again, the sound near deafening.

And still, she remained untouched by it.

Effortless. Untouchable. A force of nature.

From the lounge, Y/N sat frozen.

She had told herself she was prepared for this. That she was here as a producer, an industry professional watching a fellow artist perform. It was just a concert. Just music.

But as Jennie moved, fluid, commanding, every step measured, every glance deliberate, Y/N felt the slow, creeping realization settle deep in her stomach.

She wasn’t ready.

Not for this. Not for the way Jennie’s voice curled around the lyrics, each note rich and powerful, each song a declaration of who she had become. Not for the way she owned the stage like it had been built for her.

And certainly not for the way she still looked like the same girl Y/N had once loved.

And lost.

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass in her hands. She forced herself to focus on the technicalities, the impeccable production, the seamless transitions, the live band swelling beneath Jennie’s vocals.

But it didn’t help.

Not when the stage lights cast shadows along Jennie’s face in a way that felt achingly familiar. Not when the rasp in her voice dragged up memories Y/N had spent years trying to bury.

Jennie was everywhere.

In the way the crowd moved in unison, hanging onto every syllable she uttered. In the way the cameras captured the curve of her smirk, the flicker of something dark and playful in her eyes. In the way she carried herself, not as an idol, not as a performer, but as someone who knew she had already won.

This was the Jennie Kim the world saw. Untouchable. Limitless. A star so bright it was impossible to look away.

But Y/N knew better.

She knew the Jennie behind closed doors. The one who had once held her hand like she was afraid to let go. The one who whispered secrets into the hollow of her throat late at night, voice small and uncertain. The one who had begged her to stay.

Y/N blinked, inhaling sharply, pushing the memory away before it could fully form.

She was fine. She had to be.

This was just music. Just a concert. Nothing more.

And yet, as Jennie’s voice carried through the air, wrapping around the stadium like something tangible, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, she had already lost all over again.

It should have been over.

The hardest part was over, song after song, each a reminder of everything Jennie had become, everything she had achieved. Y/N had watched from a distance, hands curled into fists beneath the table, heartbeat steady even when it shouldn’t have been. She had endured the spectacle, the flashing lights, the deafening cheers that followed Jennie’s every move.

She had made it through.

But then, the arena went dark.

A hush swept through the crowd, anticipation thick in the air. Even before the first note played, something inside Y/N twisted, coiling tight like a premonition she wasn’t ready to face. The silence stretched, unbearably long, until a single beam of light pierced through the darkness.

Jennie stood alone.

Gone was the grand production, the dancers, the elaborate staging that had framed her for the past hour. Now, it was just her, a lone figure bathed in silver, shadows stretching long behind her. No distractions. No escape.

Y/N barely had a moment to exhale, to convince herself that it was over, that she had made it through the night without falling apart.

But then, the first few notes filled the stadium.

Soft, slow, unmistakable.

Her entire body tensed, breath stalling in her chest as a sharp, invisible thread coiled tight around her ribs, pulling mercilessly. She knew this melody. She knew it in the way one knows an old scar, in the way a phantom pain lingers long after the wound has closed.

No.

Not this song.

Not the one that had been theirs before either of them had the words to admit it. Not the one that carried every memory she had tried to outrun.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing hard against her palms, as if she could ground herself, as if she could stop the way the past was crashing over her like a tidal wave.

The crowd erupted in recognition, thousands of voices gasping, screaming, chanting Jennie’s name. But Y/N barely heard them. The first lyric was already slipping through the air, delicate yet devastating.

"It’s like I’m writing a letter…"

It hit like a fist to the ribs. Her nails dug into her palms.

Jennie’s voice carried through the vast arena, rich and aching, wrapping around every syllable like a confession. This wasn’t just a song. It never had been.

Y/N had spent the past week trying to avoid it, switching the radio station, leaving cafes when it played, pretending she didn’t recognize the melody. But here, now, there was no running.

Her lungs tightened, her body refusing to move, as if any small motion would shatter the fragile hold she had on herself.

Jennie stood beneath the spotlight, singing their story to an audience that would never understand what it meant. The lyrics unraveled between them, each word unearthing things Y/N had buried deep, late night conversations whispered between shared breaths, fingers laced together beneath trembling city lights, the weight of a promise that had never been kept.

"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya..."

A flicker of something passed through Jennie’s expression.

She wasn’t just performing. She was remembering.

The weight of it hit Y/N all at once, a force so sudden and overwhelming that it felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs.

This wasn’t for the fans. It wasn’t for the press or the charts. No, this was something else entirely, something raw, something intimate, something meant for one person alone.

For her.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd, the lights, the thousands of eyes watching Jennie pour her heart into every note. A hand brushed against her arm, Wendy, a quiet attempt to steady her, but the touch barely registered. Y/N was already slipping, already spiraling, already being pulled back into a place she had sworn she would never go again.

The memories bled into her vision, sharp and vivid, slipping through the cracks she had tried so desperately to seal. Jennie laughing, head thrown back, warmth curling at the edges of her smile. Jennie whispering her name like it was something sacred. Jennie standing in the practice room, eyes wide, voice breaking on the words asking her to stay.

Her throat burned.

She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, but it was impossible when Jennie stood there, putting every ounce of herself into a song that had never stopped belonging to them.

The final chorus rose, a wave of sound crashing over the arena, but it was Jennie’s voice that cut through everything else. It wasn’t perfect, not in the way it usually was. There was something raw in it, a slight tremble hidden between the notes, a crack so faint that most wouldn’t notice. But Y/N did.

She felt it like a ripple in her chest, a pull deep in her ribs, as if the weight of Jennie’s voice alone was enough to unravel something she had fought to keep buried. It was in the way Jennie held herself, poised, effortless to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely, but Y/N saw the tension in her shoulders, the flicker of emotion in her gaze, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly around the microphone like she was holding on to something unseen.

And in that instant, every carefully constructed lie Y/N had told herself over the years began to crumble.

The distance she had put between them, the silence she had forced herself to accept, the belief that time would dull the ache, it had all been for nothing. Because no matter how far she had run, no matter how much she had tried to convince herself that she had moved on, the truth was right there, woven into every note Jennie sang.

Jennie Kim had never let her go.

The realization struck hard, pressing against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. Y/N’s fingers tightened in her lap, nails digging into her palm, as if grounding herself could stop the way her pulse pounded against her skin. The weight of it was suffocating, terrifying, undeniable.

And worst of all, it wasn’t one sided.

Because as much as she had wanted to believe otherwise, as much as she had tried to move forward, as much as she had convinced herself that she had done the right thing, her body betrayed her. Her heart, hammering against her chest. Her hands, trembling where they rested. Her eyes, locked on the woman she had spent years trying to forget.

She had never let Jennie go either.

And now, with the music still ringing in her ears, with the memories clawing their way back to the surface, she wasn’t sure she ever would.

Y/N sits stiffly on the couch, fingers curled around the glass in her hands, the condensation damp against her skin. The ice has melted, pooling around her fingertips, but she barely notices. Her grip is tight, almost too tight, as if the glass is the only thing anchoring her in place. Around her, the room hums with energy, laughter, clinking drinks, the lingering excitement that always follows a concert of this scale. Voices rise and fall in waves, but they feel muffled, like she’s submerged underwater, like she’s observing the scene from behind glass rather than truly existing in it.

Irene and Wendy are still buzzing, animated in their conversation, their voices threaded with unfiltered joy. They’re already making plans, talking about heading backstage, about their turn to go see Jennie, about how incredible she was tonight. Y/N should join in, should laugh along, should pretend that she belongs in this space. Pretend that being here doesn’t make her feel like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerously steep.

She should go with them.

She should walk into that room, lift her chin, and pretend that time hasn’t twisted things between them. That she isn’t haunted by the past. That Jennie’s name doesn’t taste like nostalgia and regret every time it passes through her lips.

But the thought of it, of stepping into the same space as Jennie, of seeing her up close, of hearing her voice directed at someone else, warm and familiar, like Y/N was never a part of it, makes something in her stomach twist so violently she feels almost sick.

“I’ll stay here,” she says, forcing a smile that feels too tight, too rehearsed. “You guys go ahead.”

Irene hesitates. Wendy’s brows knit together. They don’t buy it.

“You sure?” Irene asks, already glancing toward the entrance leading backstage. “I mean, we can all—”

“I’m fine,” Y/N cuts in, light and easy, as if this is nothing. As if she isn’t unraveling at the edges just thinking about what waits on the other side of that door. She waves them off before they can argue, pasting on a look that she hopes is convincing. “Really. Go.”

They exchange a look, clearly unconvinced, but eventually, they relent.

Y/N watches them disappear into the crowd, their excitement carrying them forward. She waits, stomach tight, pulse steady and controlled. She keeps her posture relaxed, keeps her gaze focused on the swirl of bodies moving around the lounge, keeps herself still just long enough to be sure they won’t turn back.

Backstage is alive with the high of the concert, the air electric with celebration. The energy is infectious, staff members exchanging high-fives, dancers still breathless and exhilarated, the lingering echoes of the final song reverberating in their bones. Jennie should be basking in it, soaking in the afterglow of another unforgettable night.

“Y/N was here.” Rosé’s voice is quiet, almost careful, but it cuts through the noise like a blade.

Jennie freezes.

The world around her distorts, the sounds, the movement, everything suddenly muffled as if she’s been thrown underwater. Her pulse slams against her ribs, erratic and unsteady.

The words take a moment to register, but when they do, they land like a punch to the gut.

“What?” The word barely makes it past her lips.

Rosé looks at her, gaze searching, cautious. “She was here,” she repeats, voice gentle but firm, as if she already knows the impact this is about to have. “I saw her at the lounge. She didn’t come backstage, though. I think she left.”

Left.

Jennie swallows hard, but her throat is suddenly dry, the weight in her chest pressing down with something sharp, something almost unbearable. Y/N was here. She was here, in the same crowd, in the same space, breathing the same air. And she left.

Y/N left.

Jennie doesn’t remember making the decision to move. One second, she’s standing there, frozen, heart stuttering in her chest. Next, she’s pushing past people, slipping through the sea of bodies with single minded determination. Someone calls her name, congratulatory and bright, but she barely hears it.

There are things she’s supposed to do, press photos, a post-show debrief, a room full of people waiting to celebrate. But none of it matters.

She doesn’t care. She needs to know.

Her body moves on instinct, urgency propelling her forward, past the dressing rooms, past the equipment cases, past the dimly lit hallways that stretch toward the exit. Every step feels too slow, every second a widening gap between her and the answer she’s chasing.

She doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t stop to consider what she’ll say, what she’ll do, if she even has the right.

She just runs.

The hallway is quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet, the kind that settles gently, that allows space to breathe. No, this quiet is sharp, heavy, pressing against Y/N’s skin like an unseen force, wrapping around her throat, making each breath feel just a little too shallow. The muffled hum of the arena lingers somewhere in the distance, but here, in this dimly lit corridor stretching toward the exit, there is nothing but the sound of her own footsteps.

She moves quickly, purposefully. One step, then another. Just a little further. She tells herself she won’t look back.

She almost makes it.

"And after all this time, you can’t even come say hi to me?"

The voice slices through the silence, smooth but edged, laced with something unmistakable, hurt, disbelief, something dangerously close to anger.

Y/N stops.

Her breath stutters, chest tightening as if invisible hands have reached inside, curling around her ribs. Her fingers twitch at her sides, a reflex, a tell.

Slowly, because she knows she has no choice, she turns.

Jennie stands a few feet away, still in her stage outfit, the remnants of performance clinging to her in the form of sweat-dampened hair and the subtle rise and fall of her breath. The stage lights may be gone, but they might as well still be shining on her, because she looks stunning, untouchable, every inch the Jennie Kim the world adores.

But Y/N doesn’t see the idol.

She sees the girl beneath it, the one whose eyes burn, dark and deep and brimming with something unspoken. The weight of that gaze settles over her like a storm, pressing against every carefully constructed barrier, seeping into the cracks she thought she had long since sealed shut.

The air between them is thick, charged, unstable. Years of silence, of distance, of unfinished conversations stretch out between them, coiling tight like a wire ready to snap.

Y/N swallows hard. Forces her spine to stay straight, her face unreadable. Tells herself to stay composed, to keep the past buried where it belongs.

But Jennie isn’t letting this go.

Not this time.

Y/N exhales sharply, pressing her nails into her palms as if the dull sting can ground her, keep her steady against the storm building in front of her. She forces herself to meet Jennie’s eyes, even as every instinct screams at her to look away.

"What do you want me to say?" she finally mutters, voice tight, brittle.

Jennie laughs, but there’s no warmth in it, just something hollow, something sharp enough to cut. "Maybe start with why you even came," she says, tilting her head, her expression unreadable. "If you were just going to leave again, why bother?"

"It was a mistake," Y/N blurts out, too quickly, too defensive. She hears it the moment it leaves her lips, the way it rings false, and from the flicker in Jennie’s gaze, she knows Jennie hears it too.

Jennie’s jaw tightens. "Right," she echoes, voice quieter now, but somehow heavier. "A mistake."

The word lingers between them, bitter and unforgiving.

Jennie shakes her head, her jaw tightening as something dark flickers across her face. “You always find a way to leave,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s something raw beneath it, something that cracks at the edges. “You show up just long enough to remind me you’re still out there, and then you disappear again like none of it ever mattered.”

Y/N flinches.

Because it’s not fair, but it’s not wrong either.

"It’s not like that," she says, but even she can hear the weakness in her own voice.

"Then tell me what it’s like," Jennie presses, stepping closer. The hallway feels smaller now, suffocating, as if the walls themselves are caving in. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like running away."

Silence.

Y/N’s breath shudders out of her. "I didn’t—"

"Coward."

The word is soft, almost a whisper. But it cuts deeper than any scream ever could.

Y/N’s chest tightens, a fresh wave of something painful curling in her stomach. She should leave. She should end this before it spirals into something neither of them can take back.

Jennie’s gaze shifts, just barely, something unreadable flickering in the depths of her eyes. And when she speaks again, her voice, her voice is different. Softer. Frayed at the edges, laced with something dangerously close to breaking.

"Do you know why none of my relationships ever worked out?"

Y/N doesn’t answer. She doesn’t think she can.

Jennie exhales sharply, shaking her head like she hates herself for saying it, like she already knows it’s too much, too late.

"Because none of them were you."

Y/N stops breathing.

Jennie lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, one that barely conceals the weight of the words that just shattered the last of the distance between them. "You’re my first love, Y/N. The one that still lingers in my heart. The one I never really let go of." Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop.

She can’t.

"Every time I tried, I just ended up leaving them. Because they weren’t you."

The confession settles between them like shattered glass, too sharp to step over, too painful to ignore.

Y/N’s throat closes, something clawing its way up her chest, something she doesn’t know how to contain.

Because this? This is what she always feared. This is what she never wanted to hear. Because there is no fixing this.

And they both know it.

Jennie isn’t done though.

She takes a step forward, and suddenly, the air shifts, crackling with something volatile, something just waiting to combust.

"You don’t even care, do you?" Jennie’s voice trembles, but not with sadness, this is something else. Something furious. "You stand there, acting like this is nothing to you. Like you didn’t just rip open a wound I’ve spent years trying to close."

Y/N swallows, but the lump in her throat refuses to go down. "I never wanted—"

"Don’t," Jennie cuts in, eyes burning. "Don’t tell me you never wanted to hurt me. You knew you would. You always knew. And you still left."

Y/N flinches, but Jennie presses on, the words tumbling out now, reckless and unrestrained. "Do you even feel anything, Y/N? Do you even care that I spent years wondering what the hell I did wrong? Why nothing was enough for you to stay?"

"Jennie"

"Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t even look at you?" Jennie’s voice breaks, but she doesn’t stop. She’s too far gone now. "To spend years convincing yourself they were just a dream, just a stupid, reckless mistake you were never meant to have?"

Y/N’s breath shudders out of her.

Because she does know. She knows all of it. She just never let herself say it.

"I looked at you," Y/N says, voice barely above a whisper. "More than you ever knew."

Jennie lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Right. And that’s supposed to mean something now? After everything?"

Y/N exhales, shaking her head. "I didn’t know how to stay."

Jennie’s eyes darken, disbelief flashing across her face, her frustration spilling over, unchecked. “Didn’t know how?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the space between them like a blade. “That’s bullshit. You knew how to leave. You knew how to disappear. You just never tried to stay.”

She takes a step closer, the weight of years pressing down on every word. “We could’ve found a way. We could’ve figured it out, been together without them knowing. But you never even gave us a chance.”

Y/N clenches her jaw, her own frustration rising to the surface, raw and messy. "You think it was easy for me?"

"You made it look easy," Jennie spits back, arms crossing over her chest, a poor shield for the way she’s unraveling. "You walked away like I was nothing. And now what? You show up after all these years and act like you’re some tragic ghost, like we’re just unfinished business and not a fucking disaster you caused?"

Silence.

Heavy. Unforgiving.

Y/N inhales sharply, hands shaking at her sides. She could say something cruel. She could end this right here, throw up every wall she’s spent years building. But none of that would be true.

Jennie exhales, some of the fight leaving her, but none of the fire. "Would you have stayed if I asked you to?"

The words cut through the tension, raw and unguarded.

For a second, Y/N almost lets herself lie. She almost reaches for something soft, something that could make this hurt less.

But there’s only one truth left to give.

"You did."

Jennie goes still. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to argue, like she needs to, but the answer is already there, carved into the silence between them.

She had asked and Y/N still left.

Jennie blinks, and for the first time since this confrontation started, the fight drains out of her. She looks at Y/N like she’s seeing her for the last time.

Maybe she is.

The silence between them is suffocating. Final. Jennie doesn’t stop her this time. Maybe she’s too tired. Maybe she finally understands that Y/N won’t stay.

This time, she doesn’t even ask her to.

Y/N walks away, and Jennie doesn’t watch her go. She just stands there, rooted in place, listening to the quiet click of the door shutting behind Y/N, the finality of it settling into her bones like an ache she’s long since learned to live with.

The gift bags sit untouched in the corner of Jennie’s house, an afterthought amid the soft glow of the dimmed lights and the quiet hum of the city beyond her windows.

The night stretches on, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the spaces between her ribs, curling around the edges of her exhaustion. The adrenaline that had once surged through her veins, keeping her upright, keeping her moving, has long since faded. The roar of the crowd, the flashing stage lights, the euphoria of performing, it’s all nothing more than a distant echo now, swallowed by the vast, suffocating silence that fills the room.

And yet, despite the quiet, despite the stillness, something lingers, something she can’t shake. A weight in her chest, a dull ache that refuses to ease, a ghost of something she thought she had buried years ago.

She tells herself it’s nothing. That she’s just tired, that the concert drained her, that the remnants of the night are clinging to her skin like dust. She tells herself she won’t look inside the bags, that there’s nothing in it worth her attention, nothing worth losing sleep over. Just gifts. Just the usual things. Just meaningless tokens of appreciation, wrapped up in pretty paper and tied with silk ribbons.

And yet.

The hours drag on, the stillness stretching thin, fragile. She remains on the couch, motionless, her mind a battlefield of warring impulses. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t want to look. But the longer she sits there, the harder it becomes to ignore the way her gaze keeps drifting to that corner, to the forgotten bags sitting patiently in the shadows, waiting.

Eventually, she exhales, a slow, quiet surrender, and reaches for it.

Her fingers brush over the smooth edges, slipping past expensive perfumes, delicate jewelry, handwritten notes from friends who adore her. Everything feels distant, impersonal, nothing more than what she expected.

But then. Something different.

Not the weight of a designer box or the crispness of a formal letter. Something softer, thinner. Her brows knit together as her hand moves instinctively, fingers finding the texture of old paper tucked between folds of tissue. She freezes.

A thin envelope, barely noticeable, buried beneath the rest.

Her breath catches in her throat.

The handwriting, she recognizes it instantly.

A sharp, involuntary inhale.

Her chest tightens, her grip faltering as a tremor runs through her fingers. It feels impossible, like some cruel trick of the universe, like a fragment of the past has broken through time and landed in her hands.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares down at the letters scrawled across the front, her pulse pounding so loudly that it drowns out everything else. And for a long moment, she doesn’t dare touch it. Because she knows. She knows what this is. Knows who it’s from.

And she knows that whatever’s inside will change everything.

A wound that had never quite closed threatens to split open all over again. She tells herself to put it down, to forget she ever saw it, to leave it buried in the past where it belongs. But her body betrays her.

Her fingers tighten around the edges.

And, against every ounce of self-preservation left in her, she unfolds the paper.

Jennie reads it once.

Then again. And again.

Her eyes trace the familiar curves of the handwriting, the ink pressed into the page by a hand she once knew better than her own. The words blur together, not because she doesn’t understand them, but because she understands them too well. They pull her under, deeper and deeper, until she’s drowning in memory, past and present colliding so violently she can no longer tell them apart.

She grips the letter tighter, as if holding it firmly enough might stop the ache rising in her chest, might keep her from unraveling completely. But it doesn’t. It only makes it worse.

Because this letter, it’s not just words on a page. It’s Y/N. It’s every unspoken conversation, every almost, every what if. It’s the version of them that never got the chance to exist, a piece of a love that never truly ended, just stretched thin over the years, frayed at the edges but never severed.

Her vision blurs, but one sentence stands out through the haze, clear and sharp as a blade. The last one.

"We will make up, make things right when we get older."

A promise. A belief that there would be more time, that eventually, one day, they would find their way back to each other. That what was broken could be fixed, that the love between them could withstand the years, the distance, the choices that pulled them apart.

Jennie’s breath shudders out of her, ragged and uneven, as if her body is struggling under the weight of the truth she’s tried so hard to avoid. Her fingers tremble, the delicate edges of the letter crinkling under her grip, but she doesn’t loosen her hold. She clutches it to her chest, pressing it against her heart like it’s the only thing keeping her together, like if she holds it tightly enough, she can stop herself from falling apart completely.

Like if she holds it tightly enough, maybe, just maybe, she won’t feel the empty space Y/N left behind. Maybe it won’t hurt so much. Maybe she’ll stop waiting for a door to open that was locked long ago.

But the truth settles in her bones, heavy and unyielding. There is no making up. No fixing things. No someday.

Only this. Only a letter written in a time when they still believed in second chances.

The night outside is still, heavy with the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones. The city is alive somewhere in the distance, but in Jennie’s apartment, there is only silence.

Only the sound of her own breathing, uneven, too fast.

She sits on the edge of her couch, shoulders hunched forward, elbows pressing into her knees, the letter clutched so tightly in her hands that the paper is starting to curl beneath her fingers. The ink has smudged slightly from the heat of her grip, but it doesn’t matter. The words are already burned into her mind, impossible to forget.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in her throat, but it dies before it can escape.

Older was supposed to mean a future. A someday. A second chance waiting on the other side of all the things that had once stood between them. But the years had passed, the world had kept spinning, and Y/N had never come back.

Jennie had spent so long trying to forget, burying the ache beneath sold out shows, flashing cameras, voices calling her name. She had told herself it didn’t matter anymore, that some things are meant to be left behind.

But now, here it is. Unfolded in her hands. A wound torn back open, and Y/N is gone. Again.

Jennie exhales sharply, chest tightening as she stares down at the letter like it might suddenly rewrite itself, like it might change into something she can handle. But it doesn’t.

She feels sick.

Not because of what Y/N wrote. But because Y/N never said it. Never gave her a chance to fight. Never told her the truth when it mattered, when it could’ve changed things. She had just… left.

Like she always did.

Jennie squeezes her eyes shut, jaw locking, trying to breathe through the frustration clawing at her ribs. It doesn’t work. The silence is suffocating, pressing in on her, thick with all the words Y/N never said.

Then, before she can stop herself, before she can think, she grabs her phone. Her fingers move on instinct, opening her contacts, scrolling fast. She already knows what she’s looking for, who she’s looking for. But the moment she reaches the end of the list, her stomach drops.

Y/N’s name isn’t there.

Of course, it isn’t.

Jennie swallows against the lump in her throat, gripping her phone tighter. It shouldn’t surprise her, not after all these years. But somehow, it does. Somehow, the reality of it, the fact that Y/N is so far removed from her life that she doesn’t even have her number anymore, hits harder than she expects.

Her heart pounds in her ears, too loud, too much. She stares at her screen, fingers hesitating over the empty space, over nothing.

Then her jaw clenches.

Fine. There’s another way.

She flicks back to her contacts with renewed purpose, scrolling with intent. She stops at one name, barely even registers the hesitation before she presses call.

The line rings once.

Twice.

A rustling sound, then a groggy voice, hoarse with sleep, thick with confusion. “...Hello?”

Jennie doesn’t waste time. “Irene.” Her voice is sharp, controlled, but there’s a demand woven into it. A raw edge she can’t soften. “Give me Y/N’s address.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Irene sighs, and Jennie can already hear the exhaustion in it. “Jennie, it’s late.”

“I don’t care.” She’s already standing, already grabbing her keys, yanking a hoodie over her head with jerky, impatient movements. She feels like she might combust if she stays still. “You knew, didn’t you? About the letter.”

Another pause. Irene doesn’t confirm it, but she doesn’t deny it either. That’s all Jennie needs to know.

She exhales harshly, fingers tightening around her phone. “Then you know I need to see her.”

A long silence stretches between them. Jennie waits, her pulse drumming against her ribs.

Then, finally, Irene speaks. Her voice is careful, slow. Like she’s bracing herself for what might happen next.

She gives Jennie the address, and Jennie doesn’t thank her. She doesn’t even say goodbye. She’s already moving, already shoving her feet into her shoes, already reaching for the door.

Outside, the city waits. But Jennie isn’t thinking about the streets stretching ahead of her, or the distance between them.

She’s only thinking about one thing.

This time, Y/N doesn’t get to run. This time, Jennie won’t let her.

Y/N stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the endless sprawl of the city. The lights shimmer below, stretching far beyond what her eyes can take in, a thousand lives moving at once, laughing, talking, living.

But inside this apartment, there is only silence.

She should feel lighter. Should feel relief. The letter is gone now, sitting in the hands it was meant for. The weight of it, the words she never had the courage to say out loud, should have lifted.

But it hasn’t.

If anything, it’s heavier now, sinking deep into her chest, pressing against her ribs like something clawing to get out. Because no matter how many times she tells herself she did the right thing, that she walked away so Jennie wouldn’t have to, so Jennie could move on, so Jennie could hate her and finally be free of this. It still feels like she’s suffocating.

Her gaze flickers toward the table, where her phone sits untouched, the screen dark. She hasn’t checked it in hours.

She could. She could pick it up, unlock it, see if there’s a message, a missed call, something.

But she doesn’t.

Maybe because she already knows the truth. That there won’t be anything there. That this is done. Or maybe, just maybe, because she’s afraid that there will be something.

That Jennie won’t let her go so easily.

She exhales sharply and turns away from the window, blinking against the burn in her eyes. Enough. She made her choice. She has to live with it.

Her feet move slowly, dragging across the wooden floor, each step heavier than the last. She is so, so tired.

But the night doesn’t stay silent for long.

The sharp, unrelenting knocks cut through the silence, sending a jolt straight down Y/N’s spine. The sound echoes through the apartment, rattling through the stillness, too loud, too sudden, too desperate.

She freezes.

The air shifts, thickens, pressing in on her from all sides. The walls feel smaller, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. Her heart lurches against her ribs, hammering so hard she can hear it in her ears, a frantic, uneven rhythm.

Another knock, louder this time, harder, shaking the door on its hinges. There is no hesitation in it, no patience left.

Her breath catches. She doesn’t need to check. Doesn’t need to move, doesn’t even need to think. She already knows who it is.

The knocking comes again, forceful, demanding, a silent refusal to be ignored.

And that’s when she hears it. A voice.

Low. Rough. Angry.

“Y/N.”

Not a question. Not a plea.

A demand.

Her breath catches, her fingers twitching at her sides. She could pretend she isn’t here. Let Jennie stand outside, let her knock until she gets tired, let this moment slip away like all the others.

But she knows Jennie. Jennie doesn’t let things go.

The space between them feels thin, like something fragile holding back the inevitable.

Y/N forces herself forward, each step slow, uncertain, the air growing heavier the closer she gets to the door. Her fingers wrap around the handle, tight, too tight. She hesitates. Just for a second.

Just long enough to wonder if she’s making another mistake.

She pulls it open, and there she is. Standing in the dim glow of the hallway, hoodie rumpled, hair messy, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her hands are clenched at her sides. Her eyes are dark, stormy, burning. But it’s not just anger.

It’s betrayal. It’s hurt. It’s something else, something deeper, something breaking wide open right in front of Y/N’s eyes.

Jennie swallows hard, her jaw tight, the muscles in her throat working like she’s trying to hold something back. Her breath is sharp, her hands shaking where they curl into fists.

For a long, stretched moment, neither of them speak. The air crackles, charged with everything unsaid, with every word that was written in ink instead of spoken aloud.

Jennie exhales, sharp and unsteady.

“Say it to my face.”

A challenge.

And Y/N? Y/N doesn’t know if she can.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #blackpink x reader #blackpink imagines #blackpink jennie #jennie x fem reader #jennie x reader #jennie kim x reader #jennie kim x fem reader #kim jennie x reader

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logistiservices · 1 year ago

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Unleashing Precision in Logistics: The Power of Track and Trace Monitoring

In the fast-paced world of logistics, where accuracy and efficiency are paramount, the integration of cutting-edge technologies is revolutionizing operations. This blog delves into the realm of TRACK AND TRACE MONITORING, explores the benefits of Back Office Business Process Outsourcing, and examines the role of Command Logistics Services in elevating the logistics landscape.

1. TRACK AND TRACE MONITORING: Precision at Every Stage

Understanding Track and Trace Monitoring:

TRACK AND TRACE MONITORING is a sophisticated system that provides real-time visibility into the movement and location of shipments throughout the supply chain. Leveraging technologies like RFID and GPS, logistics providers can monitor, track, and optimize the entire logistics process.

Key Benefits of Track and Trace Monitoring:

Enhanced Visibility: Real-time tracking ensures that stakeholders have accurate information on the status and location of shipments at any given moment.

Improved Efficiency: Proactive identification of potential delays allows for swift corrective actions, reducing the risk of disruptions.

Customer Satisfaction: Transparency in tracking builds trust with customers, providing them with the ability to monitor their shipments independently.

2. Back Office Business Process Outsourcing: Driving Efficiency

The Role of Back Office Business Process Outsourcing (BPO):

In the logistics domain, Back Office BPO is a strategic move to delegate non-core tasks to specialized service providers. This allows logistics companies to focus on core competencies while ensuring that essential back-office functions, such as data entry, documentation, and record-keeping, are handled with precision.

Advantages of Back Office BPO in Logistics:

Cost Efficiency: Outsourcing back-office tasks reduces operational costs, allowing businesses to allocate resources more strategically.

Error Reduction: Skilled professionals in Back Office BPO ensure accuracy in data entry and documentation, minimizing the risk of errors.

Scalability: As logistics operations expand, Back Office BPO services can scale to accommodate increased demands seamlessly.

3. Command Logistics Services: Orchestrating Seamless Operations

The Significance of Command Logistics Services:

Command Logistics Services involve centralized control and coordination of logistics operations. This includes overseeing various aspects, such as route planning, resource allocation, and responding to real-time challenges.

Key Features of Command Logistics Services:

Centralized Control: Command logistics centres serve as the nerve centres, providing a centralized view of the entire logistics network.

Dynamic Decision-Making: Real-time data analytics enable quick decision-making, optimizing routes and resources for efficiency.

Adaptability: Command logistics services can adapt swiftly to changing conditions, ensuring operations remain agile and responsive.

4. The Synergy of TRACK AND TRACE, Back Office BPO, and Command Logistics

By integrating TRACK AND TRACE MONITORING with Back Office BPO and Command Logistics Services, logistics companies can achieve a harmonious and efficient operation. The synergy of these elements ensures a streamlined, transparent, and responsive logistics network that meets the demands of the modern supply chain.

Conclusion: Transforming Logistics through Precision and Efficiency

In conclusion, the amalgamation of TRACK AND TRACE MONITORING, Back Office Business Process Outsourcing, and Command Logistics Services heralds a new era in logistics management. Precision, efficiency, and adaptability become the pillars of success, empowering logistics providers to meet the challenges of today's dynamic supply chain landscape head-on. As the logistics industry evolves, embracing these technological advancements ensures a competitive edge and elevates the standards of service delivery.

For Original Post Content: - https://froodl.com/unleashing-precision-in-logistics-the-power-of-track-and-trace-monitoring

#TRACK AND TRACE MONITORING #Command Logistics Services #Back Office Business Process Outsourcing

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theonlyonesora · 12 days ago

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Sunshine and Nerves

Synopsis. How would they act if they were in the delivery room with you giving birth to your first child?.

Fernando Alonso —

Fernando holds your hand as you go through labor with your first child, his protective and quiet strength by your side.

The room smelled like antiseptic and warm linen. Monitors beeped steadily beside you, but all you could focus on was Fernando’s hand wrapped firmly around yours.

"You're doing so well, mi amor," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours between contractions. His other hand gently brushed sweaty strands of hair from your face. "Breathe. Like I showed you."

You squeezed his fingers hard when the next wave hit, gasping, feeling tears prick your eyes. He didn't flinch. His eyes—deep, patient, unwavering—held yours.

"You’ve fought harder things than this," Fernando murmured with a soft smile. "I’ve seen you. You’re the strongest person I know. And after this... our little one will be here. Finally."

A tear rolled down your cheek—not from pain, but from the calm certainty in his voice. Fernando Alonso, who raced at impossible speeds and feared no corner, was here beside you, immovable, for the most important race of your life.

"I love you," you gasped.

"And I love you. Always." His thumb traced gentle circles on your hand. "Now bring our baby home."

Max Verstappen —

Max is completely out of his depth watching you in labor, fighting his instinct to control everything, realizing this is something he can only witness—and love you through.

Max paced like a trapped animal by the hospital window. His cap was backwards, his eyes wild and restless as you moaned softly from the bed.

"Do you need anything? Water? More pillows? Should I call the nurse again?" He asked for the third time.

"Max... just sit with me," you panted.

He was there in an instant, crouched by your side, his hand gripping yours tightly. You saw it in his eyes—fear. Not of the track, or crashes, or pressure. But fear of seeing you in pain.

"You're so strong, schatje," he said softly, kissing your temple. "I hate this. I hate that I can’t take this pain for you."

You gave him a tired smile. "You being here is enough."

When another contraction hit, your body tensing, Max held your hand tighter, forehead pressed to your shoulder, whispering reassurances against your skin.

“I love you. And I’ll love this baby. But I love you most. Always you.”

When you gasped his name after the pain passed, he kissed your cheek and smiled softly—his fierceness tamed only by you.

Lewis Hamilton —

Lewis is all softness and reassurance, breathing with you, calming you with gentle words as you bring your first child into the world.

Lewis sat by your side, holding your hand between both of his, his thumb stroking your palm in slow circles. His voice was the only thing grounding you in the blinding storm of contractions.

"Deep breaths, babe. Come on. Like we practiced. In, out. I’m right here."

You squeezed his hand so hard he winced—but smiled. You could barely focus on the room, but Lewis stayed close, brushing his lips against your temple, whispering calm into the air.

"You’re doing amazing. So brave. I’ve never been prouder of you than I am right now."

His words settled into you, warming the panic away, replacing it with quiet strength.

Between waves of pain, you opened your eyes. Lewis was smiling, mist in his gaze. "We’re gonna meet our baby soon. You and me. Like we dreamed."

Your chest tightened—not from fear, but love. His calm was your anchor, his voice your lifeline. The man who faced the world with iron will was now entirely, fully yours.

"You’re my hero," you whispered.

"No, love," he kissed your hand, "you’re mine."

Carlos Sainz —

Carlos is nervous but excited, babbling softly to calm both himself and you while waiting for the arrival of your baby.

"Okay, okay... breathe, cariño. You’re doing so good. So, so good."

Carlos stood by the bed, holding your hand, practically vibrating with nervous energy. His dark eyes darted between you and the monitors, his thumb stroking your wrist anxiously.

"It’s almost time, sí? They said it’s close. Very close. Our little one is so stubborn. Like you. Or maybe like me. Probably me." His voice was soft and rambling, his nerves pouring out in quiet chatter to keep you calm.

You gave him a tired smile. "Carlos... you’re the one panicking."

He grinned sheepishly, brushing your hair off your forehead. "I know, mi amor. I’m just... excited. Scared. Happy. Everything at once."

Another contraction gripped you and Carlos instantly grew serious, holding you steady, whispering encouragement in Spanish—words warm and familiar as the summer sun.

"You are strong. So strong. I can’t wait to see you hold our baby... our family."

When the wave passed, he kissed your knuckles gently, smiling down at you with the softest eyes. "Soon, mi vida. Soon, our greatest adventure begins."

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nemo-writes · 1 month ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter ten

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: time passes without a whisper of danger—yet your nerves remain coiled, the calm louder than any threat, and even the smallest unraveling leaves you raw. and then—a reminder. a sweet and scruffy one.

⤿ warning(s): discussion of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.7k

Night settles over The Pitt—still damp from the days-long storm, but humming with the restless energy that always spikes when day hands off to graveyard. You and Jack step from his truck into a crisp mist, the hospital’s glass façade beading with rain that looks silver under the loading-bay floodlights. New security lamps flare along the sidewalk—Gloria’s latest decree—and a pair of guards linger at the doors, radios murmuring.

Inside the vestibule, you barely have time to swipe your badge before Margot’s unmistakable laugh echoes off the tile. She’s striding out with Bob at her side, keys jingling on his belt loop. They both slow when they spot you. Margot’s smile goes soft around the edges, the charge nurse façade slipping just a hair.

“Look who decided to grace the night shift with her presence,” she teases, but her eyes rake you head to toe—inventorying. Bob lifts the insulated tote he’s carrying, waggles it like contraband.

“You didn’t think we’d let you start a shift without pre-approved carbs, did you?” he says. The tote is clearly stuffed with fresh clothes, some snacks, and your favorite thermos.

You accept with heat prickling your eyes. “Thank you guys. For the other stuff too.”

“No problem,” Bob says. He steps close, dipping his voice. “You doing okay?”

You expected the question, will expect it a dozen more times before dawn, but gratitude still stirs. “Hour by hour,” you answer. “Tonight feels…manageable.”

Margot hooks her arm through Bob’s, visibly relieved. “Good. Because we left a stack of elbow-deep charting for your meticulous little heart.”

Jack snorts behind you. “Translation: Ellis kept things imploding, but she’s threatening to duct-tape Shen to the inventory closet.”

Margot laughs, reaches out, and squeezes your forearm, her thumb pressing reassurance into your sleeve. “Call if you need anything—security code or emotional rescue.” Then she tips her chin at Jack. “And you—don’t let her do all the lifting.”

He lifts a hand in casual salute. “Roger that.”

With a final wave, the two of them disappear into the night, headed toward the staff lot where morning routines and normal sleep still exist. You watch them go until the door hisses shut, muffling the outside world.

Jack turns, clinks his badge against yours like a toast. “Ready?”

You draw a breath—clean antiseptic, distant coffee, the ever-present ozone tingle of the sterilizers. The hall ahead is bright and chilled, monitors already chiming in their peculiar midnight harmony. Security cameras pivot softly overhead, tracing every angle.

“Ready,” you say, and together you step past the threshold—back into fluorescent light, controlled chaos, and the shifting constellation of night-shift hearts that are already orbiting, waiting for your steady gravity to settle them.

. . .

The first night back feels like wearing stiff boots over half-healed blisters—every step deliberate, the pinch of memory always there. You track every clipboard, double-lock every med cart, and tense when a pager shrieks too close to your ear.

Yet nothing happens.

By the second week you’re still cataloging every unfamiliar face, but you’re also teasing a new nurse when he mislabels a drain and walking a med-student through a central-line checklist without your voice wobbling. The scanner Ramirez installed on the staff entrance clicks each time you badge in, a small mechanical reminder that the perimeter is tighter now. You and Jack trade five-minute hand-offs at the clean-utility alcove—his shoulder bump, your muttered “hydrate”—and the shift rolls on.

Weeks braid into a measured rhythm.

By November, the south wing glows with early holiday lights and the trauma corridor carries a faint, persistent whiff of pumpkin-spiced coffee. You’ve also reclaimed your “midnight Bento” ritual—onigiri for Parker, hot miso for Shen—while Jack complains there’s still no chili oil.

That same week Gloria corners you outside Sterile Core, her heels clicking a decisive cadence. She’s carrying a color-coded staffing matrix and a look that means business. “Security metrics have held thirty days,” she says, flipping to a highlighted column. “If you’re ready, I’m clearing you for day shift—and your old surgical slot. We’ll keep the enhanced badge checks, but the board trusts the system.”

You swallow, nod, and realize your pulse doesn’t spike at the prospect—only hums with something like anticipation.

And just like that, Veterans Day circles the calendar, and with it comes Jack’s rare PTO request: one personal day to breathe outside hospital walls, visit the memorial, recalibrate. On the eve of it, the shift starts hot and only climbs.

By mid-morning you and Ellis are juggling a dehisced abdominal wound when a flustered volunteer wheels in a couple clutching a gasping toddler. Triage tags them for you—shortness of breath, fever, no documented vaccines. The boy’s ribs see-saw with each breath; his O₂ reads 86. You hustle him onto oxygen while Ellis pages Respiratory, but the parents block the door, insisting the pulse‐ox is “rigged.”

“We keep our kid clean,” the father snaps, arms folded like a blockade of plaid. “No toxins.”

“Toxins are what he’s choking on right now,” you answer, trying to slip a thermometer past the mother’s swatting hand. The toddler wheezes, small fingers scrabbling for your scrub pocket. Two techs arrive with a nebulizer; the mother accuses them of “pharma poisoning.”

Your patience thread frays. Security hovers outside at the ready.

Ellis finally edges the parents into the hallway by sheer force of Latin terminology, leaving you and the RT inside with the wheezing boy. You press the mask to his face, voice dropped to a lullaby, while through the cracked curtain you hear the father call Ellis “brainwashed.”

By the time the parents cave in (at the last minute) and the the kid’s sats climb to 94, sweat slicks your spine. Security is also quick to escort the parents to registration; they leave paperwork crumpled, still muttering “government numbers.”

Ellis hands the child off to Pedi ICU, all while adrenaline jitters your wrists, and you return to find the med cart disassembled by a float nurse who wanted “just in case” morphine. It feels like one long violation—the parents’ disbelief, the cart chaos, the weight of fixing what should never have broken.

So you focus on rebuilding the drawers, alphabetical dividers snapping into place a little too hard, each click an exorcism. It’s in this raw, ragged pocket of the day that Jack appears in the med alcove to remind you again of his veterans-day absence.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Quick reminder—tomorrow I’m off. Ramirez and Parker know to be on—”

“Jack, I know,” you snap, vial tray clattering as you shove it home. “You’ve told me three times already. I’m not a stray left at the pound.” Your heart hammers; embarrassment floods in behind the anger but can’t dam the tears springing hot to your lashes. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to hover just because I’m today’s damsel-in-distress.”

The sudden silence swells; the fridge hums. Jack’s gaze flicks to the re-ordered drawers, traces the tension coiled in your shoulders.

“I know you’re not fragile,” he says, voice even but warm. “I just care where my foxhole partner is standing.”

“That’s the problem,” you bite back, pulse still hammering from the parents’ tirade. “You’re always gauging my location like I’m a breach in the hull. I don’t need a minder every time you leave the building.”

He exhales through his nose—patience fraying—but keeps calm. “Listen—”

Your laugh cracks like brittle glass. “Spare me the pep talk. I’m holding by dental floss, and you hovering makes me feel like I’m seconds from splintering.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. He looks both ways, then curls two fingers into your scrub sleeve and steers you toward an empty bay. The curtain snaps shut behind you.

“Jack—”

“Quiet.” His voice is low, trembling with its own edge. “You just fought conspiracy parents while rebuilding a med cart like it’s Jenga. You skipped lunch and tore up your cuticles until they bled. I’m not hovering out of guilt—I’m hovering because I watched you hit the floor once and I’m not scheduling an encore.”

You open your mouth, fury and embarrassment tangling. “Stop making this about you feeling heroic. I will survive one day without—”

“That’s not what this is.” He steps closer, heat rolling off him. “You want proof?”

Before you can snarl another word he cups your face—hands firm but reverent—and kisses you, full and unhesitating. His stubble scrapes your skin in a rough, almost electric drag that somehow feels exactly right, grounding fury into something warmer. The shock blazes through anger, through exhaustion, until only the thunder of two heartbeats and antiseptic-scented air remain. His thumbs keep stroking your cheekbones, as if re-anchoring every fracturing part.

He pulls back just far enough to speak, breath ragged. “That is why I need to know where my foxhole partner stands. Not to monitor—” another kiss, softer, “—but to come stand there with her.”

This is months of unspoken wanting distilled into a single, wordless confession. His hands frame your face as if he’s chiseling truth into stone, and every press of lips says I love you, I love you, I love you without needing breath or syllables.

Tears cool on your cheeks, but they carry no fear—only the stunned relief of mysteries solved. “Fine,” you whisper, voice ragged but sure. “Go honor your day. I’ll hold the line.”

Jack’s answering smile is small, fierce, eyes shining with everything the kiss already said.

“It’s been a long time since we claimed the roof,” he murmurs, voice husky from the confession that just burned across your lips. “Maybe we trade the foxhole for a bird’s-eye again. Day after I’m back—and after your first day shift—I’ll be up there at change-over like we used to. Deal?”

Something expansive blooms in your chest, bigger than relief, sharper than hope. You answer by wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him so fiercely he rocks on his heels.

“Deal,” you breathe against his collar. “Rooftop. After day shift. Tea included.”

He chuckles, warm and certain, and presses a final kiss to your cheek before slipping away at the shouted call of his name, the curtain whispering closed behind him. You let your lungs fill at last—still bent, still bone-weary, but no longer so tightly woven. When you push the curtain aside and step back into the buzzing corridor, the feeling of that stubbled kiss settles over your heart like fresh-forged armor, bright enough to carry you through the rest of this night—and all the way up to the rooftop tomorrow.

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#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #small age gap

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berrryparfait · 2 months ago

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I humbly request a deeper dive on lads as samurai . PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE

misty sunsets in edo japan ⋆˚✿˖°

➴ original post: cherry blossoms in edo japan

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: samurai! rafayel, zayne, caleb, xavier, sylus x fem!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you are the sheltered daughter of a powerful clan leader in edo period japan. life in the estate sure would be boring without your samurai to keep you company... 「if you could do everything by yourself, i wouldn't have a reason to exist. ∼ tomoe, kamisama kiss」

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: ad meliora – the charm park

✧ a/n: you asked, i delivered!! but in all seriousness, i was super excited to fulfill this request because...same. i really put my whole samurussy into this one so please enjoy! <3

祁煜 ; RAFAYEL

.✦ sword: image here

.✦ duties: ↳ scaling the walls of enemy fortresses to determine the most discreet way in ↳ stealth missions, during which he eliminates targets quickly and silently ↳ keeping track of enemy-related records, which include headcounts and other estimations

.✦ pastimes: ↳ teasing you and making sure you know just how ticklish you are ↳ reading, especially the romance and fantasy genres ↳ painting beautiful pictures of grand mountains and winding rivers

.✦ core memory #1: You walk into the garden to find it…already occupied. “What are you doing here?” you ask Rafayel, who’s sitting by the pond with a gentle smile on his face. A canvas stands in front of him, and you watch as his slender fingers play a melody that cannot be heard. Here, in this garden, Rafayel is a musician, and the paintbrush in his hand is his instrument. “Just painting the ducks.” A series of quacks sounds from the small body of water next to you, and you laugh at the adorable little ducklings as they try to keep up with their mother’s pace. “All of them? There’s like, a hundred!” He chuckles at you, then replies, “You’re right. I’m painting the littlest one. She’s so cute.” Your eyes travel to the smallest duckling of the pack, and she quacks at you. You’re mine. I’m gonna name you Mephisto. It isn’t until you return a few hours later—after he’s long abandoned his completed canvas—that you look down at the painting and see your face smiling back at you.

.✦ core memory #2: It’s dark outside, but you can’t fall asleep. You need to know he’s okay. He told you he’d come to you the moment he returned, but it’s been hours. The thought of something bad happening to him in the middle of nowhere, with no one around to confirm it, haunts you. As discreetly as possible, you tiptoe around the estate in the hopes of finding him. A trace of him. The sound of someone wincing in pain catches your attention. Your heart skips and you bolt towards the noise, finding yourself behind one of the old weapon shacks. “Raf?” You squint in the darkness, almost yelping out loud when you see him hunched on the ground, streaks of red covering his face and body. “Oh my god, Raf—” He’s badly injured, but he’s managed to bandage most of his wounds by himself. A tired smile graces his lips when he sees you. “One of the guys turned out to be a spy. Enemy clan—” His words come out clipped as you treat the rest of his cuts and bruises, tears threatening to spill from your eyes each time he winces. “He spared my life, but told me to run away and never come back here, so his identity could remain a secret— But I didn’t listen. I came back. I killed him, but it was a pretty fair fight—” He grunts in pain as he gestures to his injuries, a wry smile still plastered across his bloody face. “You idiot! Why on earth would you come back?!” You’re full-on sobbing now, and he gently wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re the idiot. You. I came back for you, Duckling.”

黎深 ; ZAYNE

.✦ sword: image here

.✦ duties: ↳ reporting directly to the clan leader as his right-hand man ↳ embarking on the longest, deadliest missions reserved for only the strongest in and most loyal to the clan ↳ monitoring most major administrative matters

.✦ pastimes: ↳ cooking, which he’s incredibly skilled at ↳ treating the sick and wounded, though he doesn’t receive a single cent in return ↳ silently watching you from afar

.✦ core memory #1: You stop short as a positively exquisite aroma wafts your way. It’s coming from the kitchens, which is to be expected—the head chef is usually cooking dinner at this hour. Maybe you could steal a bite or two if your pleading methods prove to be endearing enough once again. But when you step through the sliding kitchen doors, it isn’t the head chef you see. “Zayne?” you gasp, blinking stupidly at the sight of him stewing something over a small fire. He says nothing at first, and you consider fleeing while you still can, but sharp, icy eyes lock on yours as one foot crosses the threshold. “Not interested in having some for yourself?” Your stomach rumbles so loudly he can probably hear it, and you blush. His lips touch the ladle as he takes a sip of his own, green eyes never leaving yours. He extends the ladle to you, prompting you to drink from that very same spot. Hesitantly, you do.

.✦ core memory #2: It’s your turn to watch him today. You hear him before you see him, labored pants and grunts coming from the secluded training yard in the forest behind the estate. Weaving your way through the thick brush, his lean figure comes into view, sleek lines and strong curves barely illuminated by the silver moonlight. He isn’t wearing a shirt. You hold your breath while admiring his form, ruthless and wild as he strikes the large tree in front of him with a staff. It’s rare to see him lose control like this. Maybe something’s bothering him. Your footsteps reveal your presence before your words do. “What’re you doing out here so late?” He ignores you, but his blows grow harder, more merciless. “You can talk to me, you know.” He stops hitting then, breaths coming out harsh and unsteady. “I killed them. All of them,” he whispers, his features shrouded in darkness. Yesterday’s mission. Your heart pangs for him, imagining the horrors he’s had to face as your father’s most precious subordinate. Tentatively, you ask, “Is that why you help all those people? Why you heal them, and ask for nothing in return?” An act of repentance, perhaps? He says nothing.

以昼 ; CALEB

.✦ sword: image here

.✦ duties: ↳ daily samurai training as a junior ↳ physical and mental exercises that push his body to its limits ↳ guard duty every other night, to prevent intruders from breaking into the estate

.✦ pastimes: ↳ feeding the stray cats that wander around the estate ↳ swimming in the river with his buddies and catching fish with his bare hands ↳ climbing trees to find the best view of the flower fields below

.✦ core memory #1: “You can’t trust him.” Here he goes again. When will he stop badgering you about other guys? “I told you, I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions. Stop treating me like a child.” He scoffs at your statement like it’s the most absurd statement ever uttered by a human being. An older girl around his age walks up to the two of you, a slight spring in her step. She flirts with him, asking if he’d like to train her one-on-one tonight, which even you know is a euphemism for something else. Something unspeakable. He can’t hide the obvious blush on his face, and you roll your eyes like a little brat. “Let me guess, ‘No one could resist an offer like that?’ Yeah, yeah, go ahead and have your night of fun, dickhead.” He laughs at you, wide-eyed—fully chortles at you while you stare at him with your mouth agape. “Relax, Pipsqueak. I’m supposed to be chilling with you, remember? Who do you take me for?” He looks offended, but you can’t shake the nagging thought that he might just take her up on her offer anyway. (He doesn’t.)

.✦ core memory #2: He’s being all weird again. Why did he take you out here? The wind is howling, sending bits of grass flying into your eyes and mouth. Before you can ask him why you’re both standing in the middle of nowhere, he heaves himself up onto a fat tree branch. “Caleb, what are you—” “Shut up and join me.” You sigh in surrender he lifts you up, his touch searing your skin. Together, you climb higher and higher up the huge tree—though you struggle a little more than he does. When you finally see it, the breath is knocked out of your lungs. “Surprise, Pips.” Streaks of pink and gold pierce the sky as the most majestic sunset you’ve ever seen blankets the horizon. Hues of orange and purple and blue dance across the massive flower field below, flora of every kind rising up to meet them—to glimpse them. For the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. “So? How do you like the view?” Every corner of the world feels visible from up here. The wind rushes through your hair, caressing your cheeks and eyelashes as if to say goodnight. And Caleb is sitting right next to you. You wish you could bottle this moment and keep it with you forever. “It’s beautiful,” you reply. He’s looking right at you when he whispers, “Yeah… It is.”

星回 ; XAVIER

.✦ sword: image here

.✦ duties: ↳ training the junior samurai, mainly on the physical front ↳ spying on enemy clans and factions by gaining their trust ↳ overseeing the clan’s inventory, which comprises weapons and armor

.✦ pastimes: ↳ tasting the chef’s newest delicacies straight from the kitchens ↳ playing the koto, which he’s…slowly getting better at ↳ taking naps beneath the shade of the old trees

.✦ core memory #1: No, you don’t like him. Yes, you like watching him train the others. Those two things can coexist, and they’re coexisting peacefully right now. Your arms are crossed while you watch him correct a young samurai’s stance, his instructions patient yet firm. He glances over at you before turning back towards the class. “Unimpressed?” he says flatly. You’ve been watching them with a quizzical expression on your face, apparently clear enough for him to notice. “It all just seems like something I could do.” You can’t help it. You’re a spoiled, prickly little brat—dishing out quips is in your nature. The look on his face shifts from uninterested to something darker, cautionary. “You better stay on the sidelines where I can see you. It isn’t your safety I’m worried about, in case that much isn’t clear.” My father. He answers to my father. All at once, you realize you couldn’t care less if Xavier gets in trouble with dear old Dad. You charge into the middle of the yard, headstrong as ever, aiming straight for the weapon racks. What to fail to realize, however, is that the hilt of a sword is headed right for your forehead. With a loud “thud”, you’re knocked senseless onto the ground, your head throbbing and aching and punishing you for being so stupid. Distantly, you feel a pair of gentle arms lift you up and carry you away from the others. Orders are given. Crowds are scattered. Reluctant words of consolation are whispered into your ear.

.✦ core memory #2: The morning sun washes over you as you step outside, elated to feel the warm grass beneath your bare feet. Father finally let you out of the estate today after you’d practically begged him to release you from your cozy prison, assigning you the menial task of finding pears for tonight’s supper. Pear trees, pear trees… You wander aimlessly through the field, getting distracted by songbirds and squirrels along the way— A soft sound emerges from behind the large oak up ahead. An animal? Quietly, you edge towards the source of the small noise, trying your best to make it out… Snoring? Closing the distance, you spot a familiar head of white hair perched against the bark, and the crease between your brows smooths. Your first instinct is to open your mouth to wake him, finding the thought of him glaring at your insolence satisfying. But upon closer inspection… His eyelashes really are quite long. His skin is…delicate, and would probably be nice to touch… He startles awake from your fingers, and you jump back in surprise. It’s too late. You can’t bottom out now. “Uhh… Mind if I join you…?” He doesn’t object. “Just…don’t touch me.” And so you lie there together, bodies stretched out on the grass and heads propped against the bulging roots; and at some point you can’t quite pinpoint, he ends up leaning on your shoulder anyway.

秦彻 ; SYLUS

.✦ sword: image here

.✦ duties: ↳ a lone samurai, his only duty is to himself and his survival ↳ stealing food and weapons from wealthier clans ↳ eliminating those who harm innocents or get in his way

.✦ pastimes: ↳ stargazing and charting the constellations, which interest him profoundly ↳ sharpening and perfecting his blade ↳ sneakily listening to local musical performances (a more recent development)

.✦ core memory #1: You walk along the winding road in comfortable silence, his presence a steady pillar you somehow know you can rely on. You still don’t know much about him; who he is, what his past was like, where he came from—but you’ve come to realize it doesn’t really matter to you anymore. Slowly but surely, you and this mysterious, deadly stranger have forged an unlikely…friendship? Is that what you are? In the distance, a familiar tune begins to play. “Hey, do you hear that?” you ask him, turning towards the music. “Ah. The locals in this village put on performances every other week, though I’ve never stopped to play audience.” A devilish grin pulls at your mouth as you grab him by the arm and drag him towards the festivities. He only resists for a second. It isn’t long before the spirit of the lilting song consumes you both, and you sway together in each other’s arms as it plays on—he, a little stiffly. You were wrong earlier. You want to get to know him more. You need to. It might just be the only way for your soul to breathe. You can’t hide from me anymore. I won’t let you.

.✦ core memory #2: His breath is in your ear as you struggle to remember the “weak spot” he mentioned mere seconds ago, but with your back flush against his chest, you can't focus on anything other than closing the nonexistent distance between you. His lips hover dangerously close to yours, and you swear you just felt his breath hitch. When you fail to strike him in time, he releases you from his grip, the blade in his hand glistening menacingly in the moonlight. His words come out harsh and intimidating. “Again. If you want to become a samurai, you’ll have to live long enough to make it to the—” You cut him off. “Do you care about me?” The question surprises you as much as it does him, vulnerability lacing your words as they force their way to the surface. He pauses, a serious expression on his face. “I care about getting what I want.” Lie. You push on, seeing through him like he’s a wall of glass. “Come back with me,” you begin, your voice wobbly and uncertain, but earnest. “My father will let you live. He’ll even give you a place to stay, at my request. We can train together, and we’ll never be far from each other’s side.” You don’t say the glaring part out loud. You can’t bring yourself to. But deep down, you know he understands. He always does. A long pause. “I can’t, sweetie.” It’s final. You can tell it is. Will you ever be content living like this—meeting in the shadows and sharing secret conversations? Can anyone love someone that much?

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

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pome-seed · 2 months ago

Text

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 2

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Tasked with finding the cause behind the Winter Soldiers medical decline, you set to work familiarizing yourself with his medical history. With your life on the line, you try your best to pretend this is just another patient, but how long can you lie to yourself? How long can you convince yourself that everything will be okay?

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, needles, blood, fear, weapons, and death. Fake and very uneducated medicine :)

Authors Note: Hi! Letting you all know, this is very slow burn. Reader is wrought with guilt, scared, and doing her best, but yeah. There's a lot more to come. Also, fair warning, I did a good deal of research into muscle degeneration medicine, but I'm not a doctor. Just suspend your disbelief for as long as you can! (I'm not a fan of the first half of this chapter, but I hope you like it.)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

The next few days were spent alone, in a dark room. You spent most of your time curled up, tracing patterns on the floor. They taught you early that if you behave, if you obey, you were safe. And you clung to that lie like it was all that kept you going.

On the fifth day, the door finally opened. You went still, like an animal caught by a predator- playing dead. A man in a tactical suit approached you and tugged you up by your arm. A notebook and pen were shoved into your hands as he dragged you along. You stumbled along, your trembling legs failing you as you tried to keep up with his long strides.

A pair of familiar metal doors pushed open in front of you. The room, however, was less familiar. The shabby lights that hung overhead flickered to life, bathing the cold room in a yellowish-green glow. The walls were lined with crates and boxes you didn't recognize, as well as machines you’d never seen before. The station in the middle of the room was the same. The man in the center, he too was the same.

He looked different in the light. His skin was tanner than you first thought. He was larger than you first thought.

“Finally, the cherry on top.” Pierce clapped as you stumbled inside, your captor releasing you. “We have a station ready for you, and any machines you need are yours. Just say the word.”

You stared in awe at the man, your heart racing in your chest. “Sorry?”

“You remember your agreement, yes? Well it’s time to make good on your end of the deal.”

You gulped, nodding quickly. “Of course- right-” Your stomach twisted with dread. You do what you’re told, and they keep you alive.

Pierce grinned. “Good. He’s yours for the day, try to find something good, yes?” Pierce gestured to the desk along the right wall. The man beside you nudged you forward. You stepped up and took stock of the supplies. You wouldn't lie, it was incredibly advanced. Almost too advanced.

Stacks of paper were waiting for you- your own research, stolen from your office. You set your notebook down and looked up at the monitor. Scans of a large body were pinned to the browser, some of his bones, some of his brain.

Pierce swept past you, his hand on the door. “Be good, alright? There's no such thing as irreplaceable.” The door clicked shut.

The four men posted at each corner of the room said nothing. The Soldier said nothing. It was that moment that you realised his eyes were on you. The weight of his gaze had tracked you across the room. You shivered, your eyes pressed closed. You had no idea what you were doing. Especially not with him. He wasn’t just a normal man. He was scientifically advanced. He was also like a hundred years old.

You were so screwed.

You spent the next few hours familiarizing yourself with his medical history, reviewing scans, and scribbling on a white board. You felt burdened by the weight of his presence. He wasn’t some lab rat. He was just sitting there, watching you pick apart his physiology.

You pushed a small cart towards his table. “Hi-” you finally said, timid and clueless on where to start. “Mind if I have some blood?” His arm extended wordlessly. “Thank you.” You whispered, tearing open an alcohol pad to wipe over his vein.

“I'm terrified of needles, are you?” Silence. “It’s not practical, for a doctor- but I am. I always hated getting shots as a kid. I once knew someone who had the needle snap off inside him when he was young. It haunted me.” you rambled, piercing his skin with the needle. “It’s such an insignificant fear- but it just makes my skin crawl. I’m afraid of most things though.”

You pulled the vial of blood away once finished and stuck a bandaid over the nick in the flesh. “Heights, loud noises, spiders, death, large guns being pointed at my head- you know, the works.” You blabbed, taking the vial over to the desk. you added a small drop to a slab of glass to look at under a microscope. “Needles seem so stupid, among other things.” You muttered, focused.

Your days continued like that. An array of tests, scans, physical therapy recommendations, and more than enough samples taken. You fell easily into the role of Doctor. It was a distraction. It was nice, pretending nothing was different. This was just another lab, and he was just another patient.

He hadn’t spoken a word to you. You assumed it was because of the armed guards watching your every move. But it was also just as likely that he just had nothing to say. He was like a shell of a man, sitting and waiting. Blinking and breathing. But lifelessly silent. He watched you closely as you moved around the room and the machines, tracking you. You always did your best to ignore the weight of his stare.

You just needed to get the job done, and go home.

After a long bout of flicking through old scans, and running fluids, you finally sat down. You had been on your feet all day, and it was killing you. But the weight of your captor's watchful eye made you hop back up.

“What have you been eating?” You asked the man, standing by the desk. A silence followed. You should have known. You looked to the man in the nearest corner. “What do you guys feed him?” You tried to sound confident as you spoke.

The guy blinked, looked left and right, then shrugged. “I don’t think he eats.” He smirked.

You had to bite back a grimace. “He’s alive, so he eats.” You muttered. “Do you know who makes his food?”

“Bone broth, I think,” a man from another corner said.

“Bone broth? That's it?” You stared at the Soldier in shock.

“Among other things.”

You grimaced this time, stepping up to your charge. You noticed his scruff had grown out a bit since the last time you saw him. The bags under his eyes had sunken in. You held your hands out, hesitant to grab his arm. After a long moment, you slid your fingers around his bicep. You pressed your fingers into the muscles along his shoulder, then down.

It felt ridiculous. They’d taken you to look into the deep dark reason behind his degeneration- but they weren't feeding him. It was the most basic human need. Eat to survive. Protein and greens. Needed to keep the average man strong.

“They have to start feeding you real food- like meat and vegetables.” You told him. You gently dropped his arm. You pulled a chair up to sit in front of him. “I’m assuming they’ve been putting you to sleep every time they're done with you, right?” You suggested. You hadn’t even realized how easily you became comfortable once in your own realm. It was familiar. Be a doctor. Help a patient. It was easy. It was safe.

“I’m thinking that your body is going into shock every time it wakes up. And without proper nutrition- and proper upkeep of whatever they put in you- it's keeping your body from catching up.” You tilted your head down and met his eyes. “I think-”

The doors behind you swung open with a thud. You jumped from your chair and turned to see Pierce, and a group of other large men. you suddenly felt small. You felt like a rabbit in a den of wolves. “How’s our beautiful doctor doing?” Pierce clapped. You jumped.

Your eyes slid back to the Soldiers in time for a hand to rest on your shoulder. “Updating your patient, I see?”

The said patient’s eyes seemed to glaze over in the presence of the other man. “It helps me to put my thoughts out there…” you whispered.

He nodded thoughtfully, his fingers pressing into your muscle. “You could talk to me, you know. I make for much better conversation.” He smiled, nudging the Soldier. “So,” He moved to stand beside you. “What have you found?”

“I um,” you swallowed around the lump rising in your throat, “I think his body is going into shock.” In any usual teaching moment, you would stand and start drawing out a diagram on the white board they so generously gave you. But this wasn’t your every day. “Whatever he was given- the serum? You said it has regenerative abilities. But I really think it’s speeding up most of his body's functions.”

“I think that his body is dying.” You whispered. “It's like- uh, over watering a plant. The human body isn’t meant to be pumped full of something so overpowering. I think the damage has been done- it's been stunted every time you put him to sleep, but when he wakes up, his system kick starts and well- He’s dying.”

You kept your eyes steady on the Soldiers knees, your hands trembling in your lap. You were going off a handful of half baked theories, but it wasn’t like you were sitting in a temple of patience. you had to give them something.

“It’s a theory.” You blurted, looking up at Pierce. “I mean- obviously he’s not dying, dying- the serum is just kind of eating him.”

The man's face was blank, his lips pressed together in thought. “A theory.”

“Yes.” You whispered.

“We’re gonna need better than a theory.” He said calmly.

“I know but-”

“But.” Pierce tsked. “‘But’ isnt an apology, or acknowledgment. ‘But,’ is making an excuse.” He grit. Pierce stepped forward and took a handful of the Soldier's hair, yanking it back. “What you’re looking at, right here,” He spit, leaning down into your space. “Is the single most invaluable weapon the world has ever known. And you have a theory that he’s dying?” He shouted. “Do you have a solution to your great theory?”

You bit down on your tongue, willing the tears of fear away. “I-I-” you stammered, squeezing your eyes shut as Pierce leaned closer. “I will- I’ll find something-”

“And you’ll find it now!” He shouted, releasing the Soldier's hair, replacing it with yours. You gasped, a whimper slipping from your lips.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry-” you repeated, your nails digging into your thighs. “I’ll fix it- I’ll help him-” you whispered, a dark shadow of terror gripping your chest.

Pierce’s breath ghosted over your skin as he pressed into your space. “You will. Or we’ll find someone who can.”

The next few nights were a blur. It was a sickening cycle of sobbing silently in the corner of your room, picking your own brain to solve a problem you never thought existed, and crying again.

You just wanted to go home.

You were living in your own personal nightmare, and there was no escaping it.

The next time you found yourself alone with the Soldier, he looked different. His facial hair had grown out again. There was a fresh gash across his temple, and a sick bruise along his jaw. He looked sad. Though that wasn’t much different from his usual expression.

A man shoved you forward into the lab. You caught yourself on a table. The door clicked shut. You were alone. It was quiet again. Dim again. You knew he was watching you this time. You were too afraid to speak.

Your body carried itself to the desk off of pure instinct. Your work was all there, exactly as before. You pressed a key on the computer, making it flicker to life.

You had a moment, standing there, wondering how long it had been since you were first taken. Since you were first subjected to their torture. Since you had met your charge, the man bread for killing.

You glanced back at him. He had a tray of supplies sitting in his lap. “I guess you need a shave again, huh?” You whispered, your voice sounding loud in the silent room. He stared down into his lap. You approached him, moving the tray into a nearby chair. “Looks like someone got you pretty good, huh?”

Your heart raced with every word. You were so sickeningly afraid, but you just couldn’t keep your mouth shut. You didn’t know if it was the nerves, or the habit of needing to fill silence, or because you were secretly hoping to hear him respond.

“Could you please lift your head?”

You began snipping the longer bits of hair away once he moved. You wondered who used to do this before you. You wondered if he used to be allowed to do this for himself at one point, or if they always demeaned him by taking away simple autonomy. You wondered if he ever spoke. You wondered if he was always a killer. You wondered if he was just as afraid as you were.

His gaze flickered to yours. You always hated your habit of thinking out loud. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, picking up the razor now. “Am- am I to help you with your wounds too, you think? I mean- They haven’t told me if I am.” you muttered. “I just don’t want to step over any lines here.”

You dragged the razor down his throat in lines, wiping away the hair between strokes. “I think it’s interesting they have me do this after what happened last time.” You muttered. “The speech, not the last shave. I didn’t think they’d want me spending my time on this.” You rinsed the razor, then continued.

“I hope- I hope I didn’t scare you before.” You paused, leveling him with a stare. “About my theory. That’s not how I would deliver news to a patient in any other circumstance. You’re not doomed. I really do think I can figure something out to help you.” You took the rag and patted his face. “I-”

“Don't.”

The rag slipped from your grip. You gaped at the man. “You-” you paused, curling your hands against your chest. “D-Don’t?”

His brows, knit together, cast shadows over his blue eyes. He seemed to regret speaking. But there was something else there. A sorrow, a deep, sickly sorrow. He let out a slow breath, staring straight up at you.

“Don't,” you repeated, understanding dawning on you. “Don’t help you.” You whispered. For a moment, you wanted to ask him why, but you knew it was a stupid question. In the time you’d seen him, he was treated like a dog. He’d not been allowed to stand, to speak, to care for his own body. The people around him seemed to forget he even ate.

They seemed to forget he was a person.

“I have to,” you whispered, like it was a secret shared. “You know I have to.”

He seemed saddened by your words, though his expression was unchanging. He blinked, then let his gaze fall between you. He nodded.

“I’m sorry..."

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this intro chapter into the reason the reader is there. A lot more is coming. (Also I've never done a tag list, so I hope I did it right!) Please comment your thoughts. Be kind!

Tag list: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff

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