#and. heres a brief summary of each sets story

[fishtank32]

throws my ocs at you

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Fingerprints

main masterlist | marvel masterlist

summary: bucky remembers every time your fingers graze his skin

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

rating: R for language

word count: 2.4k

warnings: mentions of torture, bucky is touch starved

timeline: set in an au after civil war

author’s note: touch starved!bucky barnes is so heartbreaking </3. (picture this bucky during the story, but he has the vibranium arm)

Bucky remembered every bad thing he did as the Winter Soldier. Like scars on his soul, he remembered watching the life drain from their eyes. He remembered every grueling torture session Hydra subjected him to.

He hated how well he remembered his past, and it haunted him nightly. The only thing that was keeping him sane was… you.

He had met you several months ago during the mess with the Sokovia Accords, but he’d only really known you a couple of weeks now. The moment he re-met you, your kind nature swept him off his feet. Up until then, he’d only received kindness from the Wakandans and Steve. But here you were, a stranger who only knew his worst sides, yet you were so gentle with him, so soft-spoken.

**

“Morning sunshine,” you chirped from the compound’s kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep?” you asked Bucky as he sat down at the kitchen island, facing where you stood.

“Slept fine,” he replied. His eyes were tired, burdened with the memories of the nightmares last night had taunted him with. He kept his focus on you. He watched as you stirred creamer into your coffee and as you blew on it through pursed lips to cool it down.

“You okay?” you asked, noticing how intensely he was watching you. 

“I’m fine,” he repeated the word.

“Uh huh, sure hun.” You nodded your head. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes please.”

“Coming right up.”

You grabbed a Stark Industries mug from the cabinet and poured him some coffee. After asking if he wanted any you poured in some creamer as well. You slid the cup across the counter and your fingers brushed his knuckles as he took it.

“Thanks, doll,” he said. He wasn’t just thanking you for the drink, he was thanking you for the fingerprints you left on his right hand, the hand that now held the warm cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep?” he asked, wanting to keep the conversation going but unable to think of a topic change.

“I slept fine,” you replied in a lowered voice, mimicking his. The impression worked because he let out a short laugh.

**

Bucky thought about this short interaction all day. He thought about it as he trained in the gym and as he took a quick shower afterward. He thought about it as he fell asleep that night; he thought about your soft hand brushing his calloused one. He tried to focus on the thought of you as he drifted off the sleep, yet his dreams were still plagued with ghosts of his past.

The next few mornings went about the same.

“How’d you sleep?” you’d ask.

“Fine,” he would respond.

You would ask him if he wanted coffee and he always did. You’d give him the cup and each time lightly brush his hand with the tips of your fingers.

It was barely an interaction. But to Bucky? He looked forward to it. He looked forward to the soft touch of your hand, he looked forward to the smile lines that would deepen when he made you laugh, and he looked forward to the brief conversation the two of you shared each morning.

One morning was different for Bucky, though. He could barely get himself out of bed; images of his dreams still swirling in his mind. He all but collapsed onto the kitchen chair as he sat to speak with you.

“Whoa, you don’t look so good, Bucky. You alright?” you asked, your voice laced with concern and kindness. 

“Just didn’t sleep great, that’s all,” he grumbled, slightly slurring his words.

You shrugged it off and began making his coffee just how he liked it. When you handed it to him, your fingers brushed against him like they had done mornings prior. He savored the moment of skin-to-skin contact before it was broken again.

He thanked you and began sipping the coffee. You watched him intently as he did so.

“What’s wrong, Bucky?” you asked him after a beat of silence.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he protested.

“Are you sick?” you asked. You walked around the island table and stood closer to him. “Can I touch you?” you asked as you brought your hand up to cup his cheek.

He couldn’t believe his ears. You’d just asked for his consent to do something to him; something as gentle as touching his cheek.

He couldn’t get the word out fast enough; “Y-Yes.”

You quickly put your hand on his cheek and furrowed your brows with concentration. You then put the back of your hand against his forehead.

“You don’t seem to have a fever,” you commented.

It was official; Bucky was in heaven. He was relishing in the feeling of your touch. Your left hand on his forehead, your right hand resting on his shoulder. He felt like he had been in darkness for ages and had only now begun to see pure light. 

It was over too soon when you pulled back.

“Maybe you need some more sleep, Bucky,” you suggested.

**

It’d been two weeks since Bucky’s favorite moment with you. Since then he’d barely gotten alone time with you; it was always interrupted by Sam or Steve coming into the kitchen for breakfast. 

He cursed the timing; he’d sit down just as Sam and Steve entered the kitchen, completely disrupting the routine he had going.

Today was no different.

“Morning gorgeous,” Sam exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen. “You make me those pancakes again?”

“You know it, stud.”

Bucky hated the “will they, won’t they” tension you two seemed to have going. He didn’t know you both swore up and down it was platonic flirting.

“You’re too good to me, baby.” Sam smiled widely.

Bucky stared daggers at him, wishing the earth would swallow himself or Sam up whole, anything to put an end to this torment.

But then you glanced his way and suddenly all his annoyance dissipated. The color of your eyes, hair, and lips under the harsh kitchen lighting made him feel like the luckiest man in the world just to be in your presence. 

“Bucky, you want some?” you offered him a plate with two pancakes. He happily accepted yet your fingers didn’t brush his hand when you gave it to him. Stupid plate, being big enough for two people to hold onto at the same time. 

He began eating the pancakes along with Steve and Sam.

“Goddamn these are good,” Sam practically moaned dramatically. “You are an angel, woman.”

“Oh stop it,” you laughed off his comment. Bucky hated feeling so jealous of Sam. 

**

The next time Bucky touched you was during a sparring session in the gym. Several trainees along with Sam, Steve, Wanda, and Nat were paired up and fighting each other. You were partnered with Bucky, Steve was partnered with Wanda, and Sam was partnered with Nat.

You threw a punch and he blocked it just as you expected, you kicked at him and again he blocked it. 

After a while, Steve yelled “Switch,” which meant it was Bucky’s turn to play offense. 

As he was punching you missed a block and he punched you square in the cheek with his vibranium hand.

“Fuck,” you gasped, covering your right cheek with both hands. “Oh fuck, that hurts!”

Bucky hadn’t felt such pure, immediate guilt in so long.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he said quickly. “Shit, fuck, I’m so, so sorry!”

“It’s okay, not your fault,” you said between pained gasps. While you were a trained fighter and Avenger, you weren’t a super soldier. And without powers, a vibranium punch hurts like hell.

Bucky wanted to punch himself in return for hurting you. He wished to take the bruise forming on your cheekbone and give it to himself instead.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, sounding defeated.

He had been so excited to be partnered with you for training, he had been looking forward to it for days (Steve put the pair schedules up early) but now he wished you had been paired up with Sam instead.

“Let me kiss it better,” he could imagine Sam saying if he had made the same mistake. The bruise wouldn’t be half as big if it had been Sam’s left hand instead of his own. He could imagine Sam would pull you into a hug to express his apologetic sorrow, yet Bucky assumed you’d rather not get a hug from himself.

“Not your fault,” you told him again. You could tell by the expression on his face what he was putting himself through. “Make it up to me by walking me to the freezer for some ice?”

He was shocked by your words. You wanted him to accompany you to the gym’s kitchen? You weren’t going to immediately run to Sam and ask him for help instead?

“Of course,” he said. “Anything you need.”

“Ice that wound, Y/n,” Steve said from a few yards away.

“Already on it, Cap,” you replied.

**

You sat on a bench inside the gender-neutral lockers with Bucky on your left. You held the ice up to your cheek as you both stayed silent for a while.

“I’m really sorry, doll,” Bucky whispered, wanting to break what he felt was an uncomfortable silence.

“I forgive you, Bucky,” you said. You wished he could understand it wasn't his fault, but at the very least you wanted him to know you forgave him. “Besides, it was kinda my fault for not blocking that punch, I should’ve seen it coming a mile away.”

“I thought I went too quickly,” he admitted.

Truthfully, he hadn’t in fact thrown too quick of a punch. In reality, you had been distracted by the color of his eyes under the gym’s harsh lighting. The way they shone such a beautiful, bright blue had you so mesmerized you failed to block the (fairly slow because Bucky was going easy on you) punch.

“Not at all, hun,” you assured him.

Again you both sat in silence. You didn’t mind it, you didn’t mind Bucky’s company. Bucky, however, felt awful about the silence and thought it was a sign you didn't want to talk to him. 

“Can you do me a favor?” you asked. “It’s kinda a big one so feel free to say no.”

“Sure,” he replied. “Anything for you, Y/n,” he wanted to say.

“My hands are getting really numb, would you mind holding the ice pack for a bit?”

“Okay,” he said. You turned to face him, moving your left leg so you were straddling the bench as Bucky did the same with his right leg. The two of you now faced each other as Bucky asked; “Can I touch you?”

That warmed your heart and you nodded.

He reached out his vibranium arm and cupped the ice pack against your cheek as you let go of it. You smiled warmly and put your hand overtop his.

“B-Better?” he asked, his nerves running wild.

“So much.”

**

The punch had sent your relationship with Bucky back lightyears. Every time you talked with him he couldn’t help but stare at the swollen bruise he’d caused.

It bothered you how guilty he still felt even after you willingly took the blame. You could tell he was losing sleep over it so one night you decided to confront him while he stayed up past three AM.

“Bucky, what’re you doing up so late?” you asked, walking into one of the living rooms and seeing him sitting in the corner reading a book. “Is everything okay?”

You took a seat near him on the couch, your brows furrowed with worry.

“Could ask you the same thing, doll,” he retorted.

“I’m serious, Bucky, I’m worried about you.”

“You’re worried about me? Why?”

“Cause I’ve noticed how tired you are when you talk to me each morning, and I notice how you strain yourself trying to focus when you look at me.”

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout me, I’m fine.”

“I know I don’t have to, Bucky,” you said softly. “I worry about you because I care about you.”

“You… care about me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” you replied quickly and reached out your hand. “Can I touch you?” He nodded and you rested it on his knee. “You matter, Bucky. Your health matters. And if you wanna talk about whatever’s keeping you up, I’m here for you.”

Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off your hand. 

“Thank you,” was all he could choke out. 

**

He eventually began to open up to you. Bit by bit, night by night, you were truly getting to know the great Lieutenant James Barnes.

The more you got to know him the deeper in love with him you fell. You felt selfish for wanting to kiss the pain away, but you couldn’t help it. All you wanted to do was hold him tight till he fell asleep in your arms. But that’s not what he wanted, you assumed. He seemed to be barely okay with the brief touches up till this point.

Whenever you could, whenever you weren’t too exhausted, you would stay up with him. A couple of times you both ended up sleeping on the couch because you fell asleep and Bucky didn’t feel right moving you without your permission. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep next to you, but it happened anyway.

One night you went to speak with him like you had done before but this time was different.

You stood in front of where he sat and when he looked up at you the light caught the glint in his eyes and made you aware of his tear-stained face. 

“Can I touch you?” you asked, just as you had done time and time again.

“Always,” he replied. You cupped his face with your hands. 

“Is this okay?” you asked, hands moving to tangle with his hair. 

“It’s more than okay,” he replied, leaning on your stomach as he brought his hands to rest on your hips. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t merely thanking you for staying up with him, but for the fingerprints you were leaving on his very soul. The lingering feeling of your soft touch on his trauma-filled skin.

He didn’t dare tell you about his most recent dream — a dream in which the Winter Soldier took your life.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

stay for a fortnight

a/n: as promised, here is part three of the bodyguard!bucky story ৎ୭

summary: “yes, ground rules,” you sighed, forcing your eyes to rest on anything but him, “it’s just you and me here for two whole weeks, so we’ll need to come up with a plan.”

warnings: bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader, smut, reader’s mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), tattooed!bucky (both a metal arm and tattoos as picked in a poll by you), beefy!bucky, forbidden romance, staying for two weeks at a chateau in the south of france, forced proximity, bucky is a shameless hoe and we love him for it, kissing, love confession, shower sex, dirty talk, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, gaping, handjob, fingering, impact play, squirting, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cumplay

word count: 3870

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“I’m sorry, darling. I tried to get out of it, I really did, even for just one day, but I can’t join you at the chateau this time.” 

“It’s alright, mom,” you exhaled, “I understand.”

Soothingly rubbing her palm down the length of your arm, she suggested, “well, since it won’t be as crowded down there, why don’t you stay a little longer? Maybe a proper break might cheer you up. Maybe one extra week?”

“Actually, two weeks of alone time is just what I need right now,” a faint smile managed to emerge on your lips, “thank you.”

“Great! You go and pack your things, I’ll let Barnes know to do the same,” she announced, and squashed the brief relief you felt just as soon as it had washed over you. 

It felt like ages that Bucky made you sit and wait in the car while he went around the estate to do his initial sweep, making sure it was safe and secure before you got to enter. 

The tenseness that still floated ethereally in the air between you didn’t fade away when he finally came back to crack open the door for you to exit the vehicle. 

“So,” you exhaled once the two of you had crossed the threshold of the chateau, “my room is the one upstairs and at the end of the hallway, yours is wherever the fuck you want, there are like a million bedrooms in this place.”

Your footsteps echoed against the elegantly tiled floors as you twisted to check that he even heard you. He had, seeing as his gaze was still ever glued upon you, though he didn’t offer you a reply. 

Shifting the large bag that hung from your shoulder, the luggage that you stubbornly hadn’t let him carry, you paused just before your stride began to ascend the grand staircase in the middle of the foyer.

“Also, I think we should come up with some ground rules.” 

Your bodyguard’s dark eyebrows then crinkled as he half scoffed, “ground rules?”

“Yes, ground rules,” you sighed, forcing your eyes to rest on anything but him, “it’s just you and me here for two whole weeks, so we’ll need to come up with a plan.”

Exhaling slowly, he simply stated, “whatever you say.”

Before you then began to drift up the wide steps, you cast a glance over your shoulder and said, “meet me in the kitchen in ten.”

“Alright,” you breathed, leaning against the cold marble of the kitchen island as you stared down at the small list you’d scribbled down on a stray post-it you had found in the bottom of your bag, slightly crumbled and with a doodle on the other side, “first rule I’d like to instate is an obvious one, but still needs to be set and stone in order for us to be here together. We can’t sleep together.”

When you heard a low sigh seep from Bucky’s lips, your eyes snapped up to glare at him. 

“Hey! Take this fucking seriously, okay?”

“I am,” he assured you, though his tone indicated the complete opposite of his words. 

“So, rule number two is in prolonging of the first one, which is that we can’t do anything that’ll make us want to sleep with each other,” you cast your glance back down to your messy handwriting, “two A, no swimming in the pool, two B, no nudity, two C, definitely no drinking, and two D, no staring at me,” your eyes flickered back up to catch his blue ones, “especially not like that,” you swiftly gestured to the way he gazed at you.

“Like what?” he didn’t change the manner he looked at you. 

“Like you’ve seen me naked!” 

Your shriek unfortunately only won you the glimpse of a smug smirk upon Bucky’s lips, one you swiftly tried to ignore. 

“Okay,” you blinked in an effort to redirect your attention back to the task at hand and not the butterflies that now soared in your stomach and made you slightly dizzy, “rule number three is technically also under the subsection of number two, but we can’t eat our meals together. No candle-lit dinners, not even a snack.”

Budding in, the man on the other side of the kitchen counter then said, “can I say something?”

With a soft sigh, you mustered the courage to look up at him, “shoot.”

“Do you wanna decide what I wear as well while you're at it? Maybe also when I’m allowed to breathe?”

His jest didn’t as much as conjure a twitch at the corners of your lips as your gaze simply narrowed in his direction, “are you mocking me?”

Boldly leaning his forearms down against the tabletop, he stared back at you, “so what if I am?” though when you assumed he was kidding and you let out a groan, you heard him go on, “all I’m saying is that maybe we don’t set a list of hard rules just to avoid each other. We seem to do just fine when we toss them all out the window.”

“I'm sorry, wait, what?” you blinked. 

“We’ve got two weeks here, so why don’t we make them count?” he shrugged. 

Mouth agape, you dumbfoundedly stared back at him, “you’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” calmly, his head tilted slightly as he held your stunned gaze, “just think about it.”

The sun only barely managed to set before you felt yourself crack and give in to your bodyguard’s offer. 

Storming into his room, his dark brows only got the chance to rise slightly in astonishment before you nearly tackled him to the ground, throwing your arms around his bulky frame and crashing your lips against his before any of you could say even a single word. 

You didn’t try to hide the raw emotions that came pouring out, causing your efforts to be rough and desperate, though it didn’t take long before Bucky’s touch mirrored the feral nature of your own, leaving you dizzy as you eventually withdrew from the starved kiss, clutching onto his shirt for support as you breathlessly ordered. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Keeping your eyes closed, you tilted your head back to let the drizzle of water rinse out the shampoo from your locks. 

The door to the bathroom was wide open, so when you twisted your form to face the showerhead, you didn’t notice as your faithful protector stopped in his slow tracks right on the other side of the threshold. His eyes trailed down your glistening spine till the sight of you caused him to crumble completely and take advantage of the gift that had just fallen into his lap.  

A low purr vibrated within your chest as the warm water rained down upon you, though suddenly, it wasn’t just the hot shower embracing your form, as a pair of burly arms snaked their way around you. Leaning back into his bulky frame, you caught sight of a crumbled bundle of his clothes tossed on the other side of the fogged-up shower door. A blissful hum crackled within you like a roiling fire as you felt his lips begin to plant soft pecks along the line of your shoulders. 

Though as his touch began to bloom and wander boldly down your frame, a gentle hiss tore through your lazy smile as his fingers came into contact and brushed over your core. 

Nipping at your neck, he murmured, “oh, do you want me to stop?” not removing his metal hand, though halted the pattern he had begun to draw over your petals. 

He already knew full well just how sore and swollen you still were. It would have been impossible not to be after the vigorous activities you’d kept the past week busy with.  

Digging your digits into his forearms to keep you in his embrace, you shot back hazily over your shoulder, “don’t you dare,” before a whimper rippled out of you as Bucky once again rolled your puffy pearl beneath his steely touch. 

“How is it that we’ve already done this for a whole week, yet it only feels like a day?” his voice tickled the shell of your ear as you leaned more of your weight back into him. 

“Really? Because I don’t believe you’d be able to fuck me in a day as many times as you have this past week,” you jested through a whimper, “even for a guy with your stamina.” 

“It’s a good thing it’s just the two of us here… imagine if we hadn’t been alone, if it hadn’t been me walking by and seeing you seduce me like the wicked temptress that you are?”

“I wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort,” you chuckled airily. 

“Really?” he teased just as his touch did, “leaving the door open, that wasn’t on purpose?” 

“No, I swear,” you then tilted your head and admitted, “at least not this time…”

“You mean the time back a month ago when didn’t close the door while taking a bath,” he murmured casually, “then called out to me, asking if I could fetch you a towel, and I had to pretend not to hear you?”

Spinning around at once, your eyebrows were nearly at your hairline as you blinked, “you knew?” 

“Baby, you never had to play that hard just to torture me,” he smiled down at you, “that move was downright cruel,” before he reached for the knob and switched off the water.

A squeal bubbled out of you as Bucky then suddenly plucked you up into his arms, wasting no time before he stepped out of the shower, only pausing for a beat in the comparatively more spacious area, though only in order to manhandle you further and toss you over his shoulder before his feet began to shift once more, leaving wet prints in their wake on the cool tile as he strode towards the exit. 

Strung over his shoulder as if you were a wet piece of laundry and he was the line, you giggled, “wait!” and just managed to catch one of the fluffy towels hanging on the hook he passed. Blinking down at the floor as he crossed the threshold, you watched as droplets of water dribbled down from you both and left a trail on the herringbone flooring, “you’re dripping, you’re gonna get the whole house wet!”

Landing his wide palm in a wet smack across your ass, he chuckled, “I thought that was my line, sweetheart,” teasing about the manner your pussy drooled for him, already leaking down your thighs at this point. 

Soon, the long hallway disappeared from your periphery as Bucky entered the nearest of the many bedrooms, though you barely had time to register your new surroundings before the world fell out from under you and he plopped you down on the bed in the middle of the room. 

Standing his ground and looming above the giggle that was your horizontal form, he stole the towel from your grasp before dragging the terrycloth across your skin. As he dried off the droplets of water that clung to your body, a handful of pecks adorned your flesh as well, often shadowing the cloth. 

Gazing up at him with smile-crinkled eyes, you stretched your feet up in the air, against his torso, and rested them against his wide shoulders as he briefly paused to dry himself off as well. But as he returned to sweep the towel across the last remaining spot upon your body that still glistened from the shower, the peck he pressed to the valley between your boobs was swiftly halted as your grasp found his jaw and you guided his face up towards your own. 

As you brought his lips to your own, you swiftly felt the mattress dent and ripple as he crawled up to hover above you. 

“Ahh, fuck…” he then groaned against your lips as your hand snaked down between your bodies and began to stroke his throbbing girth. 

Tossing the towel to the side, a gasp soon tumbled out past your lips as Bucky’s palms found your tits in a gentle squeeze. Your pebbly nipples stood up to the challenge as he swept a knuckle teasingly across one of them before capturing it in a pinch and tugging slightly to summon a sinful sound deep within your body. 

As your fist slowly twisted up and down his hard length, his close proximity caused your own knuckles to brush across your clit at every heated pass. Almost unconsciously, you tilted your hips slightly and nudged the bulbous tip of him through your glistening petals, the pleasure of which caused your eyes to roll in your skull. 

But just before he could take the initiative and catch your fleeting invitation to let him inside, you caught him off guard and suddenly rolled him onto his back with your frame plastered atop of him. 

Propping yourself up slightly, you grasped his fat girth before slowly sinking down upon it, “o-oh my god,” couldn’t help but breathlessly tumble out of your lungs as a flat palm came down to brace on his broad chest and your thighs gently quivered at the sudden stretch of him. It was a few times that you had to pause on your slow journey down just in order to catch your breath, as his intimidating size caused you to question yet again how you’d ever been able to take it before. 

“Atta girl,” his grip dug into your hips when you slowly began to move, “just like that…” though you still couldn’t persuade your pelvis to sink all the way down to meet his own. 

As you found a gentle roll, one of Bucky’s palms scooped up past your waist and caught one of your tits. Your back arched slightly as he played with your boobs, his hand travelling back and forth as you rode him, though a shuttering moan rippled through your body as he landed a gentle tap down upon one of them, a shiver swiftly trickling down your spine at the spark.

But just as you thought the bodyguard beneath you was blissfully enjoying the show and letting you do all the work yourself, his hips then abruptly offered you a greedy buck.  

“Bucky!” you nearly screamed as he buried the last few inches that you had so fiercely struggled to conquer on your own, “that’s–, I–, holy fuck!” 

You hadn’t been able to take all of him on your own, so he just gave you the little nudge that you needed, even if that nudge thoroughly punched all of the oxygen out of your lungs, he still made you take every staggering inch.

“Come on, don’t stop now,” a chuckle escaped him at your reaction before his palm came down upon your ass to get you back to work, “make yourself cum on this cock.” 

Shakily, you tried to pick up your rhythm once more, dropping your hips to meet his, though he couldn’t remain still for long before he began to fuck up into your warmth. Heavy taps echoed throughout the room as his balls slapped against your slick skin at his efforts. As he met your movements halfway and drove his cock much deeper than you could muster on your own, your left hand drifted down to strum your buzzing clit. 

Already dangerously close to the edge, your hazy gaze flickered down to watch not only how your pussy magically swallowed his big dick, but your eyes also caught sight of the dull bulge that appeared in your lower abdomen, making your brain feel even more fuzzy than before. As your glance flickered back to try and catch his, you found his own stare to still be fiercely locked on the same spot where yours had just strayed from, watching intently at just how deep he went, nearly rearranging your guts just to mould you perfectly to fit his shape. 

When you finally reached your peak, your cunt nearly choked his cock as your silky walls clambered down on him, a small accompaniment of sinful gush squirted around him and drizzled to soak the sheets below. 

While you were still foggy with your eyes barely open, Bucky rolled you both over, his dick still throbbing deep within you. Welcoming the softness of the bed beneath you with a gentle sigh, he then captured your lips in a kiss and swallowed the whimpers that promptly bubbled up as he began to fuck you once more, offering you long, deep strokes that sank you so far into the mattress that you began to wonder if you might rock through it completely.  

“O-oh, so fucking d-deep,” you blubbered. A rhythmic cry forced its way out of your lungs each and every time the tip of him kissed your cervix, nearly bullying the deepest parts of you in a manner that made you feel like the wobbliest of jellies. 

“You scared I’m gonna break you, baby?” his soft lips ghosted against your cheekbone. 

“I–, maybe,” you admitted, blinking up at the way his frame eclipsed your vision, “but it feels so good, I don’t care if you do,” though your confession ended up not only exclusively being about the purely physical entanglement you currently found yourselves in. 

A deep growl rumbled in his chest as his hands scooped down beneath your bottom, before he let himself manhandle you, repeatedly dragging your hips up to grant him a better angle for him to fuck into. A bit of drool trickled out the corner of your mouth and found the pillow below your head when his cock soon throbbed within you, pumping you full of his hot load. 

When he pulled back out of your warmth, your pussy didn’t get to stay empty for long as his cool metal fingers swiftly took his dick’s place. Plugging you full, his frame shifted slightly to grant him a good view of the leaky mess he’d made of you. As he pushed his cum deeper inside of you, scooping it back in as his fingers forced it out, he increasingly added more and more digits till the amount matched the girth that had just split you apart, before he withdrew them all at once and grinned proudly at the way he made your hole gape slightly for him, before winking back to a closed as if he’d never even tickled you before. 

It didn’t take long with all of his molten motions before your pussy wept for him once more, a display he only drew out as his fingers stayed hooked inside of you while his other palm came down to offer your puffy pearl a few taps. 

A hazy giggle was bubbling out of your shaky frame as his attentive touch finally faded and his kisses fluttered back up your body till your arms wrapped around him and drew him in close. 

As you layed there in the plush bed and stared up at the ceiling, you didn’t know yet that the man sprawled out beside you was awake as well. 

You just couldn’t find rest no matter how hard you tried, for how could you as tonight was your last night in the chateau. 

Carefully, you slipped out from under the covers, grabbed your long robe from the armchair it was draped over, and tip-toed towards the wide French doors that lead out onto a balcony. Pushing the doors open, a mild gust of wind rustled the robe as you fastened the tie around your waist and crossed over the threshold. 

Though you knew that you didn’t have any other choice, the thought of returning home in the morning still broke your heart. The last thing you wanted to do was burst that dreamlike bubble that you and your bodyguard had built together and go back to a world completely desaturated of colour. 

Not only had you made the grave mistake of repeating history, but putting it under such an intense microscope didn’t help matters either, as well as your feelings, those having become terrifyingly clear over the past two weeks. 

“Hey,” you suddenly heard the doors behind you creak and you tore your hazy gaze away from the dark gardens below to spot Bucky gently leaning against the doorframe. 

“Hi,” you breathed, keeping a flat palm on the ivy-covered stone railing as you twisted your frame slightly to glance at him, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, I was already awake,” he shrugged slightly before joining you outside in the pale moonlight, “you okay?”

“Yeah…” you sighed, casting your gaze back upon the woods blooming in the distance. 

“…well, that didn’t sound very convincing,” he chuckled gently as he settled in beside you, leaning both his forearms against the half-wall, “do you wanna talk about it?”

Sucking in a breath, your eyes flickered over to catch his own, “I just–…” you hesitantly began before admitting, “I don’t wanna go back to Paris…” 

“Why not?” though a crinkle found his brow, his expression still softened, “is there something going on with you and your mother?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” you shook your head, “I just don’t wanna go home yet…” staring at him a moment longer, you then heard yourself confess, “…I–… I don’t want this to end yet…”

Watching closely as his lungs expanded with oxygen, for the first time you witnessed the gruff man look utterly and completely stunned, simply staring down at you with bated breath. 

Parting your lips once more, you nearly whispered, “…I don’t wanna go back to pretending that I’m not in love with you…” 

Bucky didn’t say a word, only continued to stare as he tried to comprehend the truth you’d just professed.

“I love you,” you gathered up the nerve to spit out, “I love you now… I loved you this morning… I loved you after you’d probably only worked at the embassy for a few weeks…” your vision became blurred as tears began to form in your eyes and you continued to babble, “and I don’t think those feelings are planning on changing anytime soon, so it only seemed fair for you to be aware of that for when I ask you in two seconds if you wanna keep this thing between us going, because I do, though probably for different reasons than you–, not that I don’t enjoy that part, you are an incredible lay, I just didn’t think it would be fair for you to be unaware of the feelings I've developed for you, because I don’t know how to ignore them anymore, and–, oh my god, please just say something, I feel like I arrived naked at school or something–”

But before you could ramble any further, Bucky seized your face and fiercely pressed his lips to your own. A shiver ran down your spine and nearly caused your knees to buckle as he kissed you, and when he withdrew, slowly pulling back, he found your stary gaze and uttered, “…I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” he then sucked in a breath before confessing, “because I–… Y/n, I love you too…” 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[aleksatia]

🧡Caleb - Five Years Later

The third in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Grief / Loss of a loved one, Terminal illness, PTSD themes, Emotional trauma, Mentions of death / implied past death, Medical procedures / hospitals, Restraints (medical context), Panic attacks / nightmares, confinement / loss of agency, Non-consensual medical intervention, Self-worth / guilt issues, Power imbalance (emotional), Non-graphic violence, Brief medical body horror, Touch-starvation / intimacy after trauma, Bittersweet tone, heavy emotional intensity, Hope & love, but not always soft

Pairing: Caleb x former partner!you Genre: Sci-fi drama, heartbreak and healing, soul-deep devotion. Heavy on angst, soft on reunion. Enemies to… something more broken and beautiful. MC Context: You disappeared five years ago. He never forgave you. Now you’re back — with a secret that’s killing you slowly. Summary: Admiral Caleb was forged in war and tempered by loss — and you were the one wound that never healed. When fate throws you back into his orbit, neither of you are ready for what resurfaces. Letters, graves, rain-soaked rooftops, and the love that refuses to die quietly. Word Count: 8.4K — stand-alone… for now. 🥀 This story was loosely inspired by Caleb’s latest Myth. Just a touch of that vibe, y’know?

Author’s Note: Okay, full confession — I cried from the first word to the very last. Maybe it’s just me (I’ll admit, Caleb is my soft spot). Or maybe… it just hit something. Either way, I’d love to hear what you think.

The anniversary of Josephine’s death — and Caleb’s own — landed squarely on an unscheduled visit to Lincon City.

The admiral rarely returned. Not unless duty bared its teeth and dragged him back. Too painful. Too empty. The wounds too fresh, even now.

He had once been Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet. Now, promoted to the soulless rank of Admiral, he moved like a ghost through corridors lined with medals and silence. But today… something clawed at him. A compulsion. A tremor from a buried place.

He bought lupines. Tall, excessive, dignified in a way grief never is. The kind you buy for someone who will never see them. And then he walked — alone — to the cemetery.

He had only been here once before. With you.

Josephine’s grave was strangely well-tended. No weeds. Edged clean. A vase of pink lilies — fresh, impossibly so — sat nestled against the stone like someone had just set them down and whispered something soft and final. Her favorite flowers. He remembered.

His first thought: the groundskeepers. Maybe the city did something for the dead on anniversaries. Some quiet bureaucratic kindness. But that didn’t explain the lilies. How would they know?

His eyes scanned the black headstone. “Josephine,” carved in solemn, obedient serif. A name, a dash, two dates, and silence. His grandmother. Gone six years.

She hadn’t died of age. The blast had taken her.

But you — you were different.

Five years. Five years since you vanished. Gone not like a candle snuffed, but like smoke ripped from the air.

He had never accepted it. Not really. Some part of him believed you were taken. That you had been forced to go.

Because the truth — the one that stared back at him in sleepless nights and shattered mirrors — was that you did leave. You walked away. No message. No farewell. Just absence.

The storm was building in the clouds above, heavy and low like judgment. Thunder sat unspoken just beyond the hills, crouching. Caleb stood still, arms at his sides, as the sky thickened.

Why?

It was a question that never left. A question with a thousand answers. Each one sharper than the last.

The scent of wet earth rose in the air. Ozone, crackling like something electric and cruel. His hand twitched toward his wristwatch. He was due back. His itinerary was brutal. The war waited for no one — not even the grieving.

He knelt, placed the bouquet down with the softness of ritual. A last gesture. A futile offering.

Then his eyes drifted. To his own gravestone.

There it was. Cold. Familiar. His name, etched beneath hers, waiting for its second date.

And something else. A white envelope.

Untouched by time. Unsullied by rain or rot. Resting gently, like it had grown there.

His breath caught.

The lilies. The letter. The impossible coincidence.

Then the first drop hit — heavy, warm — against his cheek. A second, on the envelope. Then more.

Drip. Drip-drip. Drip—  Draaip.

The kind of rain that doesn’t fall, but descends. Like judgment. Like memory.

Caleb stepped forward. One foot. Then another. His boots sank slightly into the earth, as if the ground resisted.

He reached out — hands trembling, trembling — like the time he pulled an FS-90 out of a death spiral back at the Academy, nose brushing the snow-capped ridges of the mountains peaks.

He lifted the envelope. It was light. Too light. But on it — one word, scrawled in handwriting he knew too well.

Caleb.

Nothing more.

He shoved it into the inner pocket of his uniform, as though it were explosive. As though it might burn through the fabric and into his chest.

And just like that — as if spurred by some instinct he couldn't name — he turned on his heel and walked fast, too fast, back toward the car.

His heart didn’t race. It pounded.

Like thunder.

The drive to the airfield felt like a lifetime, though the roads were mercifully clear. No evening traffic, no pointless delays. The driver, attuned to the admiral’s mood, pressed hard on the accelerator, but still — Caleb tapped his fingers against the armrest with restless urgency, the motion sharp and impatient.

The envelope continued to burn in his chest.

Rain traced thick, winding rivers down the window, a slow, rhythmic descent like tears he never shed for you. When you left, it wasn’t just his heart that broke. It was his soul, his body, his being. Everything cracked and caved inward — except his eyes. Those remained stubbornly dry.

Now, though… he was close. And that made him angry.

Furious, even.

It infuriated him that just as he had begun to stitch some version of his life back together — a life without you, without your voice, your touch, your name — you reappeared. Like a ghost. Too close to ignore, too far to hold.

If you had wanted to return, you would have come back. Not like this. Not through riddles and shadows and silence. You would’ve stood at his door, or on a tarmac, or behind him in some briefing room like the world hadn’t ended. And he — damn him — he would have forgiven you. Instantly. Because that’s who he was. That’s what you had always counted on.

And that was what made him want to scream.

He didn’t want to forgive. He didn’t want to read your damned letter, to parse your reasons, your pleas, your desperate little words asking to be understood.

He didn’t want to analyze your cruelty. He didn’t want to empathize with it.

For the first time in five years, Caleb felt like he could finally, truly erase you. Not forget — never forget — but cut you out like rot. And live with the absence.

The letter pressed against his chest like a bullet. He placed his palm over it, broad and unsteady, as though trying to keep it from puncturing skin. As if it hadn’t already pierced him, deep and final.

The only sane choice would be to throw it out the window. Let the wind take it, let the rain dissolve it, let the world carry it into the dark.

Maybe you hadn’t even meant for him to find it. Maybe this was a confession to no one. A whisper into the void. Maybe it wasn’t meant for him at all — just for yourself.

To ease the weight.

To breathe again.

Selfish.

Selfish to write it. Selfish to hope for release, when he was still walking in agony, flesh and blood wrapped around something broken.

He didn’t want you to breathe.

He didn’t want you to be free of the pain, not when he was still wearing it — every day, every night, every silence between heartbeats.

How dare you write to him?

It was beneath an admiral to take the controls.

But today, Caleb didn’t care.

Protocol could burn. Chain of command, procedure, rank — all of it. He needed to feel the illusion of control again, even if it came in the form of a military jet barely older than some of the crew still stationed on the tarmac.

He didn’t ask the pilots to stand down. He ordered them. One glance at his face, and none of them argued.

The rain was steady now, carving grooves into the tarmac like old scars. The cockpit smelled of steel, vinyl, and cold systems spinning up to life.

Caleb slid into the pilot’s seat. No ceremony. No reverence. Just quiet, deliberate motion. The envelope — that stupid, unbearable envelope — landed in the co-pilot’s seat like a stone slab. Heavy enough, he thought, to drag the aircraft down with him.

And maybe that would’ve been for the best.

He ran the preflight checks by muscle memory.

Fuel quantity. Sufficient. Confirmed crossfeed valve closed.

Hydraulic pressure. Green. Full.

Flight controls. Surfaces free and correct — elevator, rudder, ailerons.

Navigation systems. Online. INS aligned. No drift.

Avionics. Check.

Oxygen. Flow normal, regulators armed.

Engine start. Ignition armed. Starter sequence began. One engine, then the second — turbines spun up with that low whine that sounded too much like a scream if you listened the wrong way.

He couldn’t breathe. But he was going through the motions.

Flight clearance received. Tower approved for immediate departure.

The jet eased down the taxiway, engines rumbling like restrained violence beneath him. His hands on the throttle were steady. Too steady.

Takeoff checklist. Flaps set. Trim neutral. Brakes released.

He pushed the throttles forward.

The aircraft responded like it wanted to run. Acceleration pressed him back into the seat. Rain lashed the windscreen. The moment the wheels left the tarmac, the ache in his chest twisted tighter.

There. He was airborne.

And it didn’t help. Not like it used to.

Altitude climbed. Ten thousand. Twenty. Forty. Cruising.

He stabilized at 37,000 feet and did something he almost never allowed himself: he engaged the autopilot.

The moment the system took over, he tore off the harness with a sharp, frustrated motion. The metal buckle clattered against the seat.

His hand reached for the envelope.

It was still warm from being pressed to his chest. He turned it over in his fingers, letting the edge bite into his skin. He very nearly tore it in half.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he broke the seal, carefully, precisely — like disarming a mine.

And there it was. That handwriting. Your handwriting.

Messy. Crooked. Rushed. Impatient. Every letter a little too hard, as though you’d nearly punctured the page. You had always gripped your pen like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. You hadn’t changed.

For a long moment, Caleb didn’t read. He just stared at the shapes of the words. The loops and slants. Like he was watching you from the other side of interrogation glass — close enough to touch, unreachable all the same.

And then he started.

Once. Again. A third time.

Each pass scraped deeper, like reading the report of his own autopsy.

His hand trembled. He didn’t even realize he was breathing too fast until the cockpit hissed a low-pressure warning. He ignored it.

He slammed the harness back across his chest and keyed the comms.

“Control, this is Delta-Two-Alpha requesting vector for immediate return.”

There was a pause.

“…Confirm that, Delta-Two-Alpha. Reason for return?”

He took the yoke again, flicked autopilot disengage with a sharp tap. The jet jerked slightly, now fully under his hand.

“Command directive,” he said flatly.

Another pause.

“Understood. Return approved. You’re clear for turn on heading zero-one-five.”

Caleb didn’t wait. He threw the aircraft into a steep bank, cutting through the clouds like a blade.

He knew where to find you. He had known before he stepped into the cockpit. He had known standing at the grave, the envelope still untouched.

But he hadn’t wanted to find you then.

Now?

Now he didn’t have a choice.

The viewing deck of the Linkon TV Tower was nearly empty.

Closing time was drawing near, but the rain had chased away what few tourists and visitors remained. You stood at the railing in a long lavender raincoat, hood pulled deep over your head. The fabric clung to your arms and back, soaked through. Your sneakers were long past wet, the chill of the concrete seeping into your bones. But you didn’t move. Didn’t shift. As if the weather had pinned you here in time, or maybe memory had.

The city below had disappeared — swallowed by fog, by stormclouds, by everything that refused to be seen. No headlights, no stars. Just the endless roar of rain and the cold sting of being the last one left.

Your fingers rested lightly on the metal bar. Your eyes were turned upward, into the vast nothing. Watching clouds drift across an invisible sky. You might have stood there till morning, if not for the footsteps behind you.

Slow. Measured. Not security. Too quiet.

“I would give a lot to know what you’re thinking right now,” said a voice too worn to belong to the man you once loved.

You turned slowly.

Caleb stood a few paces away, still in uniform. The rain hadn’t spared him. His hair was damp, the shoulders of his coat dark with water. But he stood like the storm couldn’t touch him. Like it wouldn’t dare.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you said.

“I almost didn’t.”

You smiled — not from joy, but from pain that needed a face.

“I thought maybe you’d moved on by now,” you said. “Married. Found peace.”

“I’m not built for peace,” he said flatly.

“No,” you murmured, “you weren’t. But I hoped... maybe you’d become someone who was.”

He took a step forward, his boots clicking against the wet metal. “You hoped I’d forget you.”

“I hoped you’d survive me.”

The words hit. You saw it — the smallest shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. But his voice stayed calm.

“You knew I wouldn’t.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I wrote the letter because I needed to say it. Not because I thought you'd ever read it.”

“You didn’t want me to.”

You hesitated. “No.”

“Then why leave it where I’d find it?”

Another silence. Then: “Because I wanted to believe you wouldn’t come.”

Caleb’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze sharpened. The air between you grew tighter, like a pressure drop before impact.

“I read it,” he said.

Your breath caught. “I know.”

“I know everything now.”

You nodded.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t accuse. But his voice was a blade dragged slowly across flesh.

“You could’ve told me. You could’ve stayed.”

“I couldn’t breathe, Caleb.” You didn’t mean to say it out loud — but the truth had a weight of its own. “You loved me like I was something to guard. Not someone to hold.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“And I was trying to live.”

His lips parted, as if to argue — but nothing came. Because you both knew: you were right. And so was he.

You took a step closer, rain dripping from your sleeves.

“I didn’t want you to be there when it started. I didn’t want you to watch me fade.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s too late.”

Caleb looked at you like you were a puzzle he used to know how to solve. Like something once sacred that had rewritten itself in a language he couldn’t read.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you said.

“Good.”

Your breath hitched — not from the cruelty of it, but from the honesty.

“I just wanted to see you again,” you whispered. “Once. Before...”

You didn’t finish. You didn’t need to.

He stepped closer. This time, the space between you nearly vanished. But he didn’t reach out.

“You always ran when it got quiet,” he said.

“And you never let anything rest.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I hated you,” he said, voice rough. “For five years, I hated you for leaving. For taking my soul with you and vanishing into nothing.”

You closed your eyes.

“And now?”

He hesitated.

Then: “Now I just hate that there’s nothing left to save.”

The rain didn’t stop. Neither of you moved.

But something broke, quietly — not between you, but inside you both.

And maybe that was the beginning. 

Or the end.

He stepped closer. Not to you — no. To the railing.

Leaning casually, almost carelessly, over the edge, he stared down into the city’s abyss. The lights below were blurred by fog, rain, and altitude — a slow-motion fall into nothingness. Even resting like that, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as he looked down, Caleb seemed impossibly distant. Removed.

Admiral.

Not just a rank anymore. Not a role. It had consumed him — the strictness, the cold efficiency, the discipline etched into every movement. He was the title now. All calculation, no softness. All control, no warmth. A man weaponized by grief, then sanctified by command.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” you asked quietly, your voice fragile, almost drowned out by the rain.

He didn’t answer at first.

You studied his face — the years had been merciful to him in the way they only are to men shaped by war. Just over thirty. A trace of silver at the temples. Skin clean-shaven, jaw locked, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

He looked like marble come alive. Cold, perfect, untouchable.

You wanted to reach out. Just to touch his face. To feel warmth. To remind yourself he was still made of skin, not armor.

“We saved a lot of people that day,” you added, almost to fill the silence. “From Wanderer.”

“I remember,” he said, his voice low. “On the train ride here, you fell asleep on my shoulder. There was some romantic song playing on loop — too sweet to ever be real.”

You smiled, barely. It hurt. “Caleb… would you still do it now? Jump like that? Into the void. As if death is something you can bargain with. Something you can command to pause.”

He tilted his head, still watching the city below.

“I can stop a fall. I can control flight paths. Bend gravity to my will. But not death. If I could…” He paused. His voice dropped lower, quieter. “I wouldn’t be here.”

When he turned to you, the change was surgical. A full turn of his body, attention locked on yours. His eyes scanned your face with precision, not feeling.

He looked at you like he was trying to remember.

Like five years had burned away not just the love, but the memory of it.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you think I’ll be able to save you this time?”

The question landed like a shard of ice in your spine. You flinched — not visibly, but inside, where it counted.

There was something wrong in his voice. Not anger. Not desperation. Just… wrong. Like he was rehearsing something he didn’t understand.

“I’m not asking you to save me,” you said. “I never wanted that. I never wanted to be your project. Your fragile rose behind glass — something that, if shattered, would take your whole world with it.”

He didn’t reply. But he looked away. Not down. Not up. Just… away.

And then — a sound behind you.

A door creaked. Footsteps, hesitant. The voice of someone too young, too aware.

“I— I’m sorry— sir— admiral— I didn’t— The tower’s closed, I—” The poor security guard stumbled over every word as he recognized the face that had appeared in military reports, field briefings, and news feeds. The ghost in the sky. The man who never fell.

Caleb turned slightly toward him, not quite sighing — more like resetting. 

“Where are you staying?”

You blinked. “Caleb—”

He raised a hand, not unkindly, but final.

“Where.”

You swallowed. “The Midland Motel. Down by the shuttle terminal.”

He said nothing, just nodded once and began walking. You followed.

You knew you shouldn’t. But you were too tired to argue. Too wet, too cold, too broken.

He didn’t offer his coat. Didn’t say a word. Just pressed the call button for the lift and waited in silence.

The car ride was quiet. The city blurred past in gray, streaked neon. His vehicle — black, sleek, military grade but dressed as civilian — moved like a shadow through the storm.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

You kept your arms wrapped around yourself in the damp raincoat, your soaked sleeves sticking to your skin.

He brought you to a hotel you didn’t recognize. Modern, expensive, silent. The kind of place that smells like clean money and consequence.

At the front desk, he handed over a card — no hesitation — and said, “One bedroom suite. Highest floor. Immediate check-in.”

No questions asked.

The elevator ride was wordless. The carpet muffled your wet shoes.

He opened the door. The lights came on softly. Beige walls, minimalist decor, glass and brushed steel. Tasteful. Lifeless.

He handed you a folded robe from the closet. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said. “Go shower. I’ll order food.”

You took the robe with slow hands, staring at it for a moment too long.

Then, wordlessly, you turned and walked into the bathroom. The door closed with a quiet click behind you.

Warmth. Dry tile. A mirror.

And, for just a moment — silence.The kind that wraps around you like grief you haven’t cried yet.

The robe was too large. Too soft. Too warm.

You could have wrapped it around yourself three times and still gotten lost in it.

On the small round table near the panoramic window, a meal waited. Caleb hadn’t bothered to order anything you used to love. He remembered, of course — that was never the issue. He simply hadn’t tried. The selection was closer to a field ration than a dinner: high protein, complex carbs, dense fats. Efficient. Precise.

You weren’t hungry. You hadn’t been for a long time.

He’d removed the jacket of his uniform, now down to a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. And still, something in the room made it feel wrong to sit without permission. He didn’t even look at you — just gave a practiced gesture toward the chair.

You sat on the very edge of it.

Your gaze lingered on the veins in his forearms, raised and defined — marks of control, of command. Of power. Hands that once cradled you through entire nights, hands that had trembled against your skin as if you were the only thing in the world keeping him human.

Now, all of it felt like a dream.

You broke off a piece of warm bread. Turned toward the rain outside. Watched the world bleed behind the glass.

“Did you see a doctor?” he asked.

Not worry. Not fear. Just curiosity. Clinical, detached. A data point to confirm.

You shrugged slowly. “Yeah. Dr. Zane was the first. Then came the rest.”

“And he didn’t tell me anything?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” you said. “I asked him not to.”

“So I wasn’t worthy of the truth?”

You exhaled — sharp and stung, like you’d been slapped. “Caleb… do I really have to explain this? I was trying to spare you the pain.”

He laughed. Cold. Harsh. Suffocating.

The room, already dim, felt darker suddenly. As though the lights had dimmed in reverence to his bitterness.

“Spare me? Oh, brilliant. You really did a hell of a job. I didn’t suffer at all. You disappeared and I just breathed a sigh of relief, right? Out of sight, out of mind — that’s what you think?”

“It’s not the same.”

He slammed a fist down on the table. Plates jumped. Glass cracked under his hand.

“If you had died in my arms, at least I would’ve known. I would’ve known you didn’t leave because I wasn’t enough. Because I loved you too hard, too deep, too much. I would’ve known you had no choice.”

“You wouldn’t have let me die in peace!” you shot back, voice rising. “You would’ve torn the damn planet apart looking for a cure. You would’ve ripped through every system, Farspace tunnel, shouting that it’s almost over, that we’re so close, just hold on—”

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing slow.

The storm inside him didn’t explode. It collapsed, inward — contained by the vice grip of discipline. Of rank.

“If loving you with everything I had — completely, recklessly, overwhelmingly — was a crime…” His voice was low now. Not soft. Deadly. “Then yes. I’m guilty. You pronounced the sentence without a trial, Pip-squeak. And I served it. Five years, no parole.”

He stood, pushing away the untouched plate. The chair didn’t scrape. It moved like a blade being sheathed.

“But let me tell you something.” He turned his gaze on you like ice hardening in place. “Love, when betrayed and ground into dust, doesn’t always fade. Sometimes… it turns into contempt.”

The word hit like a slap across the soul.

You couldn’t speak. Your breath stalled in your throat.

“Eat something,” he said. “And get some rest.”

“And you—?”

“I have too much work to babysit you.”

“I don’t want to stay here!”

He paused by the door. Turned half toward you — not enough to be kind.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he said. “Because I do. Sorry, sweetheart, but tonight? You don’t get a choice. I may be, as you so astutely pointed out, a cold-hearted bastard — but even now, I can’t let you wander the streets in wet clothes, racing to meet your own end.”

With that, he slid back into his uniform jacket in one fluid, dismissive motion and stepped out.

The door closed behind him with mechanical precision. The lock flashed red. Like a warning.

Your only way out now was through the window.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

Most likely, you just shut down — the body giving out where the soul had already emptied. There were no tears. No breakdown. Just the vast, aching silence of being done. As if the last thread tethering you to this world had snapped soundlessly in the night.

Caleb had been the only family you ever had. He didn’t want to be your partner anymore — that, at least, made sense. But now he didn’t even want to be your brother. Not your anchor. Not your history.

He had become a stranger. And you had made him that.

You had no one to blame. No one to curse. The damage had your fingerprints all over it — deliberate, cruel, irreversible.

You regretted it. You knew it was a mistake.

But what could you do now?

Five years ago, you walked away — selfishly, completely — leaving him alone with the bleeding wreckage of his own love. And you hadn't spared yourself either. You’d just taken the pain and buried it, hoping time would do what courage couldn’t.

And now, with the same selfish silence, you had come back. Uninvited. Unexplained. Unhealed. You didn’t know what you’d hoped for — redemption, maybe. A flicker of warmth. Or just… recognition.

But instead, you lit the same fuse all over again.

You knew, even before boarding the train, that he’d find you. Even if he wasn’t looking. Even if he didn’t want to.

And still — you came.

The knock at the door startled you. You shot up, heart hammering in your throat.

Room service? Caleb? No. Caleb wouldn’t knock.

A second later, the door’s lock blinked with coded lights, and a young man in a tailored aide’s uniform stepped in. He was polite enough to knock. But not enough to wait for a response.

Not Liam. Someone much younger.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said with crisp formality, almost saluting before catching himself.

He tried — really tried — to keep his gaze level, but you could see the questions in his eyes. He didn’t know who you were, why you were important, or why the Admiral had seen fit to personally house you in a suite normally reserved for political dignitaries.

“I was ordered to bring you a change of clothes and arrange breakfast,” he said. “Admiral Caleb instructed me to return in thirty minutes and escort you to the hospital.”

You blinked. “Tell the Admiral that’s unnecessary.”

The aide offered a tight, apologetic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “He also told me to inform you that, if you refuse to come voluntarily, I’m authorized to use force.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed, fighting the wave of humiliation. Of course he would go this far. You shouldn’t be surprised. And yet, it burned.

“I see,” you said quietly. “Then I’ll just have coffee.”

The aide hesitated. “Ma’am—”

“You’re not going to shove breakfast down my throat, are you?” you snapped, sharper than intended. “Fine. For the sake of compromise — coffee. And a yogurt. That’s it, Lieutenant.”

He nodded with practiced obedience. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then he left, leaving you alone with your rage and your helplessness.

The coffee tasted bitter. The yogurt was sour. Your taste buds had changed — everything had. Food had stopped being pleasure long ago. It was fuel now, nothing more. You absorbed calories. Not flavor.

Another memory — gone.  Another joy stripped from a life grown colorless. Another piece of yourself you hadn’t noticed was missing… until Caleb reminded you it was never coming back.

Some part of you expected they'd take you to Akso Hospital.

It would’ve made sense. Zayne knew your case better than anyone — your body, your history, the long and winding ruins of your health. But Caleb didn’t trust him anymore. Not enough to put your life in his hands.

Zayne had already failed him once — by keeping your secret.

Instead, they brought you to an unfamiliar place. Private, sterile, quiet. Too many white walls. Too much controlled light.

Caleb was already there, standing in the center of a vast conference room surrounded by doctors in crisp lab coats.

Even without a word, he commanded the space. In uniform, he looked taller than any of them. Broader. More permanent. Even the chief physician seemed to defer to him instinctively, as though gravity itself bent slightly in his direction.

You paused in the doorway, watching the way their attention latched to him — every word, every breath, every small flick of his hand. He wasn’t just giving orders. He was delivering truth.

And it made your blood boil.

With silent, focused fury, you crossed the room. Stopped too close. Closer than decorum allowed. Closer than memory permitted.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re doing exactly what I was afraid of,” you hissed, voice low and sharp, aimed straight at his throat. “I’m not a lab rat. I’m not your property. You don’t get to manage me. I have a right to my own choices.”

He looked you over slowly, without shame or apology — from your scuffed shoes to the oversized hoodie and jeans that hung loose on your frame. He’d remembered your size, but even so, they fit like clothes left behind by a body that used to be stronger.

“Fine,” he said simply. “You can leave.”

You blinked. Taken aback. Then pivoted sharply. “And I will.”

“Just know,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm, “if you stay — I’ll stay too. If you stop running, you’ll have the chance… to live what time you have left not alone. Not in silence.”

You froze.

One breath. Another.

Your shoulders sagged. The sharpness in your spine dulled. And slowly, you turned back to him.

His face hadn’t changed. That same cold mask. Not unkind — just unreadable.

“You’d stay?” you asked, barely audible.

He exhaled, finally. A quiet thing. His fingers brushed the edge of a metallic button on his uniform — a nervous tic, barely there.

“We were family once,” he said softly. “No one should die alone.”

Your lips parted slightly, as if to answer — but no words came.

There was no sentiment in his voice. No drama. No heartbreak. Just a statement of fact.

Death wasn’t something that scared him. It was a language he knew fluently — one he had spoken too many times, in too many places, across too many battlefields. He’d seen it. Worn it. Come back from it.

Even now, he didn’t flinch from yours.

It was just another ending. Another line of code. A final set of coordinates.

No pleading. No shaking. No denial.

And somehow — that was exactly what you needed. Not mercy. Not hope. Just someone to stay.

For once, it didn’t matter what you deserved. It mattered that you weren’t alone in this room. Not anymore.

The carousel of tests spun you until nightfall.

Scanners, probes, bloodwork, neurological assessments — round after round until your skin felt bruised from inside out. You were growing irritable, frayed at the seams, more from the dread than the procedures themselves.

They weren’t just gathering data. They were preparing to keep you here. Not for a night. Not even for a week. You could feel it — that low hum of administrative inevitability, ready to steal your time in the name of preservation.

You hadn’t even tied the hospital robe back around your chest when the door hissed open again.

“Oh, do come in. Why not take a piece of my liver while you’re at it?” you snapped, not bothering to turn.

“Your liver’s fine,” came the reply.

Of course. Caleb.

You turned too fast — too defensively — forgetting the robe was still gaping open. Not exposing skin, no. That wasn’t the issue.

It was the mark.

A thick, black web, raised and pulsing, spidered across your chest, the origin rooted deep in the center — where the Aethor Core was housed. Where power should have blossomed. Where your strength was supposed to live.

But it didn’t pulse with life. It cracked. You were coming apart, slowly, precisely, down the middle. Left from right. Light from shadow. Every beat of your heart was a fracture.

You covered your chest too late. He had seen.

He approached, unhurried. Unstoppable. The kind of step he used when nothing in the world could change his mind.

He pulled off one glove with a smooth, practiced motion and pressed his palm to the place where the damage burned hottest.

Right over your heart. Where it splintered loudest.

You closed your eyes. Pain hit like a detonator — sharp, white-hot, cellular. Like a memory of impact. A blade. A bomb. A scream that had never been given voice.

“At any moment,” you whispered, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

He nodded. No surprise. He already knew.

He knew what the Evol had become. That your body couldn’t carry what it was never designed to hold. That the Core — meant to empower — was now the source of slow, elegant devastation.

He knew you were made of chaos. Born to fracture. Destined to burn.

You, who had broken him. And so many others in your wake. Your love had never healed. It had only bled slower.

He didn’t flinch.

He pulled away from your chest, reached for the t-shirt folded over the back of the chair, and helped you slip into it. His touch was clinical. Gentle. Resigned.

Not cold. Not warm. Just necessary.

You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat. It didn’t move.

“Come on,” he said, voice suddenly softer. “Let’s go.”

You blinked. “More tests?”

“No. There's a fair. In our old district. Crowds, noise. Bad music. Terrible food.”

You snorted — just once — but held back the gallows humor itching to spill from your lips. Too early for jokes about death-day parades.

“All right,” you murmured. Pulled your hoodie over your head. Slipped on your sneakers.

You bent to tie the laces, but before your fingers reached them, Caleb was already kneeling before you.

Kneeling.

Your breath hitched.

Just like back then. Just like a lifetime ago.

You shifted your weight awkwardly, as if the floor had gone uneven beneath your feet. The moment was too intimate. Too real.

“An Admiral tying shoelaces,” you said with a weak smirk. “Now that’s more paradoxical than the Colonel ever was.”

He looked up at you. Fingers tightening the knot. A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth — brief, boyish, and so devastatingly familiar it made your chest ache.

“Let’s agree I outrank your dignity today,” he murmured. “Don’t make me invoke protocol Alpha-Pip-Squeak.”

At some point, it started to feel like time had folded in on itself.

The sounds, the smells, the fireworks, the shrieking laughter of children, the curling smoke from endless food stalls — it all swirled into a surreal kaleidoscope of celebration. A world too alive.

 Too bright.

It felt wrong. Your heart was failing, slowly betraying you, yet the world kept spinning, singing, dancing without hesitation.

At first, it stung. The unfairness of it. The cruelty.

You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to vanish into memory.

You had dreamt of children — your children — running through crowds with cotton candy bigger than their faces, covered in chocolate and ice cream. You used to see your future so clearly: a wide house with a garden and a swingset, and somewhere up in the attic, a claw machine you’d insisted on installing, turning the whole floor into a chaotic arcade.

Your eyes filled with tears.

You blinked them away, catching Caleb watching you. You smiled.

“Smoke,” you murmured. “Got in my eyes.”

He nodded. Didn’t believe you, but let you have it.

He wasn’t wearing his Admiral’s uniform anymore. Jeans. A T-shirt with a stupid graphic. A jacket. A cap. He looked familiar. Almost close. Almost yours.

You walked slowly, shoulders brushing occasionally, hands near but never touching. Neither of you tried to bridge the gap. It would’ve felt dishonest. And you were grateful for that honesty. Even if it hurt.

You took a few shots at the game booths. Your hands still remembered. When you won an oversized plush flamingo, you handed it to a girl with bright red ribbons in her pigtails. She couldn’t have been more than six.

You asked her name. Rolled it around on your tongue. You could’ve named a daughter that.

Caleb noticed when your steps started to falter. Without a word, he led you toward an empty table at the edge of the crowd.

While he went for food, you let yourself sink back into the chair, exhaustion tugging hard at your spine. Your eyelids fluttered, but you refused to let sleep steal this. This might not be happiness, but it wasn’t pain.

And that was enough.

He came back with a platter full of street food. You wouldn’t taste much of it. But you remembered. You knew. And for now, that was enough, too.

“It’s a clear night,” he said. “Wanna ride the Ferris wheel?”

You nodded. You’d say yes to anything that would delay the return to sterile rooms, to IV drips and ticking clocks.

The cabin swayed gently as it rose. Wind cooled your cheeks, carrying away the stubborn tears that kept threatening to fall. But you wouldn’t cry. You wouldn’t let grief ruin this night.

“Are you still angry?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you still… hate me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze drifted over the glowing chaos below, where lights bled together into a gold-and-rainbow puddle of motion and life.

“No,” he said at last. “And I never did.”

He turned toward you, reached up, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I said it in anger. I was too furious to mean it.”

“I deserved it.”

“You deserved my anger,” he agreed. “But not this. Not a slow, painful fade. Not the kind of desperation that makes you choose impossible things.”

“Caleb…” your voice cracked. “Please… don’t say goodbye yet. It’s not time.”

“I’m trying to be honest,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to your hands, folded like a small prayer in your lap. He looked like he wanted to reach for them — but didn’t. “I’ve learned what hiding the truth from the people you love can cost.”

You swallowed. “I’m… still someone you love?”

He nodded, steady. “There’s no one closer.”

“Then promise me—”

“No.” The word was sharp. Too fast. Too raw.

“No,” he repeated. “I won’t even try.”

“But you could be happy again. If you let yourself open up—”

“Could you?” he cut in. “Could you promise that if I go first, you’ll find someone else? That you’ll love another man? Hold his hand, kiss him, like I never existed?”

Your answer was immediate.

“No.”

Too quick. Too honest.

And he knew. You both did.

Whatever tied you together was deeper than flesh, deeper than time. You could peel away the skin, erase the past, burn the memories— but your soul would still reach for his in the dark.

And his would still be holding on. Waiting.

Until the next life.

He didn’t take you back to the hospital.

By now, he knew what you had understood five years ago. It was pointless. There was no cure.

You lowered yourself carefully onto the bed, curled up on your side. You looked at him — just a silhouette in the dark, and still somehow larger than life.

“Stay with me tonight,” you whispered.

He didn’t hesitate.

He slipped off his jacket, climbed in beside you. Didn’t touch. Just lay there — facing you.

You stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. Until they closed on their own. Until sleep claimed you.

And the nightmare followed.

The same one, always the same — your body splitting apart, bones breaking under pressure, your chest tearing open as the Core rejected you, gave birth to a creature that looked almost like you. But not you.

Black. Cold. Merciless.

Your body left behind, hollow — a deflated skin, a costume discarded.

You screamed. But you didn’t wake.

You thrashed, fighting against the blanket, clawing at your chest, trying to force the monster back inside, back into the dark where it belonged.

Hands. Strong, steady, familiar.

They caught you. Held you. Rocked you.

Lips brushed your temple. Words — soft, foreign — spoken in a language your heart remembered even if your ears couldn’t make them out.

“No… please…”

Caleb held you like a child, pressing your face against his chest.

Tears — hot, fast — fell onto your cheeks. Not yours.

His.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You hear me? You’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not leaving. I swear to God, I’m not letting go. Come back to me. Please, come back…”

“Caleb…”

“I’m here. I’m here, baby.” His arms tightened, anchoring you in place.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, fragile.

“I know, Pip. I know.”  His voice cracked — raw, guttural. “I’ll take it all. All the pain. I’ll kill every monster in your path. I’ll tear down the night itself. Just say the word, and I’ll burn this world to the ground to bring you peace.”

“I love you…” The words came with sobs now, spilling out, no longer held back.

His lips kissed your forehead. Your temple. Your cheeks.

“And I love you. My girl. My sunshine. My joy. My… Pip-Squeak.”

“I’m sorry I stole this time from us.”

He shook his head, still holding you like you might slip through his fingers.

“I forgave you a long time ago. How could I not forgive you? God, how could I ever stay mad at you? I’ll be here, right here, until your very last breath.”

He kept whispering. Murmuring softness into your hair. As if the five years of agony had never happened.

 As if you’d never left.

And slowly, gently, you drifted back into sleep. Held in his arms. Wrapped in his warmth. In his love.

With one thought cradling your soul: If the universe is kind — let me go like this. Let me go in his arms. Let me go loved.

All morning, Caleb didn’t let go of you.

Like he was making up for every moment of distance, he kept touching you — a fleeting kiss, a gentle brush of fingers, little gestures wrapped in warmth and care that tore your heart in half.

You didn’t want to let go of him either.

And when you loved each other, it wasn’t just love — it was desperation.

Through trembling limbs, through broken breath and quiet cries, the pain poured out. The guilt. The fear.

It wasn’t sex. It was absolution.

Then he drove again.

Said he wanted to show you something. You didn’t look out the window. You looked at him. Held his hand. Silence said more than words ever could.

You only grew uneasy when the car pulled up in front of a building — far too official to be anything like a park or a gallery.

“Where are we?”

“It’s… a military lab,” he said, with a small, apologetic smile. Then he kissed you again. “Just need to drop in. Work.”

You followed him inside.

A narrow, impersonal room. Cold lighting. The air too clean.

Caleb gestured to a chair. You sat. He knelt next to you. Kissed you again — too gently. Too long. Something about it felt… wrong.

“I’m sorry, Pips,” he whispered. “I just… I can’t do nothing.”

“Caleb? What are you doing—?”

You saw the glint of metal. Just before the needle plunged into your artery.

“CALEB!”

“Even if you hate me for the rest of your life, I have to try. You have to live, baby.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to run —  but your limbs turned to jelly.

You slumped into his arms. And everything went dark.

The lab was silent.

Sterile.

Lifeless.

Two rooms. One pane of glass between them — just wide enough for you not to miss a single second of the show.

You were strapped to a hospital bed. Wires trailing from your arms and chest. Your head throbbed.

Across the glass — Caleb.

“No. No, Caleb, stop! This is insane!”

 Your voice cracked, but your chest—  your chest was… light. The weight, the crushing pain — gone.

You began to thrash. The heart monitor shrieked in alarm.

You pulled at the restraints — raw, bloody skin tearing against metal cuffs.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t care.

Slippery with blood, your wrists finally slipped free — it felt like peeling flesh from bone.

You tore off the tubes. Fell from the bed.

Your legs wouldn’t hold you. So you crawled.

Crawled to the glass.

“CALEB!”

You slammed your fists against it, over and over again.

He lay on the other side — restrained. But the straps couldn’t hold the violent spasms. And the glass couldn’t muffle the sound of his screaming.

“CALEB! YOU PROMISED!”

You forced yourself upright, pounded your fists until your knuckles split open.

“You promised… you said you’d stay… you said you’d be there until my last breath— CALEB— !”

Your voice disintegrated into a scream.

You kept hammering. Like a moth caught in a jar, helplessly throwing itself against the cruel, unyielding glass.

Kept crying.

The door hissed open behind you. A man in a lab coat.

You lunged at him — knocked him flat. Ran.

Another body in the hallway — you shoved them aside.

You found the next door. Slammed your palm to the entry panel.

It opened.

“CALEB—!”

You collapsed onto him, draping your entire body over his, as if your weight alone could stop the process.

Black veins had begun to trace up his neck. The same pattern that once bloomed across your chest.

“How could you…?” Your voice broke into pieces. “You can’t leave me… you promised…”

For a moment, his eyes found yours. His hand twitched. Reached.

You seized it. Gripped tight.

Tried to unbuckle the straps.They didn’t give.

Hands grabbed you from behind. Dragged you.

You fought like a wild thing. Thrashed. Kicked. One of them fell — you crawled back to him.

Then two more came. You were screaming. Your throat raw.

“No! Don’t take him! DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME!”

And just before you could lunge forward again—

Another needle.

Your body gave out. Everything dimmed. Collapsed.

But even in that final, spiraling moment—

You whispered one last time: “Caleb…  please… don’t leave me…”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your heart hadn’t beaten this steady in years.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

It would’ve been better if it had stopped.

You didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t ask where you were. You knew.

You were in a world where he was gone.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

You used to live with physical pain — you knew how to endure it. You knew how to die with it. You’d pictured your grave more than once — just beside the one marked “Josephine.”

The one where, for a time, they’d already carved “Caleb.”  Now they’d just correct the second date. As if it had all been a clerical error.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Shut up,” you muttered, ripping the sensor from your finger.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

The monitor whined in protest.

You clamped your hands over your ears, buried your head under the pillow.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“What the hell?!”

Another monitor?

You pulled the pillow away. Opened your eyes.

On the second cot, just a few feet away— Caleb.

Alive. Awake.

His monitor was singing the same rhythm. And on his lips — the hint of a smile.

“You bastard!”

You flung the pillow at him. He caught it.

“Did you mourn me?”

“That’s still pending! You—YOU!!! You took my Aethor Core?!”

You looked around for something else to throw. He raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy, Pip-Squeak. I didn’t take anything. Your precious Core is right where it belongs — in that merciless, vengeful little heart of yours.”

“I’m merciless? You made me believe you were—!”

You stopped.

Because you knew. God, you knew you would’ve done the same.

You slid off the cot carefully, clutching the IV stand for balance. Crossed the short distance to his bedside, testing each step. Sat down on the edge. 

You reached for his hand. Fingers trembling, unsure. But the moment you touched him — he was warm.

Not fading. Not cold. Not gone.

Warm, alive, present.

And it shattered something inside you.

“You weren’t dying because of the Core itself,” he said gently. “It was the energy feedback loop. The Core stopped syncing with your biopattern. Basically, your system crashed, and the power cell started pulling directly from your heart to survive. Which, you know, kinda fatal.”

“So what… you swapped our batteries?”

“In layman’s terms — yes.”

“And that doesn’t kill you?”

“My protocore’s a lazy old tank,” he grinned. “It got a nice boost from yours. Just enough to last me, I think.”

“You swear that’s the truth?” you arched a skeptical brow.

“I do.” He reached up, hesitantly, brushing your cheek.

You didn’t pull away.

“I told you I’d take your pain.”

“And you also promised you’d stay with me till my last breath,” you whispered, lips nearly brushing his.

“And I intend to keep that promise,” he said, pulling you close and kissing you. “And if you try to run again, just so you know — I’ve got a year’s supply of those sedative syringes.”

You let out a small laugh, nudged him gently, then climbed onto his cot, curling into his side, head on his shoulder.

“I’ll keep that in mind in case you pull another stunt like that. Admiral.”

His arm slipped around your waist. His grin widened — softer, familiar. Like the old days. Like he was just your Caleb again.

“Well,” he said, “those are consequences I’m willing to accept.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

His heart beat stronger.  And yours — yours found his rhythm. Matched it.

Perfectly. Just like always.

Because the truth was simple.

You couldn’t exist in a world where one of you was missing.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Light On

summary: when you reach out to joaquin waving the white flag, you realize how broken he's been.

pairing: touch starved!joaquin torres x ex!f!reader

contents: exes to lovers, food and alcohol mention, angst, canon typical trauma/trauma responses, get back together fic, kissing

wc: 1,988

an: i combined my idea for touched starved!joaquin with this request about yearning. sorry it took so long anon and i hope you like it <3

danny ramirez characters masterlist

He’s late to the housewarming. Not by much, but enough that he has to squeeze through a half-shut gate and slip past a crowd already buzzing with drinks and music. His shoulders still feel tight from the last mission—three cities, too many close calls, and not enough sleep. He almost didn’t come.

But when he saw your name at the top of the invite sent only to him, group chat, no passive-aggressive message he could say no to you. 

It read simple and gave him a glimmer of hope:

I hope you can come. it’s not a trap. peace offering. 

He doesn’t deserve the invite or your kindness, not after how he’d withdrawn so abruptly 8 months ago. He thought ending things before he could truly disappoint you or worse— scare you with one of his missions was the right thing to do. But now he can’t convince himself that this invite isn’t some sort of chance to at least make things right. Better.

Inside, the lights are warm, soft, glowing off glasses and muted green walls. There’s someone laughing in the kitchen, someone singing too loud on the patio. He catches a glimpse of you through the open door—perched on the porch bench, the setting sun’s rays on your cheeks, telling a story with your hands. 

Joaquin’s heart stutters.

 Just the sight of you makes him feel like it’s been an eternity. He hadn’t forgotten how beautiful you are but clearly he had let the weight of it slip away to protect himself. 

You look up, like you feel him before you even see him. And when your eyes meet, something in his chest aches. That’s all it takes for everything he’s been trying to outrun to come flooding back. 

How safe and understood he felt when the two of you did nothing but lay under the clouds. How warm his heart got at the sound of your laughter. How easy it was until he got into his head about being right for you. 

You smile at him. 

It’s not the same smile as before, but it’s not cold either. Cautious and familiar, but no less warm. Because you’re happy to see Joaquin, but now in the face of him you’re afraid everything you’ve worked for will come crumbling down. 

“Hey,” you say softly, walking inside from the deck toward him with a drink in hand. Your voice is light but not performative as you try to play it cool. “Llegaste.”

He nods. “Yeah. I couldn’t—yeah.”

You don’t hesitate. You step right up to him and wrap up your arms around his middle. It’s causal, natural and despite your past, you don’t even think about the possible impacts. 

The simplicity of it all hits him like a wave.

He stiffens for just a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. Like he’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched gently, without purpose or urgency. Or violence. Then his arms come up slowly, almost uncertainly, and he lets himself hold you—just enough so that it’s not awkward. Not enough for everything he wants.

One of your hands slides up his back once, rubbing tenderly. It’s a tiny gesture but he swears he could cry.

“Estas bien?” you ask, pulling back just enough to look at him.

He nods again, softer this time. “Ahora sí.”

You try not to show that his words affect you, simply giving him the best smile you can before untangling yourself from him. Gesturing for him to follow you, you make your way into the kitchen fishing out a beer and handing it to him. “Here.”

He takes it, fingers brushing yours, and his grip tightens on the bottle like it’s an anchor. “Thanks.”

Later, after a few brief hellos and introductions, you sit beside each other on the porch. He’s barely touched his beer but neither of you have noticed. 

There’s easy conversation on your part, starting with how you found the house and decided it was the one you wanted. You tell him about the chaos in the kitchen earlier tonight, a spilled pitcher of sangria. About the neighbor who brought way too many folding chairs.

He barely says anything, he simply listens. Listens like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he blinks, like he’ll wake up from a dream. 

He watches the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. The way your knee bounces when you’re excited. The way you don’t flinch being this close to him, how you lean closer. You aren’t afraid to touch him, a nudge of shoulders here, a brush of his knee there when you say something funny.

 It seems like it comes easy to you and god, has he  missed this.

“I miss this,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the beer bottle in his hands. Then, after a breath: “I miss… you.”

There’s several beats of silence. He doesn’t have the heart to look up at you, to see the surprise on your face.

You look at him, cheeks warm, stomach twisting with anticipation. You hadn’t expected him to say something like that when he was the one that ended things the way he did. 

When you speak again your voice is quiet but firm. “Not here.”

Even then, you touch his knee—just a brush of your fingers—but it feels like a jolt. He follows you without thinking.

You lead him down the back steps, past string lights and potted herbs, to the edge of the backyard. There’s a small pond there, still and starting to glow under the emerging moon. 

You’re a ways away from everyone else. It feels like you're a world away, a veil falling between you and Joaquin and the world. Everything else is muffled, distorted. It’s just the two of you. 

You turn to face him, your eyes guarded. “I miss you too,” you say. “I never stopped wanting this. You were the one that…”

His chest tightens, but before he can reach for you, you add—gentle, but unwavering:

“But, I’m not doing that again. I’m not getting close just to watch you disappear when things get hard. If you want me—really want me—then you have to stay. You have to try.”

He swallows hard, the words sitting heavy between you.

You can see, nearly hear the gears turning in his head. There’s conflict, something soft and something so scared in his eyes as he lets your words sink in. You step forward then, and when your arms wrap around his shoulders, he goes completely still. There’s a breath he doesn’t take. A flicker of disbelief in his eyes. Like your touch might vanish if he moves too fast.

This time you notice.

“Què te pasa? Hmm, baby bird?” You ask tenderly and it breaks something open in him. 

Slowly, shakily, he lets go of the tension. He leans in—into you—and his arms finally wrap around your waist. His hold isn’t tight, but you can feel the starved urgency in his fingertips. 

His face presses into your shoulder, and the sound he makes is quiet, but wrecked. A broken exhale like it’s the first breath he’s taken in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I thought I was doing right by you. Letting you go. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You hold him tighter, and his grip flinches like he’s not used to being held back.

“I know,” you say softly, your hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He shudders under your touch and your heart squeezes again. “I know, baby,” you assure him gently.

You brush your lips against his temple, and he tenses just slightly at the contact—like it overwhelms him. His breath hitches, grip tightening around your hips like he’s afraid to let go now that he’s here in your arms.

“Next time,” you murmur, fingers sliding further into his hair, “you just talk to me.”

He nods into you, arms wrapping so tight around you, holding on like this might all slip away.

You stay like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other, warm and quiet. Until the party noise fades into background hum and there’s only moonlight and the hush of the pond.

Eventually, you both sit in the grass, your shoulders brushing. He finally starts to talk to you, to tell you everything he’s endured. Why he pulled away and what plagues him now; months apart and they’re still the same thing.  

He talked about the missions. The pressure. The exhaustion.

About how he didn’t know the full effect of what it was doing to him until he stepped back into your orbit and felt seen again.

Your fingers drift over his hand as he speaks. When he falters, you gently trace one of the faint scars on his knuckles. He goes completely still at the contact—like even that touch is more kindness than he’s used to.

“You have to take better care of yourself,” you say with a half-smile, nudging him gently. “Or I’m calling Sam.”

That finally earns a real laugh—small, tired, but real.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” you tease. “I’d guilt him into dragging your ass back here for a proper nap and a shower.”

He nudges your knee with his, smiling. You both fall quiet; it’s comfortable.The pond glows beside them. The world slows down.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s on borrowed time.

He just feels… held. Seen and understood. Like he’s home, in a way that matters.

—

Later that night, after most of the guests have left and the house is dim and quiet, he helps you carry in the empty bottles and leftover snacks. The porch lights hum low behind them, and the kitchen smells faintly like lime and basil and whatever candle someone brought as a gift.

You’re both barefoot now, toes brushing the tile. He hands you the last bowl and leans against the counter like he doesn’t want to leave.

You sense it immediately, glancing over at him. “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just… don’t want this to end.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. You step closer, fingers brushing his wrist, and this time he leans into the touch like he needs it to breathe.

“So don’t let it,” you murmur. “Don’t push me away again.”

He swallows. “Would it be too fast if I said I want to see you tomorrow?”

You smile deepens. “Are you asking me on a date, Lieutenant?”

Joaquin grins, soft and sheepish. He finally looks like himself. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well then,” you say, stepping in and tilting your chin up, “you better kiss me goodnight properly.”

You don’t give him time to overthink it. You press your lips to his—soft and warm, lingering just enough to make his breath catch. He kisses you back like he’s still afraid he’ll mess this up, but you thread your fingers through his and holds him close.

When you pull back, he exhales shakily.

You tap your fingers lightly against his chest. “Pick me up at seven. And wear something that says ‘I’ve stopped being emotionally unavailable.’”

He throws his head back with laughter, then groans like that’s going to be a real task. “That narrows my wardrobe down to, like, one shirt.”

Gripping his shirt playfully, you pull him a little closer. “Then wear it.”

Somewhere between getting home and putting his phone on the charger, Joaquin sees the text from Sam. Seems you had followed up on your threat to tell Sam about tonight. 

Sam: I heard you finally stopped being stupid.

Joaquin stares at it for a second before the typing bubble pops up again.

Sam:Bout damn time. You owe me twenty bucks. And a six-pack.

He shakes his head, smiling down at the screen. His reply is simple:

Worth it.

And when he turns off the light and sinks into bed, his heart is full.

let me know if you'd like to be on sfw joaquin torres taglist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

[norrisidous]

Hii do you think you can write lando x reader where the reader works as a data person for f1, along side with lando and she goes back to thier shared hotel room after a long day, but lando has a bunch of fun surprises planned for them? Tyy

Telemetry & Touch

summary: where lando shows y/n how much he loves her warnings: slight smut

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, followed by the dead silence of the hotel suite. You dropped your data pack and badge on the side table, the heavy thump echoing how your body felt after twelve hours of chasing telemetry glitches and running simulations that Lando didn’t even end up needing in FP2.

Your muscles ached. Your brain buzzed. All you wanted was a hot shower and unconsciousness.

You hadn’t even noticed the lights were off until soft amber flickers lit up your peripherals.

“Welcome home,” came a familiar voice—warm, smooth, and laced with just a hint of mischief.

Your tired eyes found Lando standing near the center of the room, wearing a loose black tee and joggers, barefoot, surrounded by the soft twinkle of fairy lights and LED candles scattered across furniture. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and something... comforting.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” you murmured, blinking. “Did someone drug my post-session espresso?”

“Nope,” he grinned. “I just decided my favorite data girl deserved a night off.”

Your lips curled into a slow smile. “You’re really trying to make me fall for you again, aren’t you?”

He walked toward you, hands slipping around your waist. “Again?” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear. “I didn’t realize you’d ever stopped.”

You melted.

Lando could be a menace in team briefings—sarcastic, sharp, impossibly fast with a rebuttal—but here, in private, he was something else entirely. Gentle. Warm. Attentive in a way that made your walls crumble faster than telemetry under oversteer.

“I set up something for us,” he added, leading you gently by the hand. “No laptops. No timing sheets. Just you, me… and some very unprofessional behavior.”

“Oh?” you teased, exhaustion suddenly taking a backseat. “Are you planning to breach FIA regulations?”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Only the ones about team personnel fraternizing. Repeatedly.”

Dinner was easy—pizza from your favorite place, probably ordered halfway through his media obligations. You ate curled up together under a blanket in the middle of the room, surrounded by the soft hum of lo-fi music and Lando’s low laughter as he recounted a ridiculous story from the paddock.

It felt like being inside a snow globe of peace, sealed off from tire temps and wind tunnel specs.

When the plates were pushed aside, he reached for your hand.

“Come here,” he said softly, tugging you toward the bed.

You went willingly. The lights dimmed lower. The city outside was a blur of neon and shadows through the window.

He looked at you as if seeing you for the first time again—his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, reverent. “You really work too hard, you know that?”

“Someone’s got to make sure your telemetry isn’t lying.”

“It could scream red alerts and I’d still trust you over it.”

Your breath hitched. He always did that—said things that should be throwaway flirtation but hit you right in the center of your chest.

Then he kissed you.

Slow at first. Lazy. The kind of kiss that promised there was no rush. That tonight, he was taking his time.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, and he took the hint, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

“You sure?” he murmured against your jaw.

“I need you,” you whispered back. “Not just a quick thing. I want you.”

His gaze darkened, eyes searching yours like he needed to feel every word before he acted.

“Then you’re getting all of me tonight,” he said, voice low. “Every last part.”

What followed was slow—deliberate.

He undressed you one layer at a time, treating each exposed inch of skin like something sacred. He whispered things: how brilliant you looked behind your screens, how proud he was of you for nailing the race strategy model last weekend, how he noticed when you skipped meals or got that crease between your brows.

Every word sank into you deeper than his hands.

By the time he laid you back against the sheets, you were trembling under the weight of being truly seen.

And then he touched you like he knew every nerve ending by heart. Fingers tracing fire down your sternum, over your hips. Mouth pressing worshipful kisses lower and lower until you were a tangled, desperate thing under him.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You don’t have to hold anything together tonight.”

And when he finally sank into you, slow and deep, it wasn’t about urgency. It was about anchoring. Being claimed and cradled all at once. Like the room didn’t exist outside of the places your bodies met and moved.

Moans and soft gasps tangled with the hum of the city beyond the windows. You clutched at his back, his hair, anything you could reach, and he stayed with you through every crest and crash.

When it was over, you lay curled against him, breath mingling, your heart syncing with his like a clean set of synchronized laps.

“You always this romantic after quali?” you teased breathlessly.

He kissed your forehead. “Only when I’m in love.”

You stilled.

He didn’t take it back.

And you didn’t want him to.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Playing with fire || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: inspired by a scene in one tree hill when Lindsey confronts Peyton asking her if she called her a bitch 😛

Warnings: bitchy!kook!reader

Word count: 1,153

MASTERLIST

The golden hour settles over the country club terrace, bathing the manicured lawns in a soft, amber light. You’re seated at the usual table, legs crossed elegantly, one hand wrapped around the stem of your cocktail glass while the other rests on your lap. The ice cubes in your drink clink softly as you swirl them, but you’re only half-paying attention.

Kelce is in the middle of recounting some ridiculous story, one that has Topper throwing his head back with laughter. Rafe sits beside you, slouched comfortably in his chair, his phone resting on the table with Sofia’s name occasionally lighting up the screen. You glance at it briefly, your stomach twisting in annoyance.

She’s not here yet, thankfully. You can enjoy the moment while it lasts—Rafe relaxed, laughing softly at Kelce’s story, his blue eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. He looks so good it’s almost infuriating. Every time you glance at him, the ache in your chest sharpens. Best friends. That’s all you are. But lately, it’s been harder to keep that title from feeling like a curse.

The problem isn’t just Rafe. It’s Sofia. Sweet, doe-eyed Sofia, who’s too soft-spoken and out of place to ever truly belong on Figure 8. You’d made that perfectly clear the other day over drinks with your friends, letting your thoughts spill with a sharp tongue and a sense of superiority that came as naturally to you as breathing.

You thought it was harmless, just blowing off steam. But apparently, Sofia heard. The sound of heels clicking against the terrace pulls you from your thoughts. Your eyes shift to the figure approaching your table, and your heart sinks just a little. Speak of the devil. Sofia’s making her way toward you, her expression set in a determined glare. She’s wearing a sundress—simple, feminine, and so very her.

Her gaze flickers briefly to Rafe, who hasn’t noticed her yet, then zeroes in on you. She stops at the edge of the table, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Did you call me a bitch?” she asks, her voice trembling but clear enough to cut through the chatter around you. The conversation at your table dies instantly.

Kelce and Topper glance at each other, their amusement shifting into intrigue. Rafe looks up slowly, his brows furrowing as his attention shifts from his phone to Sofia. You, however, stay perfectly composed. “Bitch?” you echo, letting the word roll off your tongue as if it’s foreign to you. A soft chuckle escapes your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, feigning innocence. “No, I didn’t call you a bitch.” Relief flickers across her face for a brief moment before you lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. “I said I didn’t like you,” you continue smoothly, your voice dropping to a low, saccharine tone as a small smile curves your lips.

Her throat bobs as she gulps, and you catch the faintest flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It’s satisfying in a way that makes your blood sing. The corners of your smile lift just a little higher. Sofia shifts uncomfortably, clearly flustered but unwilling to back down. “Why?” she asks, her voice cracking as she forces the word out.

You tilt your head, considering her for a moment. The silence is palpable now, stretching taut across the table. Kelce leans back in his chair, his gaze darting between the two of you, while Topper watches the scene unfold with poorly concealed glee. Rafe, on the other hand, sits stone-faced, his expression unreadable.

“Why don’t I like you?” you echo, tilting your head like you’re genuinely considering the question. “Where do I start?” Your tone is sharp but playful, as if you’re enjoying every second of her discomfort. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She glances at Rafe, her eyes silently pleading with him to intervene, to defend her, but he doesn’t. He just watches, his hand idly turning the glass of water in front of him.

You take her silence as permission to continue. “Look, Sofia, you’re sweet. I’ll give you that. But you’re exhausting,” you say, your words sharp but delivered with an almost playful air. “This isn’t you. You don’t fit here, no matter how hard you try. It’s like…watching someone play dress-up. Cute, but a little pathetic.”

Her face flushes bright red, her composure slipping as her nails dig into her palms. “You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps, her voice trembling. “Maybe not,” you admit with a casual shrug, leaning back in your chair. “But I know enough to see through the act. You’re trying too hard, Sofia. And honestly?” You glance at Rafe, just long enough to make her notice, before turning your gaze back to her.

“It’s painful to watch.” The tension at the table is unbearable now. Sofia’s breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to hold herself together. “Rafe,” she says finally, her voice breaking as she looks at him again. “Are you really not going to say anything?” Rafe exhales slowly, his gaze flicking to you before settling on her. “Sofia, I don’t think this is the place—”

“No,” she interrupts, her voice rising. “She’s your best friend, and she’s sitting here humiliating me, and you’re just going to let her?” The frustration and hurt in her voice make something twist in your chest, but you bury it deep, keeping your expression carefully neutral. Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

Her eyes well with tears, but she blinks them back, taking a shaky step away from the table. “You know what?” she says, her voice trembling but still sharp enough to cut. “You two deserve each other.” She turns on her heel and walks away, leaving the table in heavy silence. Kelce clears his throat awkwardly, muttering something under his breath to Topper, who smirks but says nothing.

Rafe remains silent, his eyes fixed on the spot where Sofia had been standing. You pick up your glass, swirling the liquid lazily as you glance at him. “You okay, Cameron?” you ask lightly, your voice breaking the tension. His eyes snap to you, and for a moment, you think he might actually say something. Call you out, maybe. Defend her now that she’s gone. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shakes his head. “You’re a bitch, you know that?” You grin, raising your glass in a mock toast. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

[chanandlersstuff]

Director and Actor

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Reader.

Story summary: The timeline of how Hayden gradually fell in love with her until he was madly in love, to the point of no returning.

Chapter summary: Now, there was silence. Awkward. Cold. Unforgiving. They stood frozen in the middle of it all, surrounded by the ghost of what they were, of what they could’ve been.

Word count: 9.464

Warnings: Not much actually, age-gap and devastation, like someone opened your chest and ripped your heart out.

Author’s note: Hello hello again, thanks a lot for the paitence, again, and the love I've been reciving for the series.

It's been a while, since...I actually don't remember, almost a year I think, but better late than never I guess (?.

As I said before, I strugle a lot with writing when I don't have the right motivation and I start and left fics, I finished one in my native language, I picked up fics that were long forgotten and two days ago all the inspiration in the world hit me all at once and I finished this part and gave enought fuel to start the next one.

With that being said, enjoy, don't hate me too much, nor them, hehe. Lots of love, ME.

gif credit @hayden-christensen

← Previous part // Next Part →

Beginning of August 2021. The show must go on.

The air on set was electric, but no in the way it used to be. It was heavier now. Dense. Suffocating. Every word spoken felt too loud. Every silence lingered too long.

The tension was thick enough to slice with a lightsaber and everyone felt it. The director and the star didn’t speak anymore. Not like before.

There was no more coffee waiting on her desk, nor tea waiting to be brewed in the kitchen. No shared breakfast. No jasmine scent wafting from his coat after he dropped by to say hi. No quiet laughs between takes, no whispered “Bubble” or “Starboy” in the quiet spaces between chaos.

Now, there was silence. Awkward. Cold. Unforgiving.

They hadn’t spoken properly since the training session in the stunt room, the one where she almost kissed him. Or he almost kissed her. Or maybe they both did. It didn’t matter, because he pulled away.

Since then, everything has been different. But it wasn’t like they didn’t see each other, because they did. Every day. Every take. Every meeting. Every briefing. They were professionals after all. 

He showed up on time, hit his marks, delivered every line. And she directed with surgical precision, addressing him only when it was absolutely necessary. 

Hayden looked at her. All the time. Even when she wasn’t looking at him. Especially then. His eyes found her without thinking, searching for something familiar, some sign that she was still there, that she hadn’t completely closed herself off.

But she had. Not out of cruelty. Or pride.

She avoided him because it hurt too much to not avoid him. She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t meet his eyes, not since that day, the day she felt everything shift.

The day she let herself believe that maybe… maybe he felt it too. Maybe it wasn’t just the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the late-night talks and the thoughtful gifts. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was something worth risking.

And then he pulled away.

Not violently. Not harshly. Just gently. Like a door softly clicking shut.

And he hadn’t said a word since.

She tried to hold on to her pride. To the professionalism she’d worked so hard to master. She was the youngest director Lucasfilm had ever trusted with a project this big. She was a woman in a world where that still meant fighting harder to be heard. She couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now.

But her heart was broken.

And worst of all, she was ashamed of it.

Ashamed that she let it happen. Ashamed that she cared so deeply. Ashamed that despite everything, a part of her still wanted him to look at her like he used to. Still wanted to hear his voice say her name, soft and warm like tea on a cold day.

And he did look at her.

That was the worst part.

She could feel it.

Across the set, in the silence of production meetings, during takes, his eyes found her, heavy with guilt and something else. Something she didn’t dare name.

But he kept his distance. Because she did. Because her silence was sharp, and her avoidance louder than any confrontation. And he honored that space, even if it killed him.

The crew noticed. Of course they did.

It wasn’t just the absence of laughter or private jokes. It was the way she stood a little straighter when he walked into the room, how his eyes tracked her every move with sadness on them. The static electricity that sparked when they were accidentally forced into the same space. Everyone tiptoed around them now, like something fragile was about to break.

“You two good?” Ewan asked one afternoon, voice low, brows raised as he stood beside Hayden after a particularly quiet rehearsal.

Hayden didn’t answer right away. He watched her across the room, where she was giving the DOP some notes, her voice soft but her shoulders tight. “We’re fine,” he muttered eventually, jaw clenched.

Ewan didn’t believe a word of it. Neither did anyone else because it was a lie, one he told too easily now.

The day had been heavy for her, everything that could go wrong that day, it did. So as she sat in front of her screen, her headset buzzed with feedback, and her clipboard was shaking slightly in her hands. 

She just needed to sleep, to properly sleep, which she had not been doing lately. Because every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that training room, heart pounding, lips parted, breathless, right before it all fell apart.

The AD called, the actors took their places, her eyes glued themselves to the monitor and his on her. 

“Rolling.”

She took a deep breath. “Action.”

But moments later, she had to call it. 

“Cut,” she called sharply. “Let’s go again.”

Again. And again. And again.

They did six takes. Each one more unbearable than the next. By the fourth the actors started to feel it. Her voice cracked a little by the fifth. By the sixth, the cinematographer glanced her way with a quiet, almost pitying look.

“Let’s take five,” she said, spinning on her heel before anyone could speak.

She disappeared into the narrow corridor beside the soundstage. Bracing herself against the wall, her head hung low and her breathing was shallow, she pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. She hadn’t cried in months. She wouldn’t cry now.  Not for a scene that didn’t seem to work. Not for the wrong delivery of lunch for the crew. Not for the fucking cold bitter coffee she drank in the morning. And definitely not for a man who pulled away.

Not for a man who looked at her like she meant everything, then acted like she was nothing.

No matter how hard she tried to act like she didn’t care, she did. She cared too much. Still. And that infuriated her.

Her heart was bruised and swollen with everything she didn’t say.

Why did you pull away? Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you make me believe in something you weren’t ready for?

Her hands trembled, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to go back where they came from.

“Hey.” His voice came from behind her, quiet. Hesitant.

She froze. Her shoulders tensed.

“You need something?” she said, voice sharper than she meant, brittle like glass. But she couldn’t help it. She was too full. 

Of sadness. Of anger. Of everything.

Hayden exhaled. “We need to talk.”

She turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed but defiant. “Now you want to talk?”

He ran a hand through his hair, looked down at the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.”

Silence stretched between them. He looked at her like she was the only thing he saw and she…she glared at him.

The coldness in her eyes stopped him mid-breath, freezing every word in his throat. Because whatever he had come there to say, whatever apology, confession, excuse, died on his lips the moment her eyes found his.

She didn’t have to say a thing. He felt it.

The hurt. The betrayal. The disappointment.

And still, she didn’t look away.

She held his gaze like the lightsaber he taught her to wield.

And somewhere beneath the ache in her chest, beneath the heat rising to her cheeks and the storm of emotions fighting to spill from behind her ribs, she reminded herself of something.

Of him, actually.

Of one of the most beautiful gifts she had ever received, wrapped in silence and sincerity months ago when everything was still soft and new between them. The perfectly placed frame in her bookshelf. 

"The show must go on. Come rain, come shine,  Come snow, come sleet. The show must go on."

And so it would.

She blinked once, and the emotion in her eyes vanished like smoke.

He watched, helpless, as the woman he missed, the one who laughed with him over tea, who tucked pens in her hair and called him Starboy and Moose, was replaced by her again.

The director. Professional. Precise. Unshakable.

“The five minutes are up,” she said, tone clipped and unreadable. And without another glance, she stepped past him, steps firm on the floor, head high, spine straight.

She didn’t look back and he didn’t stop her.

Because how could he, when she was doing exactly what he reminded her to do? Putting the show first. Carrying on. Even when it broke her.

Even when it broke him.

He turned to watch her disappear down the hall, swallowed by shadows and silence. Not being close to her was punishment, one he knew he deserved every second of it.

Mid of August 2021. How did it end? I can’t pretend I understand.

The set was stripped bare, props cleared, lights off, the chaos of production long gone for the day. Only the golden spill of late afternoon sun filtered in from the open bay doors, warming the edges of the metal scaffolding and stretching shadows across the concrete floor.

She was still there. Alone in her chair.

Her legs were curled underneath her, hands resting in her lap, a red pen twirling idly between her fingers. The black canvas of the director's chair framed her like a quiet portrait, serene on the outside, storming on the inside.

Hayden had only come back to grab a script he’d left behind. At least, that’s what he told himself. But the second he spotted her, still and soft in the quiet, something in him shifted.

He shouldn’t but he did.

His feet moved on instinct, slowly across the floor. Easy, careful. His steps were light, like approaching a skittish animal that might bolt if startled. He didn’t want to spook her. He didn’t want to cause her any more pain.

He just wanted to be near her.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low enough to not echo. “You alright?”

She startled slightly, lifting her head from the open binder in her lap. Her expression was tired, guarded. “What? Why?”

“You’re scrunching your nose.”

Her hand moved before she could stop it, fingers tracing the slight curve between her brows. “So?”

He gave a soft, almost sheepish smile. “That usually means you don’t like something.”

She frowned. “How do you know that?”

With a slight shrug, he said, "I notice things about you."

That silenced her.

The pen in her hand stilled. Her eyes dropped to the binder again, but the blush rose to her cheeks anyway, subtle, but real. She hated that her body still reacted to him like that. Hated that after everything, he still saw her so clearly.

“I didn’t sleep much last night,” she finally admitted. “I stayed late working… and just ended up crashing here.”

“You didn’t go home?” His brow creased, concern breaking through the soft edge of his voice.

“No. I had a lot to do,” she shrugged, brushing it off. “Got up early, too, to finish.”

This woman. Taking a few steps closer to her, his hand hovered over her back and quietly, decisively, he said, “Come on.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m taking you home,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Her laugh was dry. “I can take an Uber, don’t worry.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, stepping closer now, voice firmer. “I’m taking you. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Hayden…” she started, already shaking her head. 

Oh how much I missed you saying my name. 

“You don’t have to,” she said, shaking her head. “Go home, get some rest. I’m fine.”

“Please.” His tone softened again. “For my sake. I’d like to know you got home safe and sound.”

That got her.

Her lips parted as if to argue, but she sighed instead, and with a defeated smile she nodded. “Fine.”

The drive was quiet.

The soft hum of the radio filled the space between them, some soft song playing faintly as they glided down empty streets. The city was winding down for the weekend, orange light casting long shadows over the dashboard.

But all Hayden could focus on was her.

The jasmine. It was back, her scent, delicate and intoxicating, curling through the air like memory. He hadn't realized how much he missed it until it hit him all at once, warm and bittersweet and so her it almost hurt.

She was tired, he could tell. Her head leaned against the window, eyes half-lidded, but she wasn’t asleep. Just still. And maybe that’s why she accepted the ride. Maybe exhaustion had lowered the wall just enough for him to slip in.

There was so much he wanted to say. Too much. But he said none of it.

When he finally pulled up to her house and shifted into park, she reached for the door, but paused, hand frozen on the handle.

She exhaled deeply, like she was making a decision. “You wanna stay and eat?” she asked, not looking at him. “We can order something.”

“Nono—” he said, almost too quickly.

She still.

The silence that followed felt sharp.

Nodding slowly, she opened the door. “Okay, thank you for the ride” she said, but her voice had gone small, her mouth twitching in a quiet, disappointed smile.

“No—I mean,” he backtracked fast, eyes wide, leaning in slightly. “No to the ordering part. I would love to eat with you.”

She looked at him again then. Really looked. And her lips twitched again, this time upward. “Oh. Okay.” A beat. “Come in.”

He opened his door, already grinning, but he grabbed her hand, stopping her. “With one condition.”

She looked at their hands and then at him. “Which is…?”

“Let me cook for you.” A smile drew itself on his lips. “I owe you a pizza date, if I recall correctly.” 

How much he was cherishing her hand in his could not be explained, and when her eyes softened, just a little, and he caught a glimpse of Bubble, his heart almost exploded

“You do,” she said, smiling a little. “And pizza sounds perfect.”

“Great,” he said, smile blooming too.

And for the first time in months, something in his chest breathed.

She opened the door, stepping inside first, and he followed close behind. Her place was quiet and warm, not in temperature but in feeling, lived-in, loved, her. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and old paper and something sweet lingering from the morning.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said softly, tossing her keys into a bowl near the door and slipping off her shoes. Her voice was still careful, but there was something softer in it now. Something that sounded a little like hope.

While she disappeared down the hall to change, he wandered quietly through the space.

The living room walls were painted a soft cream, scattered with paintings, some abstract, others dreamy watercolors. On a side table, a small stack of Polaroids showed her with her niece and nephew: one of her with icing on her nose, another where the kids clung to her like koalas. There were little drawings pinned to the fridge too, crayon portraits signed with crooked handwriting. "The best aunt in the whole wide world." 

Next to the bookshelf stood a low cabinet filled with records and candles. But it was the tall bookshelf in the corner that drew him in.

He wandered over to it, his fingers skimming over spines and worn scripts and film biographies. Tucked among them, pieces of her, real pieces.

Her world was here, tangible and intimate.

There stood the frame with the Singing in the Rain phrase he’d given her for Christmas. And next to it, still perfectly intact and neatly displayed, was the little card he’d attached to the bouquet of jasmine flowers for her birthday.

He reached for it carefully, his heart slowing and then racing all at once.

Happy birthday, Miss Director. I wish you the best and hope you are utterly and incandescently happy in your day.

He remembered writing those words. Remembered how long he stared at the card before daring to write incandescently. It sounded like her. They were her words. 

She’d kept it and his chest ached. 

And he wished he could reach back in time and change that day in the training room. God, he wished.

“You found my treasure trove,” her voice said gently from the doorway.

He turned. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, bare-faced, hair tied up messily. She looked tired. And beautiful.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” he said quickly, placing the card back exactly where it had been.

“You weren’t snooping.” She stepped forward. “You were looking.”

He swallowed. “You kept it.”

“I keep things that matter,” she said simply, then added, “Do you need anything? I can—”

“No,” he cut in, smiling gently. “Let me cook for you.”

She hesitated, but nodded.

The kitchen felt like a dream. A fragile, aching dream.

He stood at the counter, chopping tomatoes with quiet concentration while she leaned against it, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him with a look she couldn’t quite name, part disbelief, part yearning, part self-defense.

She watched the way his hands moved, the precise rhythm of his knife, the absentminded way he whistled under his breath like it didn’t break her a little to hear it. Like it hadn’t haunted her in the silence these past few weeks.

He stirred the sauce slowly, the scent of garlic and tomato winding around them, as he murmured something about her not owning a garlic press. He found basil, crushed red pepper, her dwindling olive oil supply. She had three kinds of hot sauce and none of them were what he needed, but he made do anyway.

She watched in silence, hardly breathing. It was too much and not enough all at once.

And while he rolled the dough, glancing at her every few seconds, just to make sure she was still there, she stood frozen in the middle of it all, surrounded by the ghost of what they were, what they could’ve been.

She couldn’t believe how natural it felt. How domestic. How easy. And it shouldn’t have felt easy. Not after everything. But it did.

Something bruised and tightly coiled inside her chest began to slowly, painfully unwind.

They laughed, quietly, carefully, as the scent of bubbling sauce and browning dough filled the air, as melted cheese hissed in the oven. Her laughter wasn’t as open as it used to be and his was laced with nerves. But still, it was laughter.

For a moment, it was like the cracks between them didn’t exist. Like they were still them.

When they sat down to eat at her small table, knees almost brushing beneath it, the silence between them wasn’t cold or tense, it was warm, comfortable. Safe but tentative.

But it didn’t last. It couldn’t. Not with everything unsaid, humming between them like a wire pulled too tight.

She watched him take a bite, eyes closing with exaggerated delight. He said it was good. She said it was better than expected. They smiled. Softly. Carefully. Like holding a glass heart between them that could shatter with one wrong word.

She placed her crust down and looked at him, the smile on her lips fading into something quieter. “Can I ask you something?” she asked, voice hushed and raw.

He hesitated, but nodded. “Yeah.”

“That day…” Her voice caught. “In the training room. Did you…” She stopped herself, shaking her head, backing out of it. “You know what, never mind.”

“No,” he said, quickly. “Say it.”

She looked down at the table, at her empty plate, her fingers twisting in her lap.

“I thought you felt something. That day.” She swallowed hard. “In the training room. I thought we were… I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“I did,” he said instantly, like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for months. “I wanted it, more than anything.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “Then why?” she asked, her voice cracking wide open. “Why did you pull away?”

He looked at her like the question physically hurt. His jaw clenched. His eyes softened. And still, he struggled to speak.

“Because I felt too much,” he said finally. And that was the truth of it.

Her breath hitched, her chest clenched and her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the chair.

“I panicked,” he admitted, voice low. “I shouldn’t have. I knew what I wanted. I wanted you. But… I was terrified.” He looked down at his hands, useless now, aching to touch her but too afraid she’d flinch away.

“You’re younger. I’m… me. This industry, this set, it’s yours. It’s your dream. And I didn’t want to be the one to take that away.”

“You wouldn’t have taken anything away,” she whispered. “You didn’t even ask.”

“I know,” he said, broken. “And that’s on me.”

He finally looked up, and she nearly lost her breath at the way he looked at her, eyes full of regret, of love, of everything he never said.

“Loads of things could go wrong, Bubble,” he said softly. “But what I cared about the most is your career.” His gaze was heavy, pained. “People would twist it, me and you, eleven years between us, director and actor, favoritism, headlines. If it ended badly, if anything happened… your name would be the one they dragged. Not mine. You’d become hers, not the director who built something incredible.”

“You didn’t let me decide if I was willing to risk it,” she said, her voice cracking. 

His heart broke. “I couldn’t do that to you,” he said, voice firmer now. “You’re too good. Too talented. You deserve to be praised for your work, not whispered about in back rooms. This is your dream. You earned the place you are in.”

“I love this job,” she said, and her voice trembled. “I love what I’m doing. But I loved being near you, too. And you made me feel like I imagined all of it when you pulled away. Like it didn’t matter to you.”

“It did,” he said, breathless. “You didn’t imaginate anything, but…I was scared,” he admitted. “Of how much I felt. How fast. Of how deep it ran.” He wanted her to look at him. “It matters so much it’s killing me.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him. And despite everything, despite the pain, the hurt, the silence, her eyes were soft. Full of longing.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “Even when I was angry. Especially then.”

“I missed you too,” he breathed, shifting closer, his knee brushing hers. And then, because he couldn’t help it, Hayden reached for her, his hands cupping her face like she was something holy. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “I miss you so much. Every day. I miss talking to you. Laughing with you. Seeing you smile.” A shaky breath. “I miss us, whatever that was becoming.”

Her hands didn’t push him away. But they didn’t move to touch him either.

She was still caught in the in-between.“You looked like you belonged here tonight,” she said, barely audible. “Like this was where you were meant to be. In my kitchen. Cooking for me. Laughing with me. And it felt so right it scared me.”

His throat closed and his heart thundered in his chest, because it felt right to him too. So painfully, impossibly right and that was the problem.

Because this wasn’t just a crush. This wasn’t fleeting, or temporary. It was deeper than anything he’d felt before, profound and terrifying. It hit him like an avalanche, an elephant sitting on his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs, suffocating him with the weight of it.

But still, he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t let it live.

Because if he did, and it went wrong, like the rest of his relationships did, she would pay the price. Because what if it ruined her?  What if it tarnished her?

And he couldn't live with that, couldn’t risk that. Not her. Not her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice trembling. “For all of it. For not being brave enough.”

She didn’t answer.

She just nodded, tears clinging to her lashes, biting the inside of her cheek like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He stood slowly, gathered the plates like a man trying to delay the inevitable. “Let me help you clean.”

“No,” she whispered. “Just… leave them.”

A beat passed.

And then she added, “I’m tired.”

He nodded, already backing away. Like he seemed to always do with her.

She walked him to the door, and when he turned to say goodbye, she was already hugging herself, like she was trying to keep from falling apart.

“I had a nice time,” she said, and her voice broke with words. It sounded like goodbye.

She didn’t mean for it to slip out like that, not with that quiet ache, not with that finality, but the moment felt like sand slipping through her fingers. She could already feel the after of it pressing in.

She watched him nod, his posture tight, his expression unreadable.

“So did I,” he replied softly, the hollowness in his chest echoing with every syllable, like saying them was a lie.

Because how could it be a nice time when all he’d done was want her, and still choose to walk away?

She turned to open the door, fingers brushing the lock, but before she could twist it, his hand found hers. Warm. Firm. Desperate.

She froze. Her breath hitched. Her pulse screamed in her ears.

Don’t do it. Don’t look at him. Don’t make this harder.

Slowly, gently, he stepped closer, his presence a quiet force and her body betrayed her, turning to look at him in those ocean eyes that she wanted nothing more to drown into.

And when she turned to look at him, something cracked between them, something soft and tragic and too full to hold. 

His gaze was glassy, and she could see it now, the grief. The love. The regret. It gutted her.

He reached up with both hands, cradling her face with aching care, as though she were something rare and fragile and slipping through his fingers.

I’m going to remember this. This moment. This version of her, tired, beautiful, sad as hell, and still the strongest person I’ve ever met.

His fingers were gentle against her cheeks. She could feel them trembling. His thumbs hovered by her jaw like they wanted to memorize the shape of her, like he was trying to hold on just a little longer.

She wanted to lean into him so badly her body ached with it, but she stayed still because she knew this wasn’t a beginning. This was the end.

And then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Lingering. Devastating. Full of everything he didn’t have the right to say aloud. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was an apology. A confession. A promise. A goodbye disguised as something tender.

I’m sorry.

I wish things were different.

You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

When he pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, breath caught in her throat like she was afraid to let it out.

Please stay. Please choose me. Please be brave.

He gave her one last look, gentle, devastated, and then stepped back.

Hayden didn’t want to go. God, he didn’t want to go, but staying meant risking her and he’d rather lose her than be the reason the world tried to take her down.

She opened the door. Neither of them said another word.

And when the door closed between them, neither of them moved for a long, long time, the silence it left behind felt unbearable.

Because now she knew for certain, Hayden loved her, but he wasn’t going to choose her.

Because they knew, they had shared something real. Something that still lived in the air around them, but they had no idea how to hold it without letting it destroy everything else.

Beginning of September 2021. The looming end.

The set was a controlled storm.

Stage lights blazed. Wind machines whirred. Crew members darted like shadows in a well-oiled dance. Sparks flew, literally, from props and visual cues, casting brief flashes of light on every surface.

Today, they were filming the final scene between Vader and Obi-Wan.

The scene.

The one that would break fans apart. The one that would define decades of conflict. The one she’d spent sleepless nights fine-tuning, scribbling notes on the margins of scripts, fighting for silence in moments where words weren’t enough.

And now it was here.

But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She paced the perimeter of the set, headset looped around her neck, heart pounding so loud she could barely hear the chatter through the comms. Every corner of her body buzzed with static. The kind of anxiety that didn’t ask permission. The kind that gripped you and whispered, You’re not ready.

She should’ve been thrilled. The little girl in her, the Star Wars fan who grew up drawing lightsabers in the margins of school notebooks, was ready to explode.

But the grown woman, the broken-hearted one, was holding too much.

Because he was here. Because they were a week away from goodbye.   Because this scene wasn’t just the end of an arc. It was the end.

And the thought of not seeing him like this again, half-lost behind the Vader suit but still him, tightened something so deeply inside her, she had to excuse herself before she lost it completely.

I need air, God, I need air.

She pushed through the double doors of the soundstage, stepping into the golden hush of early afternoon. Her boots hit pavement with a shaky rhythm, her arms wrapped tightly around her own torso as if she could keep everything in.

She leaned back against the wall. Closed her eyes and let herself slide down on it.

Breathed in. Breathed out.

The footsteps approaching were lost to her, but when the sun was covered, she opened one eye slowly and saw him. Not him him, but Obi-Wan.

Ewan. In full costume. Robes, beard, calmness and kindness wrapped into one gentle presence. He stood in front of her like he knew,  like he sensed what was breaking inside her without needing to ask.

“You’ve done something special here,” he said, voice low and even. “You know that, right?”

She tried to nod, but her throat closed.

Ewan glanced up at the sky, like he was borrowing some of its steadiness. “You put your soul into this story. I’ve worked with dozens of directors in my time. But you? You bled for this. And it shows.”

Her lips quivered.

“You’re allowed to feel it,” he added. “This moment… it’s not just an ending. It’s yours. It’s your beginning, too.”

Tears blurred her vision. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. But Ewan just gave her a soft pat on the shoulder, like Obi-Wan himself, quiet and sure.

“You’ve got this, darling,” he said in that thick accent of his.

And with that, he walked back inside, his robes trailing behind him like the last note of a symphony.

She stayed out a few more minutes, letting the sun kiss her skin, letting the words settle deep in her bones.

Then she wiped her eyes, squared her shoulders, and walked back inside.

The set was alive.

Every corner was in motion. The makeup team prepped the final touch-ups on Vader’s cracked helmet. Sparks hissed from the VFX rig. The lighting team ran final checks. And at the center of it all stood Hayden and Ewan, suited and still, ready.

She didn’t sit. She couldn’t. Her body was buzzing, nerves, anticipation, love.

“Rolling!”

“Quiet on set!”

She took a deep breath.

“Action.”

And they began.

Hayden, Vader, was thunder. Ewan was fire contained by grief. Every word they spoke, every breath between lines, every step in the battle, it all landed like poetry. Like pain made physical.

The camera glided around them, catching sparks and shadow and soul. Every crew member was silent, frozen, as if afraid to even blink.

She couldn’t look away.

And when it came, the line, the one she'd rewritten a dozen times and cried over at 3AM, when he said it, voice cracked through the vocoder, eyes visible through the shattered mask, she forgot how to breathe.

“You didn’t kill Anakin Skywalker. I did.”

It was perfect. It was everything.   It was him.

And Ewan, her heart, her Obi-Wan, delivered the reply with a broken whisper so raw it echoed through everyone present.

She didn’t even remember saying it. “Cut.” The word came out of her, barely above a breath.

Then, applause, like a wave crashing over the set. Technicians, grips, costume artists, assistants, everyone clapped. Some even cheered. Not because of the spectacle. But because they’d felt it.

Ewan turned, gave a solemn, satisfied nod.

Hayden bowed his head, chest heaving inside the suit.

And she? She stood there, frozen, the applause around her fading into static, like the world had turned to fog. Her lungs tightened. Her throat burned.

It’s done. That was it.

Pride surged in her chest. The scene had been everything she dreamed of and more. But so did grief, sharp and immediate, because it was also the end.

The last scene. The last time I’ll see him on set. In character. In front of me.

She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred and her knees gave out. She crumbled where she stood, arms curling tightly around her legs, forehead pressed to her knees as the sobs came, wild and unfiltered, the kind she’d tried so hard to keep locked away.

The noise of the crew faded. Voices muffled. Only her heartbeat and her breathing remained, sharp, jagged, real.

I’m supposed to be professional. I’m supposed to hold it together. But I can’t. Not now. Not when this is goodbye.

Heavy footsteps, measured and familiar, approached her, the kind only one man in the entire world could make in full Vader gear, but she didn’t look up. She couldn’t.

“Bubble,” his voice came, muffled by the vocoder but unmistakably him, “I need you to stand up, 'cause I can’t crouch down in this suit.”

His voice hit her like a jolt, absurd and gentle at once. Even now, he was trying to make her smile.

A wet, messy laugh bubbled out of her, half-choked by tears. “No,” she mumbled into her knees.

Please don’t make me. Please don’t see me like this. Please don’t be kind, it’ll break me.

“Please, Bubble,” he said again, softer this time, like a plea. “Come on.”

She sniffled, dragging a sleeve across her face. “I’m ugly crying.”

“I know,” he replied, warmth curling behind the vocoder, behind the mask. She could hear the smile in it. She could feel it.

“Let me console you.”

God, stop being so you. So gentle. So kind. So patient. I can’t take it.

She lifted her head just enough to look up at him, towering, half-Vader, half-Anakin, but Hayden, 100% Hayden.

And even with all that plastic and armor between them, the look he gave her was all heart.

Please let me hold you. Please let me stay.

He offered his hand, gloved, massive, comical in a way, but his fingers curled with careful care, like he was afraid of breaking her further. And she was weak, of course she was, because she couldn't say no to him.

And the moment their hands touched, a shudder went through her. Not fear. Not embarrassment. Something else.

Relief.

And as he gently helped her to her feet, pulling her into the softest embrace he could manage with all the armor and wires between them, she didn’t hesitate and collapsed against him again, this time with her arms around his waist, forehead resting against his chestplate.

She just needed him and he held her. Tightly. Tenderly. Like he never wanted to let go.

I can’t do this again. I can’t keep saying goodbye like this and pretending it doesn’t destroy me.

For a few precious seconds, there was no set. No crew. No goodbye hanging in the air. No scenes left to shoot.

Just them. Hearts bruised. Bodies trembling. Still holding each other like it meant everything. Because it did.

Now that it’s over, I still want you. Still in love with you. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Mid of September 2021. Grow a pair.

The sun was gone, the air crisp and the silence heavy but not with tension, but with the weight of everything Hayden was carrying in himself.

He sat low in a weathered Adirondack chair, hoodie on, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, a bottle of beer untouched at his feet. He hadn’t said much since Ewan handed it to him twenty minutes ago. The sky above them had shifted to navy, the stars faint but flickering overhead. Somewhere behind the fence, a neighbor’s dog barked. 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, the smoke of his cigarette clouded his face, though it did little to match the fog in his brain. The ember glowed at the tip, mirroring the heat that simmered low in his chest.

Ewan glanced at him, his beer resting on his knee, and he looked carved from stillness, like if he stared long enough, he might turn to stone.

“You holding up?” the Scottish asked finally, tone light, casual.

Hayden shifted a little in his chair. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Long months of shooting,” Ewan nodded. “Emotional scene the other day.”

Hayden didn’t answer. Just nodded once and stared into the distance.

Ewan took a sip of his beer. “Lot’s of feelings moved.” 

The brunette exhaled, half-laughing, bitterly. “Yeah.”

“The suits, the props, the set,” Ewan enlisted, looking at him from the corner of his eyes. “The director.”

That one landed.

Hayden’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look over. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, its ash long and untouched, like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Yeah,” he said finally. Just that. A single syllable packed with regret.

Ewan watched him carefully. “She really gave it everything, didn’t she?”

Hayden nodded once, slowly. “She always does.”

“She’s the real deal,” Ewan added softly. “Knew it the second she walked on set. The story mattered to her. Every shot. Every word.”

“She never treated it like a job,” Hayden murmured. “She treated it like it was hers. Like it meant something.”

Ewan tilted his head. “And it did.”

Another long pause.

“Still does,” Ewan added, watching the ember of Hayden’s cigarette fade. “To you too, yeah?”

Hayden said nothing. He was quiet, but not still. His leg bounced, almost imperceptibly, and his free hand flexed open and closed on the armrest. And Ewan knew, he felt too much.

“You want to talk about it?” Ewan asked, not pushing. Not yet.

“No,” Hayden said hoarsely.

“I figured,” he muttered, then took another sip from his beer. “But I will.”

Hayden finally looked at him, brows furrowed.

Ewan didn’t flinch. “Look, I don’t want to pry, actually, I do. I’ve been watching you two walk around set like ghosts since July, absolutely miserable and I can’t bear it anymore. It was much more fun watching you both give each other heart eyes like a pair of lovesick kids.”

Hayden’s jaw clenched. He looked down, elbows on knees, the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes like he could push the ache back inside.

“Before, every time you were together, it was smiles, laughter, inside jokes, cute nicknames, breakfast meetings that ran an hour too long. Now? You only look at each other when the other is not looking. Like something’s broken between you.” 

Hayden’s brows drew together, guilt flickering across his features.

“And I’ve known her,” Ewan continued. “She’s sad.”

“I know,” he said, voice low.

“And I’ve known you longer. And let me tell you something, mate, you’re sad too.”

Hayden looked at his cigarette, now down to the filter. “It’s not that simple,” he said, pressing it out with the sole of his shoe.

“No, it never is,” Ewan said. “What happened between you two?”

Hayden sighed through his nose. “A lot. And not enough.”

Ewan waited, tilting his head to the side.

Hayden looked down at his hands. He hated how exposed he felt. “I fucked up.” He confessed. “It seems like all I do is hurt her feelings.”

“I figured that,” Ewan deadpanned. “Thanks for the confirmation. What’d you do?”

Hayden exhaled sharply. “We almost kissed. A few months ago.”

“And?” The Scottish pressed. 

“I pulled away,” he said, voice low and slow. 

There was a pause and then a slap on his arm. “Are you an idiot?!”

“Thanks, man,” Hayden said flatly, glaring at him.

Ewan patted his back. “Anytime. What else?”

Hayden hesitated, then said, “A few weeks ago… she stayed late at the studio. I found her still there, hadn’t gone home. I took her back to her place. One thing led to another, we ended up eating together. I cooked her pizza. She smiled. It felt like before, when everything was easy. She was tired enough to let me in a little and there was nothing more than I wanted to do than to apologize. I wanted to make it right. But I just,” he exhaled heavily. “I said everything wrong, hurting her even more.”

Ewan groaned and covered his face. “Oh God, you are an idiot. No question this time.”

Hayden shot him a look. “Appreciate the support.”

“I’ve been watching you, man,” Ewan said, turning toward him. “Sulking. Drooling. Making googly eyes at that woman since the third time you met her. But I’d bet money you were already hooked before that.”

Hayden blinked and looked away, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Maybe…”

Ewan rolled his eyes dramatically. “And you pulled away when you were about to kiss her?”

Hayden nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Then you are definitely an idiot.”

Hayden gave a tired laugh. “Thanks, man. Again.”

“But you like her,” Ewan said, watching him closely now.

Hayden sighed, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Then why didn’t you tell her?”

Hayden let out a sharp, humorless laugh, eyes pinched shut for a moment as if it could block out the regret clawing at him. “Because I’m a fucking coward.” 

Ewan raised an eyebrow, questioning him silently.

“I told her I couldn’t,” Hayden continued. “I told her all the reasons why we shouldn’t work. The age difference. The job. The spotlight. Because I’m me. Because she’s everything. That if it went wrong, she’d be the one who paid. Not me. And she just looked at me… like I’d kicked the breath out of her.”

Ewan exhaled quietly.

“And then she thanked me for the food,” Hayden said, bitterness in his throat. “She was sad and tired and still polite. Like I hadn’t just broken something sacred.”

“She likes you,” Ewan said simply.

Hayden shook his head. “And I like her, but I couldn’t give it back. Not the way she deserved.”

“You could,” Ewan said. “But you chose not to.”

That silence was louder than the rest.

“And then on set,” Hayden whispered, eyes shining now, “when we filmed the last scene… she crumbled. Right there. All of it, everything we never said, everything I held back, came out in that scene. And when she cried, I held her.”

Ewan nodded, remembering. “You didn’t want to let go.”

“I still don’t.”

Ewan leaned back slowly. “Then grow a fucking pair and tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?! Because she’s the director of the series? News flash, not anymore!”

Hayden flinched, already exhausted by his own excuses. 

“The show’s almost done. The lines have been said. The shots are in the can. And she’s still here. Still hurting. Still hoping, probably.”

“I hurt her, Ewan,” Hayden said, his voice rough. “More than once.”

“And yet she let you hold her like that,” Ewan replied gently. “Do you really think that means nothing?”

Hayden swallowed hard.

“You’ve been in this business a long time,” his friend said. “You’ve seen how rare something real is. And this?” He gestured with his beer bottle. “This is real, Hayden. What you have with her. That little moment of peace, of home, in the middle of chaos. That was real. Don’t let it rot because you were too afraid to open your mouth.”

Hayden looked down at his hands again, like they could still feel her skin, her tears.

“She’s younger,” he said, quieter now.

“She’s a grown woman,” Ewan countered. “Who knows what she wants. Who’s run a damn Star Wars series with more grace than most directors three times her age.”

The brunette cracked a broken smile. “She is kind of a genius.”

“She is,” Ewan agreed. “And she’s also in love with you. So what are you going to do about it?”

Hayden didn’t answer right away. He just stared into the night sky, chest heavy, heart racing.

“You deserve to be happy. And from what I’ve seen, because I’ve been watching, you were never more yourself, more alive, than when you were with her. She makes you happy.”

Hayden ran a hand down his face, cigarette forgotten now, heart in his throat. “She does,” he whispered. “She really, really does.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Ewan said, his voice quieter now, but no less urgent. “You two are meant to be. So get a clear thought through that thick head of yours and tell her. Before the chance slips away”

Hayden blinked back the sting in his eyes. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.

But inside him, something shifted.

Because Ewan was right. And he already knew it.

He could feel it in the center of his chest, under the stars, in the quiet of a friend’s backyard, something inside him stopped fighting. Because he was tired of the distance. Tired of pretending. Tired of living in the “almost.”

“I don’t want to hurt her again.” he confessed, slowly.

“Then don’t,” Ewan said simply. “Choose her. All the way this time.”

They sat in silence again, smoke curling up into the dark.

Then Ewan added, softly, “Choose each other, you both deserve to be happy. So do it. For her. For you. For that Bubble of yours you’re so damn in love with.”

Hayden closed his eyes. And for the first time in months, he let himself imagine what it might feel like if he just… gave in and chose her.

Ends of September 2021. What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?.

The music hummed low from the speakers, warm bass pulsing through the soft glow of string lights overhead. The room was buzzing, crew and cast gathered with drinks in hand, laughter echoing through the space like the fading heartbeat of something once grand.

It was done. Filming had wrapped. They'd all made history.

Everyone was celebrating. Everyone but them.

She smiled when she had to. Laughed at the right moments. Nodded, accepted praise. The series was wrapped. The series she put so much into. She should have felt pride swelling in her chest, but instead, there was a hollow spot where something else had once lived.

Her glass of wine was cold in her hand as her eyes drifted, once again to the far end of the room.

There Hayden was. Dressed in all black, button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The kind of outfit that made him seem even taller than he already was, like the darkness clung to him in reverence. His curls were swept back, golden under the light. His jaw was freshly shaven, but there was something tired in his eyes. Something heavy.

He laughed at something someone said, but to her, who had heard the real thing, who knew the warm, full sound of it, was off. Hollow. Foreign, because it sounded too practiced, like someone doing an impression of him. His smile didn’t quite reach and it felt criminal.

She looked at him the way you look at a memory you’ve been trying to forget. The way you glance at someone you still love but know you can’t have. Her fingers tightened around her glass.

Because of course she still felt it. Every aching, unwanted, impossible part of it.

Hayden, for his part, felt like something had been left unfinished, like the final page of a script had been ripped out and folded away in someone else's pocket.

Across the room, was his end, sad or happy ending, bathed in amber light from the chandeliers, she stood in conversation with one of the editors. Her red velvet skirt skimmed the floor as she shifted her weight, black corset hugging her frame with a quiet confidence, silver rings catching the light every time she lifted her glass. That worn leather jacket, clearly not hers, too big on her shoulders, added just enough edge to offset the elegance.

Her hair was slightly messy, but on purpose. Like she’d spent just enough time not caring and yet still managed to look like a dream, his dream.

Hayden had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from staring.

She was heartbreakingly beautiful, and she hadn’t looked at him once.

He stood near the back corner, drink in hand, and there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t ache for her, his brain hadn’t stopped thinking about her for a second. And still hadn’t figured out how to say any of it right.

So when she finally stepped outside, maybe for air, maybe to escape, he followed. Not like a man with a plan. More like a man being pulled.

The balcony was quiet, lights dimmer. Away from the buzz of clinking glasses and studio talk, the air was sharp with night, as if to remind her she was still real, still here. Her wine glass dangled from her fingers.

Then the door opened behind her and she didn’t have to turn to know who it was. 

Her back was to him, hands gripping the edge of the railing, her wine glass still mostly full.

He cleared his throat gently and she turned, slowly. Their eyes met. Something inside his chest fractured and in hers twisted.

“I can give you space,” he said softly, the words hesitant, almost hopeful. “If you’d rather be alone.”

“It’s alright,” she said. Her voice was low. Tired. But sincere. “It’s a big balcony.”

He nodded, cigarette between his fingers and walked towards the railing.

They didn’t speak for a while. Just existed, breathing the same air, in the same silence. The laughter from the inside acted like background music, but it felt odd, off to a scene so sad, so full of tension. 

The silence wasn’t comfortable, like before, it itched, it burned, it was like a punch to the gut. But after he smoked half of his cigarette and she drank her wine, something cracked.

“I know I probably don’t get to say this,” Hayden said suddenly, words tumbling from his chest, “but you look… absolutely beautiful.”

Her breath caught. Not visibly. But enough that the glass trembled in her grip before she set it on the railing.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “You look good too.” Her heart was pounding too loudly to trust her voice.

Hayden watched her from the corner of his eye, the ember of his cigarette flickering between his fingers.

The silence was fraying.

“I really don’t know what to say here,” he admitted, voice cracked open. Broken.

She gave a breath of a laugh. Bitter. “You said plenty,” she replied, lifting her glass again. “Just not what I needed to hear.

He ran a hand through his curls, suddenly flushed with nerves and stepped a little closer, not too much. Respecting space. But God, Hayden wanted to fall at her feet. 

God. Say it right. Just once.

“I wasn’t lying, back then,” he said quickly, like the words were a dam bursting. “When I said I was scared of what it could do to your career. I meant it. You’re… you're brilliant. And I didn’t want to be the reason people looked at you like…like you were anything less than the genius you are.”

Her brows pulled together. That familiar twist in her chest returned and he kept going.

“And maybe I overthought it. Maybe I overcorrected. I always do that. I always find a way to fuck up the one good thing.”

Her fingers tensed against the railing, her jaw clenched and then loosened.

“But I didn’t mean to hurt you. God, I never meant that.” He exhaled, fast and sharp. “You have to believe me.”

She turned then and looked up at him, really looking at him. The way he held his cigarette like it steadied him. The way he stood like he might break apart at the joints. The way he had his brows frowned, his jaw tightened, like he was holding something back. He looked wrecked. All of it, written in the fine lines of his face.

He was so close now. Close enough that the scent of him hit her: tobacco, and the cologne that lingering in her office, in her clothes after a whole day together. It still lived on that sweater of his he leant her on a particularly cold night and she never had the heart to wash, nor give it back. In her house after he cooked for her and then broke her heart, more than what he already did.

“I do believe you,” she said softly.

He blinked. “You do?”

“I do,” she nodded. “I know you. That’s the problem.”

Those blue as ocean eyes looked down at her with softness, unsureness and devastation. 

“At this point,” she whispered, voice thin, “if you were anyone else, I’d think all you want to do is hurt me.”

He shook his head fast, lips parting. “No, I would ne—”

“I know,” she cut in, tiredly. “Because you’re you and I know that’s not what you want.” Her voice cracked, barely. “But it does hurt.”

His mouth opened, maybe to speak, maybe to say the thing he should’ve said all those months ago.

“Every time you open your mouth and say something trying to protect me, or fix it, or be noble, it just… chips away at me a little more.”

Hayden looked like he was in physical pain.

She stepped closer, her hand almost reaching for him. Her fingers hovered right above his chest, just inches from touching him with trembling fingers, and then, she moved it back. Like the contact might burn her. Like if she touched him, she wouldn’t be able to let go.

Because she wouldn’t and she couldn’t afford to fall again.

He wanted to catch her hand, pull it to his chest and press it there, over his heart, right where it hurt the most. Right where her absence lived. But he was frozen in place.

Her lips parted like she might say something, but she didn’t. Just exhaled through her nose, trembling. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. But he could see her breaking in real time, fracture by fracture.

“So just… stop talking,” she said, no, she pleaded.

Stop hurting me. 

Hayden’s heart broke right in his chest. She was so close now, closer than he had any right for her to be. Close enough that he could see the shimmer of unshed tears clinging to her lashes. The ache. The longing. The love that hadn’t gone anywhere, not even after all the silence.

And he stood there, aching too. Wanting to reach for her. To fix it. Hands itching to touch her. But he just couldn't. But his mouth had betrayed him too many times. Now, even silence felt safer.

“I’m so-” his voice broke. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and it shook.

She just nodded, blinking the tears away before they could fall. “I know.”

Because it was true, she knew it, he knew it, but it changed nothing. They couldn’t be together. Not now. Maybe not ever.

So they did what they seemed to always do now since July. They said nothing,  letting the moment pass, letting the silence settle again. But this time, it wasn’t angry. It was exhausted. A truce made of ache from two people who wanted each other more than anything.

Next Part →

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[aryadelvich]

Studying with Luigi

Here’s a story from this request

If you’re looking for more of my work here’s Updated Masterlist

Summary : Luigi has a secret crush on you. Both of you attending the same university. When you ask him for help with math, what starts as a simple study session quickly gets spicy !!

Warning : explicite content 🔞🔞

I don’t know why this song feels like Luigi in college.

Luigi stood in the university hall, leaning casually against a wall as his friends joked around. Though he appeared to be listening, his focus shifted the moment he saw you descending the staircase.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have, tracing the determined set of your jaw and the way you clutched a paper tightly in one hand. There was something different about you today—your usual cheerful demeanor had been replaced by a tense, distracted air.

Then your eyes met his.

Caught off guard, Luigi looked away quickly, his pulse quickening.

"Oh, look. It's Y/N," one of his friends said with a teasing grin, just loud enough for you to hear.

As if on cue, the group turned to look at you. Luigi let out a quiet sigh, his jaw tightening. He had noticed you from the very first day of class but hadn't said anything to his friends. And now, they were practically gawking.

You stopped mid-step, offering the group a polite smile. "Hi, guys."

Your gaze flickered briefly to Luigi, and this time, you greeted him with a smile that held just the faintest edge of teasing.

"Hi, Luigi," you said, your tone light.

His throat tightened, and his response came out awkwardly, barely audible. "H-hi Y/n"

You stepped closer, holding out the paper in your hand. "I need help with applied mathematics. You're taking it as a minor, right? And from what I hear, you're pretty good at it."

"Oh... yeah," Luigi stammered, unprepared for your directness.

Before he could offer a proper response, one of his friends cut in, raising a hand dramatically. "I can help you too, Y/N!"

"Yeah, me too," another added, clearly trying to impress you.

Luigi shot them both an annoyed glance. "Back off," he muttered, though his tone remained light enough to pass as joking.

You raised an eyebrow, amusement flashing in your eyes. “I’m gonna choose whoever scored the highest on the last test gets to tutor me."

The group fell into a brief silence, and then the scores started coming in.

"71."

"82."

"89."

"80."

Finally, Luigi spoke, his voice calm and steady. "95."

Your lips curved into a grin. "Well, looks like we have a winner. Luigi, you're my tutor."

The subtle pride in his expression didn't escape you, though he tried to play it cool.

"How about tomorrow at the library?" he offered.

You shook your head. "I need to study tonight—my retake is the day after tomorrow. Your place or mine?"

Luigi froze, your words echoing in his mind. Around him, his friends erupted into laughter, elbowing each other and exchanging smirks.

"M-my room... if that's okay with you," he managed, his voice suddenly tight.

"Perfect," you said with an easy smile. "I'll see you after class, then."

As you turned and walked off, Luigi stared after you, his thoughts racing.

"Dude, did you hear that? She literally said, 'Your place or mine.' That's your chance !" one of his friends teased, slapping him on the shoulder.

Luigi shoots them a sharp look. "Shut up. She just needs help, that's all."

"Sure, sure," another friend says, smirking knowingly.

But Luigi doesn't respond. He's too preoccupied with the thought of spending time with you alone. Ever since you entered his life, you've had a way of unsettling the calm, logical order he's used to.

[7 PM]

Luigi paced nervously in his room, adjusting the books and papers on his desk for what felt like the hundredth time. He smoothed the creases in his shirt, glanced at the clock, and took a steadying breath.

A soft knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He opened it to find you standing there, arms full of notes, a faint smile on your lips.

"Ready for an intense night of applied math?" you joke.

He steps aside to let you in, trying to mask his nervousness. "I hope you're prepared to work hard because I'm a tough teacher," he quips.

You laugh as you take a seat at his desk, spreading out your notes. Luigi watches you discreetly, wondering why your presence alone is enough to make his heart race. He pulled up a chair beside you. He sits next to you and opens a notebook filled with neatly organized notes. His subtle cologne lingers in the air, and you can't help but notice how focused he looks when he starts explaining.

"Alright, show me what's giving you trouble," he says, gesturing to your notes.

You flip to a particularly challenging problem. "This one. Honestly, equations like this make me want to quit. Differential equations are a nightmare."

Luigi chuckles softly. "They seem daunting, but once you understand the logic, it's not so bad. Let's break it down step by step."

He explains with patience, his calm voice guiding you through each line. As complicated as the topic is, his methodical approach makes everything click.

"Oh! I get it now!" you exclaim, your face lighting up. "Why didn't anyone explain it like this before? It's so obvious!"

He grins, clearly proud of your progress. "See? I told you it wasn't as hard as it looked."

You work together for a while, your confidence growing with each solved problem. At one point, as you reach for his notebook, your fingers brush against his. The brief touch makes you pause, and you notice him quickly look away, his ears turning red.

"Sorry," you murmur, pulling your hand back.

"It's... it's nothing," he replies, his voice quiet.

The atmosphere grows heavier as you both become more aware of the growing tension between you.

At one point, your hands brushed as you both reached for the same pen. You pulled back quickly, but not before your gaze met his. A flicker of something passed between you—brief, but undeniable. Luigi looked away again, clearing his throat.

Luigi leaned closer to point out an error in your notes, his shoulder brushing against yours. You froze, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was.

"Here," he murmured, his raspy voice lower now, almost intimate.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, taking in the slight crease in his brow as he concentrated. The sharp lines of his jaw, the faint curl of his hair—it all felt too distracting.

"Got it?" he asked, his tone snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Y-yeah," you stammered, focusing back on the paper.

But even as the night continued, the unspoken tension between you lingered, growing in the quiet spaces between words. Neither of you dared to name it, but it was there—electric and impossible to ignore.

A few minutes later, after tackling another problem, Luigi leans closer to explain a particular detail. His proximity sends a wave of nervous energy through you, but you fight to keep your focus. When his elbow accidentally brushes against the side of your chest, warmth spreads through your body, pooling low in your stomach. 

"Sorry," he murmurs, his voice tinged with embarrassment. 

"It's fine..." you reply softly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

But your concentration falters as your thoughts begin to wander. Your eyes trace the lines of his hands—large and strong, with long, deft fingers. Veins crisscross his forearms, disappearing into the back of his hands, and the way he grips the pen exudes a quiet confidence. His arms are muscular, his collarbone defined, hinting at the sculpted frame beneath his shirt. 

Your gaze dips lower, involuntarily lingering at his crotch for a moment too long. You can't help yourself. Luigi has always been a contradiction: introverted and composed, yet brimming with a quiet fire, a confidence you've never fully understood but can't help wanting to unravel. 

Your eyes shift back to his face, and you find yourself studying him anew. His profile is striking—an angular jawline, lips that seem almost too perfect, and a thick beard that he likely trims every day. His brows are bold, framing a gaze that is somehow both piercing and gentle. There's an elegance to his nose and a wildness to his untamed curls, as though he doesn't care enough to control them. 

You're not sure what's happening, what this magnetic pull between you means. And judging by the faint tension in his movements, neither does he. 

"Alright," Luigi says, his voice breaking through your reverie. "I'm going to give you an exercise now. It'll cover everything we've gone over so far. You'll work on it yourself while I keep an eye on your progress." 

"Okay," you reply, nodding eagerly, grasping at the distraction. 

He steps back, giving you space to focus. For a few minutes, you immerse yourself in the task, scribbling out equations and trying to channel all your thoughts into solving the problem. But then you feel him again—standing behind you, his presence throwing your concentration into disarray. Your mind strays to places it shouldn't, thoughts you can't control flaring to life. 

Luigi crouches down beside you, his arm resting on the back of your chair. The closeness feels almost deliberate, his movements steady yet unassuming, as if he's unaware of the way he's affecting you. 

"Look here," he instructs, his voice low and firm. 

He reaches for your pen, his fingers brushing against yours once again. The contact feels electric, sending a jolt through you. He corrects the mistake with a confident stroke, then places the pen back in your hand. 

Your eyes lift to meet his, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The air between you feels charged, heavy with something unspoken yet impossible to ignore. You both break the gaze at the same time, awkward and unsure. The tension hangs there, undeniable yet unaddressed.

He leaned closer, his curly brown hair falling into his face as he pointed at a particularly confusing problem. "Okay," he said, his voice soft but confident, "tell me what the derivative of this function is."

You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. Your eyes flickered to his face—his sharp jawline, the faint stubble, the way his lips curved into that patient smile. He caught your gaze and tilted his head, his brown eyes narrowing playfully.

"Focus," he teased, tapping the page with his pen.

"I... I don't remember," you admitted, flushing slightly under his scrutiny.

"Hmm." He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment, but there was a sparkle in his eyes that made your stomach flutter. "Wrong answer. But don't worry, we'll get there."

He scooted closer, his thigh brushing against yours, and you felt a jolt of warmth shoot through your body. His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. "Let's break it down step by step. Think of it like building something from scratch—you start with the foundation, right?"

You nodded, though your attention was less on the math and more on the way his hand gestured animatedly as he explained. God, why does he have to be so damn attractive? His rolled-up sleeves revealed the veins running along his forearms, and you couldn't help but imagine how they'd feel under your fingertips.

"So, if f(x) equals 2x squared plus 3x minus 4," he continued, writing out the equation neatly, "what's the first step?"

Your mind went blank again, but this time it wasn't just because of the math. The proximity was getting to you—his woodsy cologne, the warmth radiating off his body, the way his leg pressed against yours. You shifted slightly, trying to focus, but it was impossible.

"Uh..." you stalled, glancing up at him.

His lips quirked into a knowing smirk. "Wrong again," he murmured, leaning in even closer. His breath ghosted over your ear as he whispered with his raspy voice, "You're not paying attention, are you?"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "Maybe I need a different kind of lesson," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Luigi froze for a moment, his pen hovering mid-air. Then, slowly, he set it down and turned to face you fully. His expression was unreadable, but there was a heat in his gaze that sent shivers down your spine. "Oh?" he said, his voice low and velvety. "What kind of lesson did you have in mind?"

You hesitated for only a second before reaching out and placing a hand on his chest. His heartbeat thudded beneath your palm, steady and strong. "One where you show me exactly how much you know," you said, your voice trembling slightly despite your boldness.

His lips parted in surprise, but then his eyes darkened with something primal, something hungry. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

"Positive," you breathed, closing the distance between you.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, as if both of you were testing the waters. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and everything changed. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that left you dizzy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you in a way that made your toes curl.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were hooded, his pupils blown wide with desire. "If I'm going to teach you anything," he murmured, his voice rough, "you're going to have to follow my rules."

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "What are they?"

A wicked grin spread across his face. "Every time you get a question wrong," he said, trailing a finger down your arm, "I stop. No touching, no kissing, nothing. Until you get it right."

"And if I get it right?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grin widened. "Then I'll reward you appropriately."

Before you could respond, he grabbed the textbook again and flipped to a new page. "Alright," he said, his tone suddenly serious, though his eyes still burned with mischief. "What's the integral of sine x?"

Your brain scrambled to recall the formula, but all you could think about was the way his thumb was tracing circles on your thigh. "I don't care."

He shook his head, clicking his tongue again. "Nope. Wrong." And just like that, he leaned back, his hands dropping away from you.

You groaned in frustration, but there was a thrill in the challenge, a fire igniting deep within you. "Fine. Try me again."

This time, when he asked another question, you forced yourself to focus, determined not to let him win so easily. And when you finally got the answer right, the look of pure satisfaction on his face was worth every second of torment.

"Good," he purred, pulling you back into his arms. His lips crashed against yours, his hands roaming your body with possessive intent. His touch was electric, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you as he explored every inch of your skin.

But just as things were heating up, he pulled away again, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Next question," he said, his voice thick with arousal. "What's the limit as x approaches infinity of 1 over x?"

You bit your lip, your mind racing. "Zero?"

He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Correct."

And then his lips were on you again, his hands everywhere at once, until the only thing you could think about was him—his taste, his touch, the sound of his ragged breathing as he whispered your name.

But just as you reached for the hem of his shirt, he stopped you, his grip firm. "Wait," he said, his voice hoarse. "What's the area under the curve of y equals x squared from 0 to 2?"

You blinked, your brain struggling to catch up. "Uh... 8/3?"

He grinned, his hands sliding up your thighs. "Exactly right."

And then he kissed you again, harder this time, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you onto his lap. The world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other, desperate and wanting.

But before things could escalate further, he broke the kiss, his chest heaving as he stared into your eyes. "Last question," he said, his voice shaking with restraint. "What's the probability of us finishing this without any interruptions?"

You laughed breathlessly, your hands tangling in his hair. "Slim to none."

"That's what I thought," he growled, pressing his forehead against yours. "But I'm willing to take the risk if you are."

His hands slid up your thighs, the warmth of his touch sending shivers through your body. The air in the room was thick with tension, every breath you took filling your lungs with the scent of him—clean sweat, cologne, and something uniquely Luigi. His brown eyes locked onto yours, dark with desire, but still glinting with that playful intelligence that always seemed to disarm you. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "What's the derivative of e^(2x)?"

You froze for a moment, your mind struggling to focus on anything other than the way his fingers were now tracing circles on your inner thigh. Think, think. You bit your lip, trying to recall the formula. "Uh... 2e^(2x)?"

A slow, approving smile spread across his face. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice low and smooth like honey. His hand moved higher, his fingertips grazing the edge of your panties. You gasped, arching into his touch, but he paused, his smile turning teasing. "Next question. What's the integral of sin(x)? If you get it wrong, I stop."

"Luigi," you whined, squirming under his hold. His thumb pressed against the sensitive spot just above your knee, making it nearly impossible to concentrate. "That's not fair."

"All's fair in love and math," he teased, leaning back slightly to give you space to think. His confidence was infuriatingly attractive, and you couldn't help but laugh despite the ache pooling between your legs.

"The integral is -cos(x)," you said quickly, hoping to end the torture.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Brava," he said as he pulled you closer. His hands slid up your sides, lifting your shirt over your head before you could even process what was happening. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but his body heat chased away any chill. His lips found yours again, hungry and demanding, while his hands explored every curve of your torso.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him. He chuckled against your mouth, letting you undo them one by one until his chest was finally bare. Your hands roamed over his abs, tracing the ridges and feeling the tightness of his muscles. He groaned softly, his hips pressing up into yours, and you could feel how hard he already was through his pants.

But before you could take things further, he pulled back again, his breathing ragged. "One more question," he said, his voice rough. "What's the limit as x approaches infinity of (3x^2 + 2)/(4x^2 - 1)?"

You groaned, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. "Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious," he said, his fingers trailing down your spine, making you shiver. "Answer correctly, and I'll make sure you forget your own name."

You could barely think straight, but you forced yourself to focus. The answer came to you in a haze. "Three over four?"

His smile was wicked as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your neck. "Very good baby," he breathed, his hot breath sending goosebumps across your skin. "Now, let me show you how well I can reward good students."

In one swift motion, he stood, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and he carried you to his bed, laying you down gently before climbing over you. His kisses trailed down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, each one leaving a trail of fire in its wake. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching off the bed.

His hands worked quickly, pulling off the rest of your clothes until you were completely bare beneath him. His eyes drank in the sight of you, and the hunger in his gaze made your stomach twist with anticipation. "So beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Before you could respond, his lips descended lower, kissing a path down your stomach until he reached your core. You tensed, your hands gripping the sheets as his tongue touched you for the first time. The sensation was electric, sending sparks through your entire body. He licked slowly, deliberately, driving you insane with the unhurried pace. Just when you thought you couldn't take anymore, he pressed two fingers inside you, curling them in a way that made you cry out.

"Luigi!" you moaned, your hips lifting off the bed as he worked you with his mouth and fingers. Every stroke, every lick felt like it was unraveling you piece by piece. You were close—so close—but then he stopped, looking up at you with that devilish smirk.

"What's the value of pi to five decimal places?" he asked, his voice steady despite the slickness on his chin.

"Are you fucking kidding me—" you started, but he cut you off with a pinch to your thigh.

"Answer correctly, and I'll finish what I started," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You clenched your fists, frustration and desperation warring within you. "3.14159," you spat out, glaring at him.

His grin widened, and he didn't waste another second. His tongue dove back in, and this time, he didn't stop until you were trembling beneath him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. You cried out his name, your voice breaking as pleasure consumed you.

When you finally came down, he kissed his way back up your body, his lips claiming yours in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it only heightened the ache between your legs. His cock pressed against you, hot and heavy, and you reached between you to free him from his pants.

As soon as your hand wrapped around him, he sucked in a sharp breath, his hips jerking forward. "Y/n" he muttered, his voice strained. "You're going to kill me."

You stroked him slowly, savoring the way his eyelids fluttered and his breath hitched. But before you could tease him further, he grabbed your wrist, pinning it above your head. "My turn," he growled, settling between your legs. The tip of his cock pressed against you, and you both groaned as he pushed inside, inch by inch.

It was almost too much—his size stretching you in the best way possible—but he gave you time to adjust, peppering your neck with soft kisses. When he finally bottomed out, he stilled, his forehead resting against yours. "Tell me this is okay," he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable.

"Keep going" you replied, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Please, Luigi. Don't stop."

He didn't need to be told twice. His hips began to move, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep inside you. His rhythm was relentless, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. You clung to him, nails digging into his back as you urged him on. His name spilled from your lips like a prayer, and each time he swallowed your cries with a kiss.

The coil in your stomach tightened again, your second orgasm building faster than you expected. "I'm close," you gasped, your legs shaking around him.

"Me too," he panted, his movements becoming erratic. "Where do you want me to—"

"Inside," you interrupted, the word coming out as a desperate plea. "Please."

He groaned, burying his face in your neck as his thrusts became harder, deeper. With one final push, you shattered, your climax tearing through you like a storm. He followed moments later, spilling himself inside you with a guttural moan. For a long moment, neither of you moved, too lost in the aftermath to care about anything else.

Finally, he rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were curled against his chest. His heartbeat was rapid under your ear, and his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. "Thank you," he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You looked up at him, grinning despite your exhaustion. "For what? Being a genius at math?"

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "For trusting me." His expression turned thoughtful, and he tilted your chin up so you were looking directly into his eyes.

You stride confidently through the university hall, a triumphant smile lighting up your face. Spotting Luigi, you rush toward him and throw yourself into his arms without hesitation. 

"So, what did you got ?" he asks, barely able to contain his excitement. 

"Ninety-seven! Luigi, you're incredible!" you exclaim, wrapping your arms tightly around him. The curious stares from other students don't faze you in the slightest. 

"I'm proud of you, Y/N!" he says, his tone full of warmth and pride. 

"Well, I had the best tutor anyone could ask for," you reply with a teasing grin. 

Not far away, Luigi's group of friends watches the scene, their confusion evident as they exchange glances, silently trying to piece together what they're seeing. 

"How about we celebrate properly? Dinner's on me," Luigi suggests, his smile growing wider. 

"Absolutely!" 

Without thinking, you lean in and kiss his cheek, the gesture natural and full of gratitude. Luigi chuckles softly, his ears turning just a bit pink, but he doesn't pull away. The buzz of the hall seems to fade, leaving only the two of you in your little bubble of joy.

GIRLS IF YOU HAVE ANY REQUESTS ASK ME I WILL DO IT WITH PLEASURE !!!! FEEL FREE TO ASK !!!

[drcomttheo]

Hi, first of all I really like your work <3

Could I ask for a short story with Matteo and hufflepuff reader in a hogwarts setting (but more college style). The reader is shy and awkward in social situations in general, and is oblivious of any romantic instances. I would love to read something soft and fun where Matteo is trying to actually flirt with the reader, but they think it is just friendly banter. Maybe some of the Slythering gang is nearby and are just enjoying the show and betting on the outcome XD Even better if there are books involved or simply a bookish setting.

Thank you :)

MATTHEO RIDDLE x YN

summary: You are a reserved Hufflepuff just trying to study. warnings: Fluff words: 1418 a/n: Hope you enjoy, anon! Slytherin Boy oneshots—ML Slytherin Boy oneshots—AO3

𝙱𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍

Hogwarts had now offered higher education; after the seventh year, you could continue education for university—still within your assorted house—and you were a Hufflepuff.

You were in your third period of the day, which happened to be private study, so naturally, as the bookish reader you are, you found yourself within the confines of the library, trying to catch up on your studies.

This changed when a sudden influx of noise caught your attention, prompting you to shift your gaze to the tall double doors, where you saw Mattheo accompanied by the rest of the Slytherin gang.

The resonant thuds of their footsteps echoed through the air as they made their way into the library. Mattheo, the ringleader of the group, drifted a bit from his companions, meandering through the aisles of books. He plucked a few volumes from the shelves, his face betraying a disinterest as he skimmed their pages.

Your eyes flickered toward him at intervals, each moment drawing him nearer and nearer.

After a brief interlude, Mattheo discovered himself positioned directly before you, where you sat.

Little did you know, he was already well-acquainted with you, having noticed your wandering gaze every few seconds, prompting him to gradually draw nearer.

At that moment, he stood above you, a commanding presence, and he released a deep, deliberate sound from his throat.

“Busy studying?” Mattheo's gaze pierced through the pages of the book, his intense dark orbs flickering up to meet yours. A brow arched in playful curiosity, an amused smirk danced across his lips, hinting at secrets only he knew.

"Yes... I have an exam next period..." You said, your voice warm and inviting, a friendly smile gracing your lips.

Before you could utter another word, he had settled into the chair beside you, an eager glint in his eyes. He laughed a little because he thought you were shy yet nice. Then he leaned back in the chair and put his hand on the armrest next to you.

"An exam, huh? I don't care about those; they're all a bunch of rubbish to me." He answered with a sleepy smile on his face.

"Well," you began with a laugh, "I care about my grades, and I also like the subject. But what are you doing here if you're not studying?" You questioned yourself as you cast your eyes around the library, and once you did, your gaze came into contact with some of the other Slytherins that sat on the opposite end of the library.

"Eh, just a bit bored." Mattheo lied, glancing over to where his friends sat a few tables away. He could tell they were trying to discreetly look over at you and him.

He sighed before diverting his gaze back towards you, a smirk spreading across his face. "Besides, I saw you sitting here all alone... figured I'd keep you company."

"Okay... that's fine then..."

Mattheo let out a soft chuckle, his arms folding across his broad chest as he reclined once more in the chair.

"I must say, I'm surprised I've never really noticed you until now," he admitted while his eyes continued to wander over your body.

"That's okay! I tend to keep my head down and mind my studies!"

"Ahh, a studious one, huh? I like it." He mused, his smirk growing wider. "Cute and a nerd."

He leaned closer to you, a mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes, and lowered his voice so that only you could hear him. "I have to admit, I've always had a bit of a thing for the smart ones."

Your brows knitted together ever so slightly, warmth creeping into your cheeks, and a small smile tugged at your lips—he was merely being friendly; surely, he extended his kindness to all. However, the moment felt different when you locked eyes with Draco Malfoy, who was playfully nudging Theo Nott while they snickered in their small group.

Mattheo caught the direction of your gaze as it wandered towards his friends, and with a subtle roll of his eyes, he released a soft scoff. "Ignore them... they're just being idiots." 

“I see that,” you murmured, your gaze drifting back to the pages of your book, yet in that moment, Mattheo leaned in closer and quietly closed it, interrupting your thoughts. 

He wore a sly smile, his eyes locked onto yours. "Now there's no need for that... I prefer your attention to me, not your book." He playfully teased, his other hand gently coming to rest upon your knee.

You glanced at him and then went down to your knee, and within a matter of seconds, you quickly picked his hand up and placed it back on the table.

"I don't know what you are talking about..."

Mattheo's smirk deepened, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes as he observed your swift reflexes, intrigued by your valiant effort to silence him. 

"Playing hard to get, are we?" He chuckled, his voice low and smooth. "No need to be so uptight, love. I just want a bit of your attention, is all."

Your cheeks flushed with warmth as you gathered your books, clutching them tightly to your chest. Rising from the table, you felt a mix of anticipation and nervousness swirl within you.

"I need to study! I'm sorry! I don't mean to be rude..." You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a fleeting moment, Mattheo's expression softened, and a gentle chuckle escaped his lips as he observed your bashful demeanor. He couldn't help but find your bashfulness endearing.

"Ah, no need to apologize." He uttered those words, reclining once more in his chair. "I'll back off for now. Wouldn't want to get in the way of your studies."

Your smile lit up his face, and then your gaze shifted to his companions, who seemed to be amusing themselves.

"What are they laughing at?"

Mattheo's eyes flicked to his friends, a fleeting hardness crossing his features. "Like I said, they're just a bunch of idiots. They're probably just amused by the fact that a smart person like you isn't falling for my charm." With a scoff, he rolled his eyes, a gesture laden with disdain.

His charms? You thought to yourself, was that what he was doing? Flirting?

Mattheo let out a soft chuckle, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he observed the dawning realization that spread across your face.

"Ah, I see you are beginning to understand. Took you long enough." He leaned forward on the table once more, a playful glint in his eyes as he teased. "You must know people usually fall at my feet, right?"

"I'm sorry? I'm not sure what you are talking about."

Mattheo's lips curled into a smirk, a glimmer of delight dancing in his eyes as he reveled in the playful exchange.

"Let me clear it up for you then." He said, his tone bordering on cocky. “Want to go out with me?" He inquired, casting a fleeting glance at his friends.

They were silently forming words you couldn't decipher, their attempts to conceal their broad smiles failing miserably, and as Mattheo turned back to you, a soft chuckle escaped his lips. "I guess my friends are anticipating your answer as well."

"Me? What? I—sure?"

Mattheo's smirk blossomed into a genuine smile at the warmth of your acceptance. "Great." He said, his expression softening momentarily. "How about this weekend, then? I'll meet you by the Black Lake after dinner on Saturday."

"That's fine..." you murmured softly, cradling your books against your chest, striving to quell the warmth rising to your cheeks and to regain your composure.

Mattheo caught sight of your flustered expression, a grin spreading across his face as he reveled in the delightful way you were behaving. "Looks like I've got you all flustered." He playfully taunted. "Don't worry, I won't bite... unless you want me to."

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips in response to his words, and in that fleeting moment, he returned your expression with a brief yet warm smile of his own.

"I'll see you then, then," you said quickly as he rushed out of the library past his friends; we were clapping slightly.

Mattheo let out a soft chuckle, a smirk lingering on his lips as he watched your hasty retreat. As he turned to look at his friends, they gave him a sly grin in response.

"Looks like you scored a date, mate." Blaise playfully nudged his arm, a mischievous glint in his eye.

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter nine

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: the night deepens with no clear end in sight, but rest begins to return—in sips of tea, shared silences, and jack’s quiet vigilance. outside, the storm wanes—but inside, the promise holds: you are not facing this alone.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.9k

Dusk slides beneath the blackout blinds almost without you noticing; the storm’s bruised light simply fades from gray to charcoal until the room seems caught between two midnights—outside and in.

Your body is a sandbag, every limb sodden with the lingering weight of the panic surge. You try, twice, to lever yourself upright. Each time the mattress tugs you back with a kind of exhausted gravity. When Jack steps in and asks, “Soup or toast?” you manage only a small shake of your head before sinking into the pillow again. He studies you for a beat, reading the stubborn hollows under your eyes, and simply says, “Okay,” the syllables gentle as turning down a lamp.

He doesn’t press. Instead he drags the cedar trunk away from the closet door and wheels his desk chair into the bedroom, parking it just inside the doorway. He flips the hallway switch so a low golden spill cuts the dark but leaves no glare, a tacit promise that this door—this lifeline—will stay open. Whatever work he means to do he sets up there: laptop balanced on his knees, field notebook open, glasses perched low on his nose.

Out in the living room the TV murmurs to itself—some late‑night documentary about coastal weather patterns. The rise‑and‑fall cadence is soothing, a grown‑up lullaby that threads through the hall and curls around your heartbeat. From the doorway Jack taps keys of his laptop, the soft plastic clicks punctuated by the occasional scratch of pen on paper. Every fifteen minutes or so he drifts closer, resets a fallen quilt edge, or presses the back of his fingers to your forehead as though checking for fever. He never switches on the overhead; the room stays dim, nested inside the quieter dark of the storm‑washed city.

Hours roll the way night shifts always do—long stretches of hush broken by brief flurries of action. Only here, the action is the subtle ritual of care: Jack swapping the cooling mug of tea for fresh, silencing the buzzing phone on the dresser, forwarding a new text from Ramirez to his encrypted drive and then slipping your device gently back within reach. You pretend to sleep for some of it, but his occasional touch and the faint creak of the chair when he shifts, keep you tethered to waking. 

Near what would be 02:00 on your usual ward clock, you finally speak. “You’re missing your shift.”

“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” He doesn’t look up from the screen, but the certainty in his voice anchors you deeper than any blanket.

The rain softens to a distant hiss, the late‑night documentary dissolving into an overly cheerful infomercial for ceramic pans. Jack rises to stretch, and in the lamp’s amber spill you notice how fatigue drapes him—new grooves bracketing his mouth, shoulders rounded from hours of sentry stillness. He catches you looking and offers a lopsided smile—unguarded, quietly proud, like watching over you is muscle memory. Adjusting the lamp a notch lower, he settles on the mattress edge, his “good” knee drawing up beside your hip.

“Try a sip,” he murmurs, offering a glass of water. You push upright—shaky, willing—and drink. It tastes of rainfall and mercy. When you pass the glass back, your hand drops to his knee, almost of its own accord—the one that ends in composite and titanium beneath sweats. 

“You taking anything for dull days?” you ask quietly, eyes on his. Rain always makes old wounds throb; surgical steel and phantom circuitry are no exception.

He starts to wave you off, but you keep your hand there—steady, certain. “Seriously. If it aches, take it off. Don’t mind me. Your house.” 

The words land and something gentle flickers across his face—relief, maybe, or the recognition that the instinct to protect flows both ways. He exhales, tugging a corner of the comforter higher around your shoulders before easing back to unclip the prosthesis. The quiet click of release echoes like a shared oath: safe enough, together enough, to let armor rest. He props the limb against the nightstand, then shifts closer, settling cross‑legged so his thigh presses alongside yours, natural and warm.

“Better,” he admits under his breath.

Neither of you mentions the untouched soup cooling in the kitchen. Neither of you needs to. Tonight surviving together is its own nutrition. You lie back, lulled by the soft drone of late‑night television, and watch Jack return to his station in the doorway—silent sentinel framed by gentle lamp glow. His silhouette stays there for the rest of the storm‑dark hours, a living parenthesis around your fragile rest, and you let your eyes close to the rhythm of his typing, the measured click‑click that says the world may still hold danger, but nothing will cross this threshold without meeting him first.

. . .

The early-morning drizzle beads on the window, turning the guest-room light to soft silver when your phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. You prop it against a stack of dog-eared journals and hit accept. Your eldest sister’s face appears—worried furrow in her brow, apron looped over one shoulder, the familiar bustle of her kitchen blurred in the background.

“Needed to see you with my own eyes,” she says, scanning your features the way she used to check scraped knees—looking for bruises no one else can see. “Mom’s pacing holes in the rug, Dad’s on Google Maps trying to figure out Pittsburgh traffic, and I’m…” She blows out a breath. “I’m missing my little sis.”

“I’m okay,” you promise, tugging the collar of Jack’s oversized Henley higher as if it were proof. “Shaken, not shattered. Hydrated, semi-fed.”

Before she can reply or question the unfamiliar background, your niece barrels into view holding a papier-mâché volcano streaked in fluorescent orange. “Rate my eruption!”

You can’t help but smile—genuine, unforced. “Solid eight, maybe nine once the lava’s dry. Tilt the cone a hair left or you’ll have overflow on the baking sheet.”

She gasps like you’ve handed her a Nobel, then scampers off to make adjustments. Your sister’s smile lingers, but her eyes stay intent. “Security officers, hidden cameras, panic attacks—when did your life turn into a thriller?”

“About the time my clipboard started moving on its own,” you admit, rubbing a thumb over the phone case. “Police are on it. Admin’s doubling security. I’m…living in one-hour windows.”

She nods, the worry line easing a millimeter. “Whatever you need—money, a plane ticket, a place to disappear—you say the word.”

“Thanks. Right now I need…normal voices. Yours. Kiddo’s volcano critiques.”

As if summoned, your niece pops back into frame, cone expertly tilted. “Better?”

“Perfect containment,” you declare. “Text me a video of the grand eruption.”

She salutes, then vanishes, leaving your sister chuckling. The two of you fall into lighter talk—Mom’s new obsession with indoor herb gardens, the neighbor’s dog who keeps stealing mail—until a comfortable hush settles. You realize the knots in your shoulders have loosened; the room feels less like a bunker, more like a spare bedroom suffused with family warmth.

“Call again later,” your sister says, voice soft. “We love you, trouble magnet.”

“Love you more.” You blow a kiss toward the camera before the screen goes dark.

Meanwhile, Jack has stationed himself in the living room, knees jiggling as he tunes the old police scanner perched beside the couch. The storm’s finally dwindled to dripping eaves, but the scanner spits bursts of static and unit codes that keep him keyed up. 

The altered routine itches under his skin; normally, by this hour, he’d be elbow‑deep triaging in the ER. Instead he toggles frequencies, listening for any dispatch that might whisper your stalker’s name, jaw working each time the speaker crackles with nothing useful.

When the apartment buzzer wheezes, Jack jolts upright, half expecting trouble. He strides to the door, keeping his footfalls light and soundless as he wipes damp palms on his well‑worn sweats, and then peers through the peephole and exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Robby’s lean silhouette stands in the stairwell, black scrub, jacket half‑zipped, hair a storm��tossed mess—but the tired grin is unmistakable. He’s soaked to the elbows and juggling three tote bags like an overloaded pack mule.

Jack immediately unlatches the door. “You look like a drowned Saint Bernard.”

“Good to see you too, brother.” Robby shoulders past the threshold, tracking rain, then kicks the door shut. He drops the first bag—canvas, Margot’s handwriting scrawled on a post-it barely holding onto front: Clean clothes + comfort stuff—and digs in a second tote.

“Supply run. Courtesy the ER night zoo.”

Inside are snacks that would make dietitians riot: four kinds of protein bars, two family‑size trail‑mix bags, a rainbow of energy drinks, and a battered zip‑lock bulging with sticky‑note squares. Each pad sports Sharpie messages: ELLIS—Tell the stalker I double‑dog dare, FIN—return of the Bento God soon pls, SHEN—喝茶, rest, and a graffiti of tiny cartoon lungs labeled BREATH ON.

It’s mostly for you, but the small details also speak of intention warmly directed to him. Jack’s chest tightens; he sets the haul on the island. “They shouldn’t have—”

“Shut up,” Robby says, gentle. “We don’t suck at family.”

The third tote is smaller. Robby passes it over with care. “From Ramirez. Extra camera printouts, new badge list. He said you’d want your own copies.”

Jack tucks it aside, mental note to scan everything. He pours tea into two mugs. Steam rises between them like a truce line.

Robby shucks his wet jacket and plops on the stool. “So. Give me the vitals. How’s she holding?”

Jack nudges a mug over, leans on the counter. “Took the worst panic strike I’ve seen her have. Closet lockdown, deep pressure, then crash‑sleep. She’s showered, speaking with family now. Wants to go back tomorrow.”

Robby blows on the cup of tea Jack had been quick to offer him, studying him over the rim. “You look like hammered scrap, man.”

He shrugs, then shakes his head. “I’m just pissed. Whoever’s doing this was inside close enough for that photo.”

“PD tightening entry logs. Gloria went nuclear on Security—badge audits, visitor escorts, the works.” Robby fishes a foil‑wrapped cookie from the tote and slides it over. “Ellis put out an unofficial bounty: whoever cracks the creep buys sushi for the pit. Price keeps climbing—Fin’s up to a hundred.”

Jack lets a laugh out through his nose. “Tell Ellis if she storms a staff meeting dual‑wielding laryngoscopes, I want video.”

“She’s rehearsing.”

They sip in companionable quiet. Outside, the drizzle ticks down gutters like beads on a drum. Robby stares into mug steam, voice dropping. “I hate you’re not on shift. Feels like the ER’s missing a major organ.”

Jack exhales, gaze drifting to the hall where the bedroom door stands ajar. “Feels like I left one here.”

Robby’s grin softens. “Yeah. We’ve—uh—noticed.”

Jack’s ears heat, but he doesn’t deny it. He sets palms on the island, steadying himself. “She’s in my bed—my actual bed—sleeping like safety’s a thing again. If I step out, even for rounds, and she wakes… I can’t risk that.”

“Then we keep running the pit,” Robby says simply. “You keep running point on her. That’s the mission.”

He raises his mug in salute. Jack taps his to it. Ceramic clinks.

Outside the storm finally drains itself empty; in the hush, the two friends share tea, shoulder the weight of an unseen war, and map silent vows to keep its front line right here—behind open bedroom doors and the rustle of sticky notes promising the whole hospital has her back.

divider credit

[claramelooo]

YeY, my readers! Another chapter to brighten up your lonely nights.

I'm thinking about posting a chapter every day while I'm on vacation, but don't hunt me down if I'm late with a chapter LOL

Enjoy it! <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warning: +18, NSFW

Paring: Mommy Wanda x Brat Fem reader

Summary: Your relationship with Wanda deepens more and more after the kiss.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 - Predator | Part 2 - The Prey | Part 3 - On your Knees | Part 4 - The Spider

VELVET CHAINS

The Lamb

Mornings began to take on a new rhythm. Your phone buzzed with punctual messages, always at the same time, as the sunlight painted the sky a soft orange.

Good morning, my darling. I hope you slept well. I'm thinking of you.

You read the message with your heart pounding as if it were the very first time. Each word brought an involuntary smile to your lips, and your response was swift: a shy emoji, a short phrase. Wanda always replied quickly, her tone steady and composed, subtly steering the conversation with a calm confidence that was nearly impossible to disrupt.

The days passed like a carefully choreographed dance. In the library, stolen moments were brief enough to go unnoticed by others yet intense enough to set your body ablaze and your heart racing.

You were arranging books in the history section when you sensed her presence before even seeing her. That familiar, subtle perfume—already uniquely tied to Wanda in your mind—reached you before her voice.

"Need help with that?"

Her tone was casual, but when you turned around, her eyes gleamed with something deeper. Without waiting for your reply, she stepped closer, taking one of the books from your hands. Her fingers brushed against yours, and for a fleeting moment, time seemed to stop.

"Sure," you replied nervously, feeling your face heat under her intense gaze.

She was so close that her body heat seemed to wrap around you like an invisible blanket. As she examined the book she’d taken from you, her head tilted slightly, almost absentmindedly. You couldn't help but notice how every movement she made seemed deliberate, as though even the act of flipping through pages carried an unspoken intent.

"History section, huh?" she commented with a small smile, her fingers lightly grazing the pages. "I've always found it fascinating how some things never change, no matter how much time passes."

You swallowed hard. "Well… I guess some stories are timeless."

"I agree," she said, lifting her gaze to meet yours. "Like us."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. It was incredible how easily she left you speechless with a simple comment. Before you could recover, Wanda leaned slightly, placing the book back on the shelf. The gesture seemed casual, but her proximity sent your heart into overdrive.

"You know," she said with playful mischief, "there’s a library rule against inappropriate behavior."

"I… didn’t know that," you stammered, trying to ignore the fact that her body was almost touching yours.

"Oh, there is," she confirmed, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she leaned closer. "Something about not kissing anyone between the shelves."

You blinked, startled. "I don’t think that’s in the rules…"

"It should be," she murmured, her voice low and husky, "because it makes me want to break them."

Before you could react, she stepped back with a triumphant smile, holding another book she seemed to have chosen at random. "I’ll take this one," she said, as if the charged tension between you didn’t exist.

Then, just as she was about to walk away completely, Wanda leaned in again, this time whispering near your ear, "That short skirt of yours is driving me crazy."

You froze, heat flooding your body as she walked away, her soft laughter echoing between the shelves. Her words lingered in your mind, your body reacting even before you could fully process them. A shiver ran down your spine, and your skin seemed to burn under the weight of her suggestion.

When you finally managed to turn to look at her, she was already a few steps away, pretending to peruse another book. But the sly smile on her lips gave away her true intentions.

"Wanda…" you called softly, your voice shakier than you intended.

She turned slowly, her eyes alight as though savoring every second of your reaction. "Yes, darling?"

You swallowed hard, searching for something to say, but the words escaped you. All you could think about was the way she looked at you, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world at that moment.

"You’re teasing me," you finally managed, trying to sound firm, though your voice trembled slightly.

Wanda took a step closer, then another, until she was so near you could feel the heat radiating off her. "Teasing?" she repeated, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You think I’m teasing?"

Your breath hitched as she raised a hand, her fingertips tracing a light line along your arm. The touch was almost imperceptible, yet it felt like fire against your skin.

"Because if I am teasing," she continued, tilting her head, "you wouldn’t be reacting like this."

"I’m not reacting," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, though it betrayed the lie.

Wanda laughed softly, a low sound that reverberated through you, as if she could see right through your fragile facade. Taking another step closer, she closed the already small distance between you until her warmth was nearly suffocating.

"Not reacting?" she questioned, her tone dripping with disbelief as she arched an eyebrow. "Then why are your cheeks burning?"

Your lips parted to respond, but no sound came out. Her proximity, her voice, and the intensity of her gaze left you completely disarmed. When you tried to step back, Wanda moved with you, maintaining the impossibly close distance.

"Y/n," she whispered, her voice low and rough as her fingers traveled up your arm, stopping at the curve of your neck. "Do you really think you can hide this from me?"

Your eyes locked with hers, and the weight of her gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. It was overwhelming, like she could see every thought and emotion you were trying to bury.

"I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," you managed to say, but your voice shook, and Wanda’s eyes gleamed with a mix of satisfaction and desire.

"Don’t you?" she replied, leaning closer, her breath warm against your skin. "Then why are your lips trembling when I’m this close?"

Her fingers trailed along your jawline until she gently tilted your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze.

"Why don’t you tell me what you’re really feeling, hmm?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening under the intensity of the moment. "Wanda, I…"

"Come on, sweetheart," she interrupted, her eyes darkening as she tilted her head, her lips hovering mere millimeters from yours. "I’m waiting."

The silence between you was electric, the air so thick it was hard to breathe. And then,almost instinctively, you closed your eyes, surrendering completely to the moment."I… I’m nervous."

Her lips twitched into a predatory smile—a wolf savoring its prey.

Hearing your confession, Wanda finally closed the gap, her lips capturing yours with an almost calculated precision yet brimming with fervor. The kiss demanded a response, coaxing you to cast aside any hesitation or fear.

You clung to her, your hands gripping her arms like lifelines, and Wanda pulled you closer, her fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in a possessive grip.

When she pulled back, her eyes gleamed, and her victorious smile left you breathless.

"That’s all I needed," Wanda murmured, her voice soft as her fingers trailed through your hair. "Just a little honesty."

“Wanda…” you whispered to yourself, finally letting out the breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. The sound of footsteps in the distance made the two of you step apart. She smiled, that lazy, secretive smile, as she adjusted her hair like nothing had happened. Yet, before you could even try to collect yourself, you heard her voice from the next section:

“Oh, and darling? Bring me a coffee. I like mine strong, no sugar, and hot. Just like you.” She winked at you, teasing.

With your face completely red, you tried to focus on organizing the books, but you knew her smile would be the last thing you’d be able to forget that day.

“I’ll be back later,” she said in a nonchalant tone, leaving you there with trembling legs and a racing heart.

At night, the pattern repeated. As you climbed the stairs to your room after a family dinner, you checked your phone, and there she was again, as if she were everywhere all at once.

I can’t stop thinking about you. I wish you were here with me right now.

And then came the calls, always after your study sessions—long calls filled with comfortable silences, soft laughter, and conversations that seemed simple but always carried an undertone. You felt, somehow, that Wanda was shaping you, pulling you deeper into her world.

Wanda, on the other hand, felt alive again. The world, once so predictable, had gained color once more. Every shy smile of yours, every hesitant response, was like a spark reigniting something she hadn’t realized had gone out.

The control she held over you was like a masterpiece she sculpted with patience and care. But beneath her obsession, there was something deeper: a silent fear that you might slip away.

Still, she never let it show. The next day, the ritual began again, and you, without even realizing it, surrendered more and more to the web Wanda wove around you.

Wanda sat at the dinner table, twirling a wine glass in her hand with a distracted air. Vision moved through the room with calculated steps, his presence always meticulous, always restrained. But tonight, there was something different. The tension in the air was almost tangible.

“You’ve been… distant,” he began, stopping beside the table. His voice was calm but carried a concern that didn’t feel genuine.

“Distant?” Wanda repeated, not lifting her gaze from the glass. A light, almost ironic smile played on her lips. “I’d say busy.”

Vision sighed, pulling out a chair to sit down. He placed his hands on the table, fingers interlaced. “Busy, then? With what, exactly? It doesn’t seem to be with the family.”

His tone was accusatory, but Wanda didn’t flinch. She lifted her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. Hers were calm, cold. “With what I’ve always been: trying to keep everything running. Someone has to do it, since you’re always off on your ‘business trips.’”

“Oh, so that’s it?” Vision asked, leaning slightly forward. “This is about me? About my trips? Wanda, you knew from the beginning that my work was part of who I am.”

“Just as my life is part of who I am,” she countered, her voice gaining a firmness that made him hesitate. “And yet, you expect me to mold myself to your world, to fit into it without question. But maybe I’ve started questioning.”

Vision blinked, confused, trying to grasp what she meant. “Wanda, that’s not fair. We built this together.”

“Built?” She laughed, but there was no humor in her laugh. “Vision, we followed a script. One you wrote, but never bothered to ask if I wanted to act in it.”

The silence between them was deafening until Vision, weary, shook his head. “What do you want, Wanda? What’s the solution to this?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze wander around the room. The walls, the furniture, the carefully organized life they had built together. A life that, not long ago, had seemed enough.

But now...

Her thoughts drifted to you. To the warmth of your shy smile, to the way your eyes lit up when she said something that touched you. Thinking of you was like breathing fresh air after years of suffocation.

The weight on Wanda’s shoulders eased instantly. As if all the problems with Vision, all the arguments, were nothing but distant noise.

“I don’t know what I want,” she finally replied, standing from the table and picking up her wine glass. “But I know I won’t find the answer here.”

She left the room without looking back, leaving Vision alone, lost in his thoughts. Climbing the stairs, Wanda felt lighter. The world seemed less oppressive when she thought of you.

[...]

Another Sunday, another sermon. The day dragged on at a pace Wanda found nearly cruel. The pastor spoke enthusiastically about patience as a virtue, though ironically, he seemed to lack any urgency in concluding his message. She sat on the pew with her arms crossed, trying not to sigh audibly.

Her sharp eyes scanned the congregation, searching for anything to distract her restless mind. But there was nothing beyond familiar faces, whispered conversations, and children failing to stay still.

Same as always, she thought, as boredom settled in with a vengeance.

But then, as the sermon finally drew to a close, Wanda caught something intriguing. Two rows ahead, your mother was speaking with Dottie. Their voices were low, almost conspiratorial, but Wanda had a near-supernatural ability to pick up details when she wanted to.

A fragment of conversation snagged her attention.

"I just don’t know if we can trust leaving her alone. She’s so... restless at times," your mother’s soft, worried voice floated over, accompanied by polite smiles exchanged with Dottie.

"Wouldn’t it be a good idea to take her with you?" Dottie suggested, leaning in slightly.

"Oh no, that would ruin the mood of the trip. We need some time for ourselves," your mother replied, sounding embarrassed. "But I also can’t leave Y/n completely unsupervised. She needs someone responsible, someone who understands her... challenges."

Wanda nearly laughed aloud at that. Challenges? It was an almost endearing understatement.

Curiosity piqued, she rose discreetly, adjusting the tight dress that hugged her silhouette perfectly. Her steps were light, almost inaudible, as she approached the two women. Once close enough to be noticed, she smiled politely, her expression more friendly than genuine.

“Hello, ladies! What do you talk about?” Wanda delivered her most dazzling and irresistible smile to the pair.

Both Dottie and your mother turned simultaneously, visibly startled by the sudden interruption. But Wanda knew how to disarm any reaction with her magnetic presence and impeccably practiced smile.

“Wanda! What a surprise to see you wandering over to this side,” your mother responded, clearly grateful for the unexpected distraction. “We were discussing the trip my husband and I are planning.”

“Oh, a trip,” Wanda said, her eyes lighting up with apparent curiosity. “Where to?” She infused her voice with interest that sounded fake to her but seemed to escape your mother’s notice.

“A second honeymoon in Santorini,” your mother replied with a hint of pride, while Dottie murmured something impressed.

“How romantic,” Wanda murmured, tilting her head slightly. “But you seem tense, dear. What’s the matter?”

Your mother sighed, adjusting her pearl necklace in a nervous gesture. “My concern has a name and a rebellious streak, as you know… Young people these days,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes before continuing. “I don’t want to leave Y/n alone, you know how she is... independent, yet still so young.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed, a slight crease of concern appearing on her face. She sat down beside the two women, as if genuinely interested. “Y/n is truly a special young lady. And you’re right; leaving someone so sweet and full of life alone could be risky. There are so many dangers...”

“Exactly!” your mother exclaimed, seemingly comforted by Wanda’s empathy.

“Well,” Wanda continued smoothly, “if you need someone to look after her while you’re away, I’d be happy to help. I already spend a lot of time with her at the library and have developed quite a... fondness for her.”

Dottie narrowed her eyes briefly, but her expression quickly returned to neutral. Your mother, on the other hand, lit up with immediate relief.

“Would you really do that? Oh, Wanda, that would be a godsend. I’ve been so worried.”

“Of course,” Wanda responded, placing a reassuring hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It would be my pleasure. Besides, Y/n and I get along very well. I’m sure she’ll feel comfortable with me.”

“Perfect then,” your mother said, visibly lighter. “I’ll confirm the travel details and let Y/n know tonight. You’re an angel, Wanda.”

Dottie, however, observed in silence, her faint smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You’re very kind, Wanda,” she remarked, her voice carrying something that might have been admiration or suspicion.

Wanda simply smiled, not letting her perfect mask slip. “I enjoy helping where I can.”

As she walked away, Wanda felt a wave of satisfaction swell inside her. The thought of having you under her roof, within the comfort of her home, made something tighten in her chest in a way that was almost painfully sweet.

My little one, she thought, nearly laughing at the irony. They have no idea how much you’re already mine.

The day had finally arrived. The morning seemed brighter than usual, sunlight flooding the living room as your parents finalized preparations for their trip. Your mother was radiant, dressed in an elegant outfit with a smile as bright as the sky outside. Your father, more reserved, was still double-checking the documents and tickets with his usual seriousness.

You were sitting on the couch, hugging a pillow, trying to mask the unease you felt. It wasn’t their trip that bothered you but the idea of spending so much time under Wanda’s watchful eyes.

“Sweetheart, come here,” your mother called, breaking through your thoughts. You got up slowly and walked over to her. She held your hands, squeezing them affectionately. “I know it feels strange to leave you here, but I promise it’ll be quick. And Wanda is wonderful; you’ll be in good hands.”

“Yes, Mom,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you actually felt.

Your father approached, putting an arm around your shoulders. “Be a good girl and don’t give us any reason to worry, okay?”

Before you could respond, the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house. It was her.

Your mother opened the door with an enthusiasm that seemed slightly forced, though you knew she truly trusted Wanda. And there she was: impeccable as always, dressed in neutral tones but exuding a natural sophistication that was magnetic.

“Wanda! So good to see you,” your mother exclaimed, giving the woman a brief hug.

“Good morning,” Wanda replied with a warm smile, her eyes discreetly flicking to you for a fraction of a second before returning to your parents. “I hope you’re excited about your trip.”

“Oh, very,” your mother said, pulling Wanda inside. “And you’re sure it’s no trouble to take care of her?”

“Not at all,” Wanda said quickly, casting a glance your way that made your stomach tighten. “It’ll be a pleasure. Y/n is a lovely young woman, and we’ve already spent quite some time together at the library. It’ll be wonderful to have more time with her.”

Your mother smiled, satisfied with the answer. After a few more hurried goodbyes, your parents finally left, promising to call as soon as they landed.

The door closed, and suddenly, the house was silent—a silence that seemed to hang heavy in the air. You and Wanda stood still for a moment, her eyes fixed on yours in a way that made your skin tingle.

“So,” she began, breaking the silence, her voice soft but carrying something you couldn’t quite decipher. “Just the two of us now.”

There was a calm certainty in her words, one that made you feel any resistance would be futile. She smiled, picking up your small suitcase and setting it aside.

“Where should we begin?” she asked, her gaze almost predatory as it locked onto you.

Your blood rushed to your cheeks, and you offered her a shy smile. “Hi…” you whispered.

Wanda bit the corner of her lip and strode toward you, her hands finding your waist. “Hi, little one…” she purred into your ear, making you gasp. “I missed you.”

Wanda pulled you into a firm yet gentle embrace, enveloping you completely. Her arms around your waist felt both protective and possessive, and you couldn’t help the slight shiver that ran down your spine. Her scent—a mix of expensive perfume and something inherently her—surrounded you, and you almost closed your eyes, as if you could lose yourself in that moment.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Wanda murmured, her voice low and melodic, as if it were a secret shared only between the two of you. “How did you manage so well without me around?”

Your voice faltered for a second before you managed to respond, a slight tremor in your words. “I… don’t know. But I’m glad you’re here now.”

She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her fingers reaching up to brush aside a strand of hair that had fallen onto your forehead. The touch was soft but deliberate, and you felt your face heat even more under her intense gaze.

“You’re so sweet,” Wanda said with a smile that seemed maternal but carried something more, something that made your pulse quicken. “And so obedient… I bet you did well.”

You lowered your eyes, feeling both embarrassed and strangely pleased by her words. It felt so comforting, her treating you this way… maternal? Wanda tilted her head, studying you as if reading every thought.

“It’s okay, Dekta. You can relax with me,” she said gently, her fingers now lightly caressing your cheek. “Let me take care of you, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything now.”

You nodded, your submission clear and genuine in the gesture. Wanda seemed pleased, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. Your posture was stiff, almost awkward—as if you weren’t used to this kind of comforting presence.

Wanda noticed your hesitation, the way your shoulders remained tense as if you still weren’t sure whether to relax or keep your defenses up. She didn’t rush anything; instead, her movements were calculated, gentle, as if handling something fragile and precious.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” she whispered, taking your hand and guiding you onto her lap. “Sit here.”

You obeyed without thinking, settling onto her lap with your hands nervously resting on your knees. Wanda didn’t speak for a moment, simply letting her presence envelop you, her calmness radiating until it began to seep into you.

When she placed a hand at the curve of your neck, the weight seemed to dissolve all the tension you’d been holding. She slid it gently down your back, drawing lazy, soothing circles that sent waves of warmth across your skin. You closed your eyes reflexively, feeling strangely safe, as if there was no danger in the world while you were there under her touch.

“There,” Wanda murmured, more to herself than to you. “Let it all go. Everything holding you back, everything weighing on you… you don’t have to carry any of it now. Not while you’re with me.”

She pulled you closer, making you rest your face against her chest. You felt it rise and fall with her steady, deep breaths. She began to hum softly, and the vibration in her chest lulled you further into relaxation.

Your eyelids grew heavier, and heavier, and heavier. Until the last thing you heard was a barely audible whisper.

“Mommy will make it all go away…”

Wanda felt you completely relax in her arms, the weight of your body now light and surrendered. It was a unique, almost intoxicating sensation to realize how much you trusted her, how willing you were to let go. She knew this went far beyond the physical. It was something emotional, visceral.

She observed you for a moment, your long lashes resting on your cheeks as your breathing slowed, rhythmic and calm. Every small movement of yours seemed so innocent, so vulnerable, that Wanda felt a surge of emotions she hadn't realized she was capable of experiencing. A mix of tenderness, possessiveness, and something burning deep within her: the need to care for you, to protect you... to have you entirely for herself.

She ran her fingers through your hair, gently combing it as she murmured soothing words, almost inaudible. "Good girl… so sweet, so mine…"

Each word was a quiet reminder to herself, an affirmation of the bond she was building between you. Wanda felt a maternal warmth growing in her chest, something she hadn’t felt since her own children. But this was different, deeper. With you, she didn’t just want to protect; she wanted to mold. To guide you until you completely depended on her.

She tilted her head, her lips brushing your forehead in a soft kiss. A sigh escaped her lips as she allowed herself to sink into the moment, into this role that felt so natural to her. You were perfect like this, Wanda thought. Fragile, delicate, needy.

“My little girl,” she murmured again, with a small, satisfied smile.

And there was something more—a feeling of quiet power. She knew you needed her, that you trusted her in a way no one else could. And it fed something dark and secret within her, a desire to keep you exactly like this: dependent, submissive, hers.

Wanda watched as you slept, your features soft and relaxed. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disrupt the moment. But at the same time, a part of her was already planning what would come next.

She wasn’t in a hurry. You had all the time in the world, and Wanda was willing to make it last. To mold you little by little, to tear down any remaining barriers, until you no longer remembered who you were without her.

“I’ll take care of you, Dekta,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “Forever.”

[...]

You wake up with a start, as if everything has been a dream. However, you find yourself in your room, covered with soft blankets that do not seem like your own. You feel light, in such an intense state of relaxation that it leaves you lethargic.

Descending your stairs, you find two packed suitcases leaning against the door. Reaching the kitchen, you see Wanda taking something out of the oven and upon seeing you, she offers you a brilliant smile.

“Look who’s awake…”

You blink, still drowsy, trying to process the scene in front of you. Wanda is there, impeccable as always, with an apron tied around her slim waist, her hair perfectly arranged, her face illuminated by that smile that seems both welcoming and… dangerous.

“Did you sleep well, Dekta?” she asks, her soft voice laden with a warmth that makes you blush instantly.

You murmur something inaudible, feeling a bit awkward under her penetrating gaze. Wanda places the dish on the counter and approaches slowly, like a predator observing its prey.

“You looked so calm,” she says, her eyes scanning your face, every reaction being silently noted. “I made sure you needed this rest.”

“I… thank you,” you murmur, swallowing hard as she continues to approach.

“No need to thank me, dear,” Wanda replies, now close enough for you to feel the warmth of her body. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You nod, your throat dry, unable to find words. The way she looks at you, like she can see right into your soul, is both disarming and captivating.

“Come,” Wanda says, extending her hand to you. “Sit down. I made something special.”

You hesitate for a moment before accepting her hand. Her warm fingers wrap around yours, and the touch is enough to make your heart race. She guides you to the table, where plates are elegantly arranged with a breakfast that looks like it came from a culinary magazine.

Wanda pulls a chair out for you, her eyes never leaving yours as you sit down. She leans slightly, adjusting the blanket still draped over your shoulders, and whispers: “Are you comfortable, my little girl?”

You can only nod, feeling your cheeks burn. There is something about the way she says these words, the way she takes care of you, that makes your head spin.

As you eat, Wanda sits across from you, watching with a calm yet unyielding intensity. Each time you look up at her, you feel a warmth rising up your spine.

“You seem nervous,” she comments with a subtle smile, tilting her head. “Is everything alright, Dekta?”

“I just…” you hesitate, your fingers playing with the fork. “I’m not used to… this.”

“To what?” she asks, her voice low and inviting, her eyes fixed on yours.

“To someone taking care of me like this,” you admit, your voice a bit shaky.

Wanda smiles, this time with a depth to her expression. “Then it’s time for you to get used to it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with a tension you don’t know how to dissipate. Wanda reaches out again, this time holding your hand across the table, her fingers tracing soft circles on your skin.

“You know you can trust me, don’t you?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper.

You nod slowly, your eyes locked with hers.

“Then show me,” Wanda continues, her eyes darkening slightly. “Show me that you trust me, Dekta.”

Your heart races. You know what she is insinuating, you know what she is expecting. But taking the initiative seems as frightening as it is necessary.

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your courage, and slowly lean over the table. Wanda’s gaze never wavers, encouraging you, pulling you closer.

And then, finally, your lips meet hers in a hesitant but emotion-filled kiss. Wanda responds immediately, but with delicate control, guiding you as if she knows exactly how to make you comfortable.

When you pull away, breathless, Wanda’s eyes shine with a mix of satisfaction and something more, something that makes your legs tremble.

“Such a brave little girl…” she whispers, her voice as sweet as it is possessive.

You exhale.

“I’m not a baby.” You say, forcing your pride.

Wanda clicks her tongue and murmurs something under her breath.

“Oh, yes… You’re a big girl, aren’t you?”

But what is this? You’re a girl! And a big one! Why is she talking to you like you’re some stupid child? And why is it sending waves of heat to your core?

Wanda forces you to look at her and meet her intense, wild—and cruel—eyes. You stay like this for a moment, until your body starts to tingle under the effect of her presence.

“Are you okay, sweetheart? You’re squirming all over…” she blows into your ear, making you let out a small moan. “Do you feel strange, my sweet?” you try to escape her, averting your gaze, but Wanda seems determined to see you embarrassed and small in front of her.

You nod your head, trying to stammer a response while being caught up in her.

“Uh, I know, dear. I know…” the older woman murmurs. “But I want you to use your big girl words and tell me where it feels strange.” her voice seems to grow, almost as if she’s holding back.

“I…” You rub your legs together, trying to alleviate the growing burn in your core.

“I know it's hard, isn't it, sweetheart?” You nod vehemently. She’s so close it’s making you lose your senses. “But you’re a smart girl, aren't you? I know you can. Use your words for me, come on, Y/n.”

Breathing deeply, trembling, looking at her, her lips so close to yours you could lean in and capture them. A trembling hand resting against your core.

“Here.”

“Ah, your tummy? Your tummy feels strange?” she places her hand over the spot and starts massaging it, making you automatically let out a moan at the feel of her warm palm.

So close to where you need it most, but so far…

“Eyes open for me, baby.” at the woman’s command, you realize you were so relaxed you had closed your eyes, and upon opening them, you see her most radiant smile.

“Good girl! There you are!” Wanda purrs, making your eyes roll back at the feel of her breath in your ear.

You smiled shyly, loving the taste of her words.

“Do you want anything else, dear?”

You shake your head, feeling your hair mess up with the movement.

“No? It doesn’t feel slimy anywhere else?” the wrinkle in her forehead showed she wasn’t happy.

Her hand, which previously held your cheek gently, now holds your chin, her fingers pinching your cheeks, making a painful pout. Not too harsh in itself, but firm enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"It's not polite for little girls to lie," her tone is severe in a way that makes you feel like you're being chastised.

You whimper at the thought that she might be mad at you.

"I'm sorry, Wanda..." your words come out a bit muffled by the way she’s pinching your cheeks.

Her expression softens and she lowers her face to the crook of your neck, hugging you against her as she places a kiss against your nape.

"I know, dear, it’s okay." she says, rubbing firm circles on your back. "Perhaps I should just check then, hmm?"

Your eyes widen in shock but she just smiles, seeming delighted, as if she didn’t just The smile that formed on Wanda's face was not the same as before. It was deeper, more laden, as if she had just claimed something she always knew was hers.

“I…”

"Big girls know where they feel everything. I thought you were a big girl, Y/n." she arches an eyebrow, provocative.

"I am!" You shout, frustrated.

"Then prove it." Her voice is dark and husky, making the pulse between your legs increase tenfold.

No one has ever touched you down there, thinking about it always made you so nervous. Wanda seems to know this—however, your inexperience seems to please the woman.

With trembling hands, you take her hand—perfectly manicured with red nails, dragging it down below the navel, resting it on top of your panties.

“Oh, sweetheart…” her voice comes out trembling. Wanda presses her fingers to you, making your hips jerk and a high-pitched and needy moan escape. “You’re so beautiful…” she murmurs as if it’s the simplest and most obvious thing in the world.

“It… hurts.” whining, you try to move your hips toward her again, offering yourself.

“Do you want Wanda to make it go away?” hearing the woman refer to herself in the third person is strange, you frown, but you nod. “Words.”

“Yes.”

The woman stops all of her stimuli suddenly, making you protest.

“Yes, what?” she prompts something you don’t understand, so she starts moving her hand up to your neck—squeezing, squeezing and squeezing.

“Yes, Wanda…?” the sentence comes out muffled with a hint of insecurity.

Wanda huffs, leaving you confused. What does she want?

She loosens her grip and backs away a bit.

“How about this?” her hands squeeze your hips and rub against the bottom of your stomach, as she makes you straddle her; pulling your body against hers in a way that creates exhilarating pressure on your pleasure point.

A dragging and needy moan escapes your throat.

"Oh, is that good?" Wanda laughs, as you nod weakly.

The dress you wear starts to bunch up around your waist. Wanda's gaze is lost, as if she’s thinking about many things at the same time.

"You’d look lovely in my clothes, kitten." she moans.

Wanda slides her fingers inside your pussy, not deep enough to break your hymen, but to explore.

“Are you getting close, dear?” without thinking, you nod.

She extends one hand to toy with your hard nipples.

"My beautiful girl..." she moans.

Wanda pulls you harder against her. Your sex is so wet, the lewd and sticky sound is audible, while she beams brightly at you.

"Do you hear that? Hear the mess you’re making on my hand?" She taunts, her fingers moving in slow circles, pushing you to the edge.

“I’m going to cum!” you whimper to her with glassy eyes.

“Are you going to make a huge mess on Mommy’s lap?” she was as desperate as you were—dark and wild eyes.

The woman grips your hips even tighter, pressing you against her even faster.

“It’s okay, little girl. I’m here for you!” exploding against her a few seconds later, you let out a loud, high-pitched, irregular cry of pleasure.

Babbling helplessly, fixing your eyes on the sea green of hers, you let her guide you.

“There she is! There’s my pretty girl…” she says, sniffing your skin.

You’ve never felt like this.

Not sure if it was the peak of edging, the constant arousal, or Wanda’s extremely sexy and dominant overall presence. But that orgasm was the most incredible thing you’ve ever experienced.

Wanda pulls you close to her, kissing the top of your head, soothing you, giving you all the time you need to return to yourself. Whispering quiet words of reassurance, and gently caressing your pussy, inducing your aftershock tremors post-orgasm.

“Thank you…”

She laughs softly, combing your hair back from your damp forehead with her fingers. She gives you a kiss, smiling as she sees you trying to caress her shakily.

You cuddle against Wanda, her scent enveloping you like a blanket that warms and calms. Her breathing is steady, a tranquil beat in contrast to the internal turmoil you feel. Your mind is a whirlwind, trying to process everything that happened, but your body seems to have other ideas, sinking deeper into that moment of comfort and surrender.

“Why…” you begin, your voice sounding fragile, hesitant. “Why do I feel like this around you?”

Wanda tilts her head, her green eyes glowing with something you can’t completely decipher. There’s a trace of tenderness, but also something deeper, something that seems almost possessive.

“Like what?” she asks softly, her fingers still stroking your hair.

“Relaxed…” you confess, swallowing hard as you try to find the right words. “As if… as if nothing else matters. As if I can just… let go of everything.”

She smiles, a small smile but full of meaning. “Because you trust me,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And because I make you feel safe, don’t I, my sweet little girl?”

You blush, her words hitting something deep inside you. It’s true. There’s something about Wanda — the way she looks at you, touches you, guides you — that makes all your barriers fall, as if you can finally be yourself without fear of judgment or rejection. But that leaves you vulnerable, and that vulnerability scares you as much as it comforts you.

“It’s… strange,” you admit, lowering your gaze. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“There’s nothing strange about it,” Wanda responds, her voice firm but gentle. “You’ve never had someone take care of you like this before, have you?”

You shake your head slowly, feeling tears threatening to form. She’s right. All your life, you’ve built walls around yourself, keeping others at a distance, believing that independence was your only option. But with Wanda, those walls no longer seem necessary.

She leans in and kisses your forehead, a gesture so gentle it makes your heart ache. “You don’t need to worry, darling. I’ll take care of you. Always.”

Her words resonate within you, like a promise that seems impossible to break. You look at her, your eyes meeting, and for the first time you feel like you can truly believe it.

“Come on,” Wanda says after a moment, stroking your cheek. “I made a strawberry pie, and I want you to try it while it’s still fresh.”

She helps you up, guiding you to the kitchen as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, in her presence, everything really does feel easier, lighter. As though, for the first time, you’re not alone in the world.

Wanda is seated across from you, with a generous slice of strawberry pie balanced on a pristine plate. Her eyes sparkle with joy, and you notice a mischievous smile forming on her lips.

“Now, open up, little girl,” she says, holding a spoonful of the pie right in front of you.

You blink, blushing immediately. “I can feed myself, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Wanda replies, her voice sweet but with a clear tone of amusement. “But where’s the fun in that? Come on, don’t be shy.”

You hesitate, feeling the blush rise even more in your cheeks. But before you can protest again, Wanda tilts the spoon towards your mouth. “Be a good girl,” she murmurs, her eyes playing with an unmistakable gleam.

Sighing, you give in and open your mouth, allowing her to place the spoon inside. The sweetness of the pie explodes on your tongue, and you can’t help but let out a small moan of approval.

“See? I knew you would like it,” Wanda says with a broad smile, but soon the smile turns into a genuine, warm laugh that reverberates through the kitchen.

Hearing that laugh made your heart tighten. It was contagious, and you ended up smiling as well, even as you tried to wipe the corner of your mouth with your hand.

“Okay, your turn,” you said, grabbing her spoon, but before you could reach her, Wanda gently held your wrist.

“Oh, no, dear,” she said, leaning forward. “I said I’m feeding you today. Relax and let me take care of that.”

She dipped the spoon back into the pie and, before you could protest again, was already offering you another spoonful. You shook your head in an exasperated gesture, but obeyed, feeling ridiculously embarrassed and, at the same time, warmed inside.

“I look like a child,” you muttered after swallowing.

“A lovely, sweet, and stubborn child,” Wanda teased, laughing again. “And it pleases me much more than it should. Now, open up again.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed along with her, the tension that always seemed to hover between you momentarily forgotten. For a moment, it was like the world was simple, made only of laughter, strawberry pie, and the strange feeling of being exactly where you should be.

The kitchen was full of relaxed laughter as you and Wanda shared the dessert. The strawberry pie was delicious, but the real sweetness was in the interaction between you two. Wanda, always with that air of control and fun, kept feeding you, insisting on larger spoonfuls despite your protests.

“I swear I’m full!” you said, gently pushing her hand away while laughing. “If I eat more, I will explode like a balloon!”

“Explode? Nonsense,” Wanda replied with a mischievous smile. “You still have space. I’ve barely started.”

“You are impossible,” you muttered, still laughing as you tried to dodge another spoonful. “And if I really explode? Then it will be your fault.”

“If that happens, I will clean up the mess,” Wanda replied casually, but the predatory look suggested something more.

You laughed again, but then Wanda straightened up, looking at the empty plate. She seemed to change her tone suddenly, adopting a more serious air. “Okay, enough pie. Time for you to drink a glass of water and maybe rest some more.

"I want to watch a movie now." You request, with puppy dog eyes. “Not now, dear. Maybe if you behave until evening, I’ll let you choose.” Wanda smiled, getting up, placing the dishes in the sink.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the authoritative tone. “Oh, no, mommy, please!” you said playfully, making a face and stretching your arms dramatically.

The air in the kitchen changed. The earlier lightness was replaced by something denser. Wanda’s eyes darkened, the smile disappearing as she tilted her head slightly as if studying you.

“Say it again,” she demanded, her voice low and laden.

The blush rose instantly on your face. “I was just joking, Wanda,” you began, but the intensity of her gaze made your voice falter.

“Say. It. Again.” She repeated, moving slightly closer, the tone firm but not aggressive. It was a command, not a request.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. There was something in her eyes, a mix of authority and desire that made you dizzy. With a mixture of shyness and hesitation, you murmured: “Mommy…”

The smile that formed on Wanda's face was not the same as before. It was deeper, more laden, as if she had just claimed something she always knew was hers.

"Good girl," she said softly, leaning in to caress your cheek. "Come. Let's pick your movie now." She takes your hands, pulling you both onto the couch—making your eyes shine as you realize the power of that single little word.

During the chosen movie—Disney's Tangled—Wanda's mind began to work. Hearing you say "Mommy," the woman felt something she hadn't expected: a wave of warmth, a sense of completeness that seemed to touch every part of her being. It was as if a piece of the puzzle she didn't even know was missing had perfectly fallen into place. For a brief moment, she paused, as if time had frozen, absorbing the moment with an intensity that nearly took her breath away.

The word echoed in her mind on a loop, like a melody composed exclusively for her. It wasn't just the sound, but what lay behind it: the surrender, the trust, the recognition. A mix of possessiveness and tenderness flooded her. It was more than desire, more than control—it was something primal, a protective instinct that made her chest swell with pride and satisfaction.

Her fingers stroked your cheek almost reverently, while her eyes burned with intensity. "My little girl," she thought, a smile appearing on her lips as she realized the impact she had on you. There was something deliciously addictive about the way you submitted, even without fully understanding just how much you did.

Wanda had always been in control, always the one leading others, but this was different. With you, there was a perfect balance between the dominance she cherished and the sweetness she secretly craved. And now, hearing you call her that... Well, that was the cherry on top.

The sight of you curled up against her, like a baby seeking maternal warmth, drove her wild. It made her want more and more of you. Seeing you so unaware of her thoughts—your gentle eyes focused on the screen, captivated by the animation's events, so sweet. You resembled a little lamb—so soft and affectionate—that in two days is taking its graceful leaps; in two weeks is playing 'follow the leader.' Your frailty was part of your charm. A lamb is pure innocence, so innocent that people want to possess it or even devour it. People like Wanda...

She inhaled the scent of your hair deeply, feeling the strength of her emotions, while a certainty formed in her mind. You were not just someone under her control—you were hers, and she would do whatever it took to ensure that never changed.

~*~

Be a good girl, Y/n... Wanda's watching

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @beggingonmykneesforher @rosekjsses @trindad2k @indentity0018 @3liyuh @trying-to-do-good @reginassecretlover

[hemmingsleclerc]

Welcome Back ┃Sebastian Vettel

Pairing: sebastianvettel x wife!

summary: sebastian and his wife give a surprise visit to the drivers

The sun was setting over the prestigious circuit, casting a warm golden glow over the bustling F1 paddock. The air was filled with the heady aroma of fuel and excitement, as fans and teams prepared for the next race. Unbeknownst to the drivers, a surprise awaited them in the form of a familiar face.

Sebastian Vettel, four-time Formula 1 world champion, was near the paddock entrance with his wife Y/N. After a brief hiatus, they returned to the racing world, not as competitors, but as spectators and supporters. As they walked through the meadow, whispers of excitement and surprise followed them.

Sebastian and Y/N decided to visit the drivers, many of whom had considered Vettel as a role model and mentor throughout their careers, and Y/N as a second mother, having always been there for them since their beginnings. Their first stop was the Scuderia Ferrari garage, where Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz were engrossed in pre-race conversations with their engineers.

The moment they entered, the atmosphere changed. Leclerc and Sainz turned to see the iconic duo standing there with warm smiles. The garage buzzed with excitement as the younger drivers embraced Sebastian like a long-lost friend and Y/N, with her gentle lover, radiated warmth, making the meadow feel like a homecoming.

"It's amazing to have you both here," Charles exclaimed, his eyes shining with admiration. "We've missed having both around!"

Carlos nodded in agreement, "Yeah, it's like having our racing parents back. How's life outside the cockpit treating you?"

Sebastian chuckled, "It's different, but we're enjoying the change. And we couldn't resist coming back to witness the thrill of F1 and catch up with all of you."

The surprise visit continued as the couple toured the paddock. Each meeting was marked by genuine enthusiasm and candid conversations. Max Verstappen, who upon seeing them from afar, ran towards them and hugged them tightly, excited to tell them all of his achievements that he had managed to achieve thanks to their help and support. Lando Norris, who almost fainted from excitement when he saw them in front of him, grabbed them both by the arms and took them to the McLaren garage, eager to introduce them to his new partner, Oscar, and the other drivers enthusiastically shared stories of their trips in the mountains. races and asked the experienced couple for advice.

As Sebastian and Y/N approached Lewis Hamilton's Mercedes garage, the air was filled with anticipation. Hamilton, Y/N's old friend, rival and former teammate, greeted them both with a warm hug along with a big smile on his face.

"Seb, Y/N, it's been too long!" Hamilton exclaimed. "This paddock hasn't been the same without you. We need your wisdom and humor back in the game."

Sebastian grinned, "Well, we're here to bring some of that back, at least for today. But remember, you're doing just fine without us. Keep pushing, and the wins will come."

''It's good to see that I left the Mercedes seat in good hands, George has been fantastic in this new season!'' Y/N exclaimed with a touch of emotion and nostalgia when remembering the boy's first season.

The surprise visit of the Vettel's became the highlight of the racing weekend. The drivers, in the midst of their high-risk world, appreciated the moments with them and the peace of mind of knowing that even if they were no longer there every race weekend, they would always be with them. As the day of the race went on, the echoes of their visit persisted, inspiring the drivers to try harder, not only for victory, but also to make their grid parents proud, who watched them grow up, gave them advices, helped them get up when people started to turn their backs on them, who told them to never give up their dream, and who had given them a new meaning of ''family''.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Protective Bob||Bob Reynolds x reader

Summary —you and Bob like each other but instead of being open about it you’d rather pine.

Word count-998

Warnings —club setting and mentions of a mocktail (it’s just cranberry juice, Sprite and a lime) 

You weren’t supposed to be paired with Bob Reynolds tonight. Normally, it’s you and Walker, your usual rhythm, your usual snark, your usual cover stories. But he’s tied up in Prague with Yelena, and the extraction clock in Budapest doesn’t care about partner preferences.

So here you are. In a grimy underground club that smells like cheap vodka and cheaper cologne, running recon with the one member of the Thunderbolts who looks like he should be curled up with a book rather than lurking in the shadows of organized crime.

Bob Reynolds.

He’s tall, quiet, awkward in a way that isn’t unconfident so much as… gentle. You’ve never worked closely with him before, but you’ve seen how he treats the team. Always carrying an extra pair of gloves in case someone’s hands get cold. The only one who apologizes when briefings run long. The guy who’d rather take a hit himself than let anyone else get bruised.

The guy who makes you smile when he doesn’t realize anyone’s watching.

You glance over at him now, pretending to sip a mocktail that was a mix of sprite and cranberry juice while scanning the crowd. He’s posted up just a few feet behind you, pretending not to be tense, sipping soda through a paper straw like it’s part of his cover.

Your target’s contact hasn’t shown yet.

What does show up is trouble.

A man you don’t recognize definitely not on the op sheet sidles up beside you, reeking of cheap whiskey and bravado.

“Hey there,” he says, leaning in far too close. “You look a little too good for this place.”

You shift your weight but don’t respond. Eye contact is the fastest way to encourage someone like him.

He grins. “That’s not a no. You here with someone?”

Before you can shut him down, there’s movement behind you.

Bob. Barstool scraping. Boots against sticky floor.

Then he’s there right between you and the man, shoulders squared, hands clenched at his sides.

“She said no,” Bob says, voice just loud enough to cut through the noise.

The man snorts. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m her… bodyguard.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Bob, who spent ten minutes apologizing for bumping your elbow in the elevator earlier, now stands puffed-up and awkwardly firm, like someone trying to look like they know how to fight without actually wanting to. His chest rises and falls in short bursts nervous adrenaline, definitely. But he doesn’t back down.

The man sizes him up. Bob’s taller, sure, but not exactly threatening. Still, there’s something… off. Not dangerous, exactly, but unpredictable. Bob’s eye twitches. His fingers twitch. He looks like someone trying very hard to act normal and failing.

It weirds the guy out.

“Right. Whatever. She’s all yours, man,” he mutters, retreating into the crowd.

Bob turns to you, eyes wide. “You okay?”

You raise a brow, biting back a grin. “Terrified. You’re so intimidating.”

He blinks. “Wait—really?”

You loop your arm through his and tug him toward a darker corner. “Oh yeah. Especially that ‘I’m her bodyguard’ bit. Classic.”

“I panicked,” he says sheepishly.

You laugh under your breath, finally relaxing. “You were great.”

The rest of the mission goes off without a hitch. Contact shows, data transfers, you ghost out the back with Bob on your heels like a big loyal retriever.

By the time you get back to the safehouse hotel, it’s well past midnight.

You’re exhausted, and apparently, your room’s keycard doesn’t work.

“Seriously?” you mutter, jiggling the handle again.

Bob peeks out of the door across the hall, already changed into sweatpants and an oversized NASA tee. His glasses are off, blonde curls a bit messy. “Everything okay?”

“Locked out,” you sigh.

He hesitates. “Do you… want to crash in mine? Just until the front desk reactivates it?”

You blink at him.

His ears turn bright red. “Not—not like that. I’ll take the chair. Or the floor. Or you can have the bed—I mean, I wasn’t—”

“Bob,” you interrupt gently, smiling. “I trust you.”

His mouth snaps shut. Then curves upward.

Inside his room, it’s warmer than yours ever was. Lived-in. A book with a cracked spine sits open on the nightstand. Two mugs on the desk. He shrugs out of a blanket draped over the armchair and tosses it your way.

“Bed’s yours,” he says, sitting on the floor without argument.

“You can sit on the bed,” you offer.

He looks scandalized. “It’s your—”

“Bob. It’s just a mattress, not a holy relic.”

He huffs a laugh and finally perches beside you, both of you facing the muted TV, shoulders barely brushing.

You pull the blanket tighter. “Thanks for earlier, by the way. You didn’t have to step in.”

“I wanted to.”

His voice is quiet. A little hoarse.

You glance at him. “Even though it made you all twitchy and weird?”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You noticed that, huh?”

“Kinda hard to miss. You’re not exactly subtle.”

He fidgets with a thread on his sleeve. “I just… I don’t like the idea of someone making you uncomfortable. You deserve better.”

That makes you pause. Your breath catches just slightly in your throat.

You nudge his knee with yours. “Thanks, Bob. For caring.”

He turns toward you really looks at you. You can see it now, in the soft focus of the room. The way he holds himself differently around you. Like he’s always on the verge of saying something more.

Your heart thuds.

You want to lean in. You almost do.

But then he moves first awkwardly, shyly offering the hoodie that was bundled at the end of the bed.

“You looked cold earlier.”

You take it. Pull it on. It’s warm and smells like detergent and something soft and boyish.

You sit there like that, shoulder to shoulder, both of you pretending the silence is easy.

And maybe, just maybe, it is.

[gilbertscurls]

campaign — matt sturniolo

summary: the face of prada and the youtuber-ambassador do a campaign together.

The blinding studio lights illuminated the sleek set, a testament to luxury and high fashion. The Prada campaign was buzzing with energy, cameras clicking, assistants rushing, and stylists adjusting the tiniest of details. It was just another day in your world, where you were the face of Prada, the embodiment of elegance and confidence. But today, there was a shift in the usual routine—a new addition to the campaign.

Matt Sturniolo.

You’d heard his name before, of course. Who hadn’t? The wildly popular YouTuber turned Prada ambassador had been making waves, blending his relatable charm with high fashion in a way that seemed effortless. His face had been plastered across billboards, his smile as familiar as an old friend’s to millions of fans. And now, he was standing just a few feet away, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his usually casual demeanor sharpened by the edges of Prada’s luxury.

You adjusted your stance, turning slightly as the photographer called out directions, but your gaze flickered to Matt. He was laughing with the crew, a sound that somehow cut through the controlled chaos. There was something disarming about him. He didn’t seem fazed by the glitz or the pressure, his easygoing nature making it clear he was just as comfortable here as he was in front of a vlog camera.

“Alright, let’s bring you two together for this next shot,” the director called, motioning for Matt to step onto the platform beside you. He approached with a confident stride, but his eyes held a spark of curiosity as they met yours.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm. “Matt.”

You extended a hand, offering a small smile. “I know. You’re everywhere these days. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted, his grin widening. “Hard to miss the face of Prada.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused by his candor. “I guess we’re officially colleagues now.”

“Guess so,” he said, stepping into position beside you. “Try to go easy on me. This is more your world than mine.”

The photographer began snapping away, calling out instructions, but you couldn’t help stealing glances at Matt. Despite his self-deprecating remark, he was a natural. He moved with an effortless confidence, his boyish charm contrasting beautifully with the sharp lines of the suit he wore. When the photographer asked you to interact, it felt surprisingly easy. A shared laugh here, a subtle touch there—it was all organic, as though the two of you had known each other far longer than a few minutes.

“Not bad,” you murmured during a brief pause, tilting your head to look at him. “You might just have a future in this.”

He smirked, leaning slightly closer. “Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

The shoot continued, but the atmosphere shifted. What started as a professional collaboration turned into something more playful, more personal. Between shots, you exchanged quips and stories, his humor cutting through the usual stiffness of the fashion world. You found yourself drawn to the way he balanced confidence with humility, how he seemed genuinely interested in the world you navigated daily.

As the session wrapped up, the director praised the chemistry between you two, calling it “magnetic.” You couldn’t help but agree. Matt lingered as the crew began to pack up, his gaze catching yours one last time.

“So,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets, “what’s next for the face of Prada?”

You smirked, tilting your head. “Probably another campaign. You?”

“Filming a car video,” he said, deadpan.

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself. “Quite the contrast.”

“Hey, it keeps me grounded,” he said with a shrug. Then, after a beat, he added, “You know, this was fun. Maybe we’ll run into each other again on set.”

“Maybe,” you said, holding his gaze. “Or maybe we won’t have to wait for another campaign.”

The suggestion hung in the air, subtle but undeniable. His smile softened, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he nodded.

“I’d like that,” he said simply.

As he walked away, you couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted—not just in your day, but in your world. It wasn’t every day that you met someone who could stand out in the dazzling chaos of your life. But then again, Matt Sturniolo wasn’t like anyone else.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @straw8berry, @shadowthesim, @courta13, @frankdelreyy

[ahundredtimesover]

I Want You to Stay (02) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 11.9k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: Hiii really touched with all the love for this story! I don’t know about you but this hits harder with all the boys away and we’re missing them so badly. But we’ve got this! 💕 But thank you thank you for all the messages (sorry I can’t get to each one!) and the interest and excitement. Hope you enjoy this one ☺️

And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight  🥰

PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!

Despite hoping that he wouldn’t, Jungkook, in fact, pushes you further away on his second day on the job. 

To his defense, it was partly your fault. You smiled at him last night - perhaps due to your delicious dinner that you didn’t even know was from him - and it disarmed him. 

The words you uttered after just flew over his head and he just nodded, too out of it to confirm what you’d said. It probably had something to do about you not coming to his penthouse, because it’s Tuesday morning and you’re still not here. He’d expected that like yesterday, you'd prepare his breakfast, and after all that transpired, debrief after yesterday’s meetings and discuss the next steps. That was his routine with Lucas, and for all the things that you seemed to know and do right - from his room design, the doneness of his eggs, and his coffee - this was a miss. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be assisting me from the start of the day?” Jungkook says over the phone, his tone sounding annoyed. “I’ve been waiting for you since 6:30.”

Your heart drops at his words, the memory from last night of him agreeing to you sticking to the same schedule you had with Hoseok suddenly feeling like some made up scenario. You remember telling Jungkook that you go straight to the office the rest of the week; you’d only go to Hoseok’s house on Mondays to prepare his clothes and brief him because he’s able to manage from Tuesday onwards. Your new boss, for some reason, perhaps misheard your question. And now you’re the one in trouble. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jeon,” you bring yourself to say, your voice in a panic because regardless of who’s in the wrong, making him wait is not a good start to his day nor yours, and especially not to your already rocky relationship. “I can get a cab then head to you.”

“So you want me to wait for you some more?” He chides, his dry laugh making you want to throw your phone just so you won’t hear his voice anymore. “Just stay wherever you are, but I want the meeting minutes from yesterday ready when I get there since you’re not here to go over them with me.”

Jungkook hangs up and your head thumping on your desk is immediate. It’s barely the start of the day and you already want to go back home and probably never come back. 

You left the office at 9 last night, knowing you were too exhausted to continue working on the annotated documents, and then got soaked in the rain on your way home. You planned on coming to work early - given that your boss didn’t require you to go to his penthouse, a claim you stand by - so you can continue, but now he wants the meeting minutes in an hour, and that isn’t usually due until three days later. 

Neglecting the sandwich you planned on eating for breakfast, you work on your notes from the first meeting and then move on to the next. Every footstep you hear makes you anxious, and you breathe a sigh of relief every time you find out it’s not him. Every minute counts and you’re thankful for each one. Until, of course, you run out of it. 

“Send them to me now and meet me in my office,” his voice echoes through the hallway that leads to his room. 

Jungkook walks straight past you and doesn’t even give you a look.

“Yes, sir,” you squeak, quickly sending the email then scurrying to where he is. 

You find him seated on his chair, his leg crossed over the other one as he goes through the notes on his iPad, his furrowed eyebrows making you sweat in worry. He doesn’t seem pleased. But from what you’ve witnessed so far, you doubt there’s much that pleases him.

He encircles words and scribbles on the sides, mumbling “incomplete,” “what does this mean,” and “this is not what I said.”

Jungkook sets the device on his desk and groans. He turns to you with a hard glare, and you clearly see just how displeased he is. Not that you have any defense - it’s your job to do what he asked in a manner that’s up to his standards - but you already felt discouraged in the morning, and your meal skipping caused you to lose focus in the afternoon, resulting in your less than satisfactory documentation of the meeting.

“Ms. Cho, do you know the value of these documents? And why I require them to be comprehensive and done on time?”

“Uh, ye-yes, sir,” you drag out.

“Why?”

It’s too early for this, you think to yourself. Clearly you know why they’re important; you’re just too tired to articulate the reasons to him. But you try, as the words form in your head. You’re about to say them when he stands from his chair and walks towards his desk, leans on the edge and then intently looks at you, as if he’s judging even the way you’re breathing or standing. And you’d probably fail, given how your body seems to cower in his presence. 

“Because decisions are made through them,” he says, drowning out your thoughts with his stern voice. “I attend numerous meetings everyday. Decision points can be buried in the discussions unless they’re documented properly. And even when they are, they’re not actioned upon immediately unless I have access to them and unless they’ve been processed and verified. I don’t leave those conference rooms and forget about what took place. They stay in my head, that’s why I ask you to write them down, and that’s why I require you to meet me first thing in the morning so that I can process them with you, and let those points guide me for the rest of the week.”

His glare continues, so does his voice getting louder. “My job isn’t just to sit around and listen to people. I make decisions. And it’s your job to make sure I have all the correct information to make them.”

“I… I understand, sir. And I… I apologize for the oversight,” you stutter, still unable to look at him. “But about this morning, uh… you, uh last night, I—”

“Was there an explicit statement from me about not having you come in the morning?”

“No, sir.”

He lets the silence draw out, perhaps to let your own words sink in. He does have a point. You stand by your claim that you’d asked, and he nodded, but you should also know that such gestures aren’t clear responses, and that’s on you to make sure that you’re both on the same page. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say with conviction. “I made an assumption when I should have clarified. And even then, it’s your first week as Vice President. I should be assisting you in all the ways I can.”

Jungkook watches your form, hands clasped together with your nails sinking into your skin. Your head is bowed down, unable or unwilling to look at him this whole time. He knows he’s at fault, too, but he’d never admit it; he’s not exactly the type to do that. 

You stand there in submission and a part of him wants to apologize, but that’s not the type of weakness he wants to show, not when he needs to establish authority and more importantly, distance.

“I require Lucas to still come every morning because that’s the only time we can debrief about the previous day’s activities,” he says, making his voice calmer now. “We go through the minutes, clarify things, finalize them, and then disseminate so that people don’t forget. Teams collaborate effectively when there’s accountability and when timelines are adhered to. It’s my job to make sure they comply. And that means it’s your job, too. I don’t have to remind you of your roles now do I, Ms. Cho?”

“No, sir,” you respond, finding the strength in you to finally look at him, his hardened stare still unnerving you. 

He uncrosses his arms and walks back to his seat. “My cousin and I work very differently from each other. It’s on you to adjust.” 

“Yes, Mr. Jeon,” you bow in acknowledgment. “I’ll be at your apartment at 6:30 every morning and I’ll do better with my documentation and preparation of all the files.”

Jungkook just hums then proceeds to work on something on his desktop, which you take as your cue to leave. You bow again and excuse yourself, but his voice stops you as you open the door.

“Push back this morning’s meeting to 9:00,” he says. “And make sure you have something to eat. I can’t have you be unfocused again like yesterday.”

You survive the rest of Tuesday. You eat snacks rather than proper meals, and you find that that helps you more with time and focus. The meetings for that day are less intense, but with you still figuring out exactly how Jungkook wants the documents prepared, you stay up after hours and work on them for the next day, with you constantly going over the recording to make sure that you documented everything correctly. 

You arrive at his penthouse at 6:30 every morning during the week. You make his breakfast while he takes a shower, which is really whatever’s in his fridge or pantry. He doesn’t seem to mind what you prepare for him, and you’re glad that he doesn’t find any more severe reasons to dislike you. There’s still the occasional correction of your minutes, but you chalk it up to him just being too particular. There are terms he uses that you’re not familiar with; he’s an architect by training after all.

Perhaps it’s why he’s as specific and detail-oriented as he is, and more visual than anything. Hoseok is a perfectionist like him, but the older man has everything organized in his head and then executes them, whereas Jungkook needs them all laid out before him. Whether it’s about a policy, a process, and especially a design, he makes sure they’re drawn out, and the way they all just make sense to him is immediate. 

You suppose that’s what he’s used to. Plans need representation beyond words; he doesn’t seem to be the type to use much of them, in fact, unless he’s correcting you. But that’s what you’ve noticed. At some points during the meeting, he’d draw something on his iPad and send it to you; you both discuss it the next morning, with you finding the words for it for proper documentation. 

But his mind doesn’t seem to stop, as you catch him on the way to work sometimes doodling some design on this leather notebook that he carries with him everywhere. Whether it’s the Arts Center or something else, you’re not sure, but you know that any moment he pulls it out, he’d spend a good amount of time on it before getting out of the car.

He remains distant and disengaged as you expect him to be. Unlike Hoseok who asks you how your evening went or how the trip to his house was, Jungkook doesn’t talk about anything that doesn’t concern work. And so when he isn’t talking about it, there’s just silence - whether in the car, in the elevator, or the walk to his room. There’s none of the laughter or the questions about how you’re coping with all your tasks, and there’s definitely nothing about his life that he shares. Not that you thought he would, but the difference with your old boss is striking, as you think of the times when Hoseok happily talked about the salsa studio he was at with A-yeong over the weekend or the movie they watched together the night before.

The comparisons remain in your head throughout the week. You try to focus on your responsibilities but you realize that you haven’t properly moved on from the culture and environment that you used to enjoy when Hoseok was still leading the team, and that has affected your work in obvious ways, and especially your approach to it. 

There’s anxiety with every task that Jungkook asks of you, even if they’re things you’ve done so many times in your three years as the VP’s assistant. You find yourself constantly clarifying his instructions, prompting him to question your ability to take them. You feel like he’ll be displeased regardless of what your output is, yet you still end up spending too much time going over files that you forget to eat or clock out too late. You don’t get proper sleep either, nervous about what the next day will bring. You second-guess yourself constantly, and all the confidence you built in all your time here doesn’t seem to have as strong of a foundation as you thought. 

So when you make another mistake the following Tuesday, whatever belief in yourself that you have left dissipates. 

“Ms. Cho, where is the folder?” Jungkook asks, his gaze hardening the longer you look at him without a word. 

You’re currently at a restaurant, given that your boss has a meeting with Mr. Hu, the owner of the company that produces quality materials that Jungkook wants for the Arts Center. This was scheduled just yesterday, which is also when he’d asked you to put together the rough draft plans and design that he worked on last weekend. The project is in its early stages but the plans are clear to Jungkook and he wants to secure this deal early on, especially with Mr. Hu leaving the country for a few weeks. 

You finalized this last night and left it on your desk along with the portfolios that Yoongi and the support team have been taking from your shelf. Given the week you’ve had - lack of sleep and frustration more than anything - you rushed to get ready and mistakenly took a portfolio and not the folder meant for this meeting.

“I… I’m so sorry, sir, but I seem to have taken the wrong files,” you stutter, eyes on the ground as you clutch the portfolio for support. “They… they were on my desk along with others and I left them in the office.”

There’s a long pause before Jungkook speaks, the irritation clear in his voice.

“Do you at least have a soft copy?”

“It’s on a USB, sir,” you reply, nervously raising your head. “I left it as well.”

You try your hardest not to look at him, even if it seems like he wants you to, just so you can see the burning way he does it. Because you feel him huffing, you can see how he’s clenching his fists as he controls what he’s feeling, which is definitely anger towards your stupid mistake. 

Jungkook clears his throat before turning back to the man seated across from him, his voice apologetic as he explains that you weren’t able to bring it. 

“Ah, what a shame,” Mr. Hu says, judgingly glancing at you. “I was really looking forward to seeing your plans, Jungkook. I could’ve advised my people to check on the materials you want this early.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jungkook says. “Perhaps I can email them over to you?”

“Oh don’t bother, I’ll be chasing the Italian sun for the next three weeks,” the older man chuckles. “I’ll see you when I get back. By then, I hope you and your assistant have sorted things out and could give me actual information about what you want.”

“We will, I assure you,” Jungkook says, before saying goodbye to him.

He walks past you and you follow, with no words said as you both wait for the car and enter. 

You can hear him panting, and you know enough that's due to an extreme emotion he can’t express. He won’t look at or say anything to you, and that feels more terrifying. 

His phone rings, and not only does the person on the other line talk about what just happened, you happen to hear it, too.

“Hey, I heard what happened with the big boss,” the man says. “Did you really go to the meeting unprepared?”

“It wasn’t me, but yeah, what a mess,” Jungkook huffs, his head leaning back on the chair, his eyes closed as he calms himself down. “What did he say? Is he angry?”

“Nah. You’re a Jeon; he can’t be. He was just a bit annoyed because he was supposed to have a meeting with another client but he chose to see you.”

“Fuck. What an embarrassment,” Jungkook groans.

“Well, he does have high praises for your father.”

“And this is his first time working with me. My dad’s gonna hear about it and give me shit for it.”

“Just another normal day at the office, right?” The man laughs. “So, was it your assistant that screwed up?”

Jungkook hums his yes, knowing you’re two seats away from him, although he’s unsure if you can hear their conversation. For your sake, he hopes you can’t.

“See? This is why you should’ve taken Lucas! That guy was always two steps ahead of you.”

“That’s what I said, but when are my requests ever granted? Never. Another normal day at the office, huh?”

“If she’s pretty, maybe you can forgive them and just suffer through her incompetence,” the man laughs again. “I mean, she’s got to have some redeeming quality somehow. If she doesn’t, that just sucks for you.”

“You really enjoy making fun of my misfortunes, huh?” Jungkook huffs.

“Just sometimes. Not used to you not having your way, that’s all.”

“Well, nothing is going my way, that's for sure. But whatever, I’ll figure it out. Make sure Mr. Hu holds out for me, okay? I need you to help me this time.”

“Hey, I may laugh at your misfortunes but I always have your back,” the man says. “Good luck, VP. I’ll see you soon.”

Jungkook drops the call and you feel him glance at you but you remain stiff on your seat, unwilling to move nor look anywhere else that isn’t your lap. You’re glad that he decides to close his eyes for the rest of the ride, though, so you take your chance to shift towards the window and watch the buildings fly by, willing your tears not to fall.

You hold out until you arrive at the building. That is, until Jungkook heads straight to his room and asks you to follow. 

“Own up to your mistake and look at me,” he says, his voice seeping with disdain. 

You lift your head and meet his eyes, his gaze piercing right through you and you’re unable to move, to speak. But you try - a futile attempt, really - at appealing to the compassionate side of him, if it even exists. 

“I’m so, so sorry Mr. Jeon,” you plead for forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to forget the folder. It’s been a tough week and—”

“A tough week?” he mocks, his voice getting louder now. “As if you’re the only one who’s had one? I come here and find myself doing your job. I spent the weekend drafting the designs because I need that deal early only for you to screw it up! My father’s been on to me about this project and I need everything done right but I can’t seem to because my assistant, who’s supposed to be assisting me, can’t even get the most basic things done. All you had to do was bring the folder. You didn’t even have a contingency plan of having a soft copy. Were you not trained for this role?” 

You visibly shake but Jungkook doesn’t let up.

“Answer me.”

“I… I was, Mr. Jeon,” you tremble. “I know I’m not the smartest but I work hard and I—”

“You work hard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In what?”

“In preparing your files and organizing everything for you and…” you try. 

A month ago, you’d be saying these things and more with so much conviction.  But all it took was one Jeon Jungkook to break you down and make you doubt every single skill you’ve developed and been praised for the past few years.

“And I can criticize each of those tasks in just this one week you’ve been my assistant.”

“I… I just needed guidance, sir, because it’s a new—”

“I need guidance. I need assisting,” he sneers. “My father wanted me to keep you because you apparently know how things are supposed to be done but you’re asking for guidance from me?”

There’s silence on your end and you’ve never felt as small as you do right now. The way Mrs. Byun abused her power over you and humiliated you during your first years here continues to be unmatched, but being treated this way by a man whose family you respect somehow hurts you more. 

You want to give up now. You’ll lose everything if you decide to just quit but it’s not like there’s much left of you to go by anyway, given the week that you’ve had. But if there’s anything your mother taught you is that the lowest you can go is when you don’t fight for yourself, so you gather what little dignity you have left and look him in the eyes. 

“You do things very differently from Mr. Jung like you said, and I admire your thoroughness,” you start, trying your hardest to calm the tone of your voice. “You’re adjusting to your new role with a new team and a new assistant that you didn’t choose but somehow you have to trust and that’s unnerving if you’re used to being in control of everything. With all due respect, however, perhaps if you let the people around you adjust as well, we would all find a way to work together effectively and respectfully. A little bit of compassion wouldn’t hurt, and it goes a long way.”

At his silence, you continue, digging your nails deeper into your skin to help you remain stable.

“I apologize for all the mistakes this past week. I know it has been unpleasant for you as well. I’ll do better, that I can promise. But if the way I work is not something that is up to your standard, then there’s only one thing to do. Me quitting would put you in a worse light; you can fire me if you think it is best,” you bravely state. “I can deal with the consequences.”

Jungkook continues to just look at you, unable to say anything this time. Perhaps he isn’t used to someone speaking to him like this. Maybe he’s finding the right words to hit you back and break you even more. The tiniest part of you wants to think you’ve softened him up a bit; hopefully he’ll be less angry at you the next time.

“Is there anything you need me to work on, Mr. Jeon?”

“No,” he answers. “Just hold off all calls for me for the next hour. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Understood, Mr. Jeon.” 

You bow and head out the door. 

Jungkook watches you leave, and the farther you become, the more he wishes you’d stay.

He’s unsure why. Perhaps it’s the way you spoke to him, similar to the way you did the first time you met over a week ago - with conviction and grace despite you putting him in his place. Maybe it’s him, trying to find the words to apologize without seeming weak, or to encourage you without being comfortable. The tiniest part of him just wants you around; he doesn’t know what it is about you but he finds himself feeling intense emotions because of you - frustration, fear, and an overwhelming feeling of sadness and regret. 

He returns to his seat and glances through the window, the angle of his chair allowing him to see you outside, although he’s unsure if you’re able to see him. Either way, it’s not like you’ve ever looked his way anyway, so he feels a little safe doing this now. 

You’re seated and turned away from the desk, with your fingers pressing over both your ears, as if you’re blocking out the sounds of the room; perhaps you’re blocking out his voice that’s probably still echoing in your head. He’d seen you do this last week, too, after you failed to show up at his penthouse in the morning. He thinks it’s your way of dealing with stress, a quiet one, in contrast to boxing like what he prefers to do. It’s the only time he’d ever allow himself to express anything, after all, other than getting mad at you apparently. 

You finally turn around, but it’s not long after when Do-hyun arrives and takes your place, leaving him to wonder where you’re off to. He focuses on his work like he meant to do, opting to read and send emails while he calms himself down. His eyes always turn to your desk, though, and when he sees that he’s halfway done but you’re still not back, he decides to head out.

“Mr. Jeon,” Do-hyun stands up and greets him. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Where’s Ms. Cho?”

“She had to go to the washroom so she asked me to cover for her first,” she responds. “But, uh… She’s been gone for half an hour. I… I’m not sure what she’s up to but I can—.”

It’s at that moment when you return, and the way that both Do-hyun and Jungkook look at you that you know they can tell. You can’t exactly cry for 20 minutes and then expect to ease the swelling of your eyes for the next 10. But you act like nothing’s amiss, so you dismiss the younger woman and turn to Jungkook.

“Was there something that you needed from me, Mr. Jeon?” You ask nonchalantly.

“Just, uh…” he stutters now, taken aback by the casual way you speak to him despite your glassy eyes. “I’m meeting the CEO and President tomorrow to discuss the Arts Center. Put the initial plans in presentation format and send it to me first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” you respond, returning to your seat and not sparing him another glance. 

You work on the presentation in between the other things you need to finish. You draft memos and letters for Jungkook’s approval, and it’s half past 4 when you enter his room to have them signed. 

“I’m heading out at 5 for dinner,” he says as he signs the documents. “I’ve added points on the shared file for the presentation. Make sure to include those.”

“I will, sir.”

There’s a brief moment where you and Jungkook just look at each other, words swimming in your own heads that neither of you wants to say out loud.

You wish he’d offer an apology.

He wishes you’d say that you’re okay.

You want to tell him that the Arts Center already sounds amazing; you hope it turns out the way he imagines.

He wants to tell you that he won’t fire you, that despite how he’s been, he doesn’t want you to go anywhere.

But the moment passes and then it’s gone. You bow once more and then head out the door. 

He leaves at exactly 5, merely nodding at you as he leaves. 

Jungkook sees you again that evening, four hours later as he drives home after having dinner with Seokjin and Taehyung, the brothers he’d grown up with. The office is on the way, and it’s near the bus stop where he spots you, trying to catch a cab that someone always gets to before you do. 

The rain has started to pour, and his anxiety builds; he was never fond of it, given the memory it holds. But it’s you in your thin coat that suspends that for a while. You’re clearly shivering, unable to get a ride, and getting wet from the downpour. You cross the street, seemingly just submitting to the weather, and you disappear amongst the crowd of people just trying to get home. 

He checks his phone as he gets a message and sees the email you sent 20 minutes ago - the presentation he’d asked you to submit in the morning. This is you, making up for today, he guesses. He’s why you’re braving the rain. If he’s being honest, he’s why you’re suffering at all, and he can’t help the way his heart stings at the thought. 

The convenience store is bright and dry unlike the streets outside, and that’s why there’s a substantial amount of people seeking shelter from the downpour that came out of nowhere. 

You welcome the rain. It served as a distraction when you were growing up and your mother’s ex-partner would yell nonstop. You’d hide in your room and cover your ears like your mother taught you to do. When she was able, she’d stay with you and cover your ears with her own hands and tell you that it’s gonna be okay, that even if you can’t stop the scary sounds, you can drown them out enough that they’ll stop bothering you. 

You didn’t think you’d ever do so again but you’ve done that twice in one week, and all it took was one Jeon Jungkook to lecture you about what your job entails. He didn’t yell, but his voice was still piercing, firm and low as if he reserves that intensity for instances of pure frustration. 

That kind of thing takes a lot out of someone. It’s different when a boss is out to abuse their power and take advantage of you. Mrs. Byun made you do her work so she could spend her lunches out and then take credit for outputs without acknowledging you. She sucked up to the directors to overcompensate for not knowing how to answer their questions. And then she had the guts to embarrass you and call you out in front of the team for not being able to do your primary tasks, which was only because you were doing hers. It took a while but her incompetence caught up to her and her departure felt like freedom. But the experience with her was constricting, suffocating, humiliating. It was dehumanizing, too, as you went home to an empty apartment every night, feeling less and less of yourself.

But the way Jungkook treats you hits differently. You’ve survived the worst and ended up in a good spot under Hoseok’s leadership where you built your confidence. During those years, you felt capable, like you were trusted; you felt that your hard work earned you respect. 

Now, you feel all that crumbling. You feel exposed, bare; as if you’re realizing you’re not that good after all. How you’ve been isn’t like you. You’re meticulous, analytical; you’ve sat in so many meetings as an observer and know how things work, how the directors think, and the kinds of outputs expected from you. But recently, you find yourself just lost, questioning everything all the time, and so incapable.

You let yourself feel the burden weigh you down as you eat a small cup of noodles and call it dinner. You walk down the aisles and pick out your favorite snacks, first eating the roasted almonds as you head out the door. 

The rain has let up, with but a drizzle left this late evening. You catch the bus and munch on pepero and chocopie this time. You’re in your neighborhood by the time you tear open the frosted mini donuts. You’ve been mindlessly eating the whole time, but once you get off your stop, you start walking towards the community center. The public library is closed but something about sitting outside the door gives you comfort, just like it used to when you were growing up.

Your mom couldn’t really afford daycare. She’d spend her lunch break picking you up from school then dropping you off at a library where her friend worked; that nice woman always looked after you until your mom came back to pick you up. Some days when she wanted to take you away from the mess that was her partner, she’d take you there, too. 

You read mostly picture books and colored on your coloring book and played with your paper dolls. Even as you grew up, you didn't really read; you just liked that the library was quiet, comfortable, that it made you feel safe. 

Your phone beeps and you see a photo that your mother has just sent of her dry living room floor. 

[From: Mom] it isn’t leaking anymore! 

You smile, imagining her sigh of relief and the way she’s probably humming about the house. You decide to call her; another bit of comfort would definitely help.

“Hi, darling,” she answers after the first ring. “Min-woo went to the hardware store when he arrived in the afternoon so he could fix the roof. What a relief.”

“That’s great, mom,” you reply, wishing you were back home with her. “You can have a good sleep tonight, then.”

“I will. What about you?”

“I hope so.”

“Have you had dinner?”

“Hmm, yeah,” you hum. 

“And where are you now?”

“Outside the library,” you say. 

There’s silence that comes after, a way in which you both say things without words sometimes. Your mom is good at that, and even if you can’t see her, you know there’s love in her eyes. And even if she can’t see you, she knows there’s sadness in yours. 

“So, work has been tough lately, am I right?”

Even without any confirmation, she already knows. She probably knew when you said that everything was fine after she asked how things were going during your visit over the weekend. She probably picked up the faintness of your smile and the way you fell asleep on her lap while you both watched TV and she combed your hair like she always did. 

“The new boss is quite hard on me,” you admit. “He expects too much, asks me to do too much… I’m trying but I keep making mistakes. I’m missing things I normally don’t. I’m not like this, mom. I… I’m better than this.”

“Oh, darling,” she sighs, wishing she’d hugged you a little tighter before you left. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Maybe you’re still adjusting. That’s valid, you know? It’s only been a week.”

“Yeah, but he acts like he’s the only one who needs to adjust and that I just magically know how to do things his way,” you groan. “It… it just makes me feel like I’m not good enough. That I… that I shouldn’t be here.”

“___, you didn’t suffer through your first few years there just so you would continue to doubt yourself,” she responds. “You deserve your role, regardless of what he thinks. You work hard and that means everything.”

“Not to him apparently. Even if I work hard, if it’s not up to his standards, it doesn’t mean anything. I can’t even do anything about it because he’s the CEO’s son.” 

“You can quit, you know?” She says after a beat of silence. “You don’t have to stay if it’s too much, and especially if it’s unfair. Just because you know you can handle it, doesn’t mean you should.”

The thought settles in your head. You did just tell Jungkook that you’d rather he fire you, which honestly terrifies you because much as he’s insufferable, you do need this job. Helping your mom over the weekend reminded you of that. From the health insurance to the salary, you don’t have to worry too much because you can finally repay her for all her hard work in raising you, in protecting you, in surviving for you. 

“I know,” you sigh. “Maybe I just let the tough first days get to me.”

“Whatever it is, you shouldn’t suffer. And you definitely shouldn’t suffer alone,” she advises. “I’m glad you came over during the weekend even if for unpleasant reasons. I got to hug you even if I didn’t know you needed it.”

“I always need it, mom,” you admit. “I don’t have to say it. It’s the only one I get anyway.”

“Well, it’s because it’s the only one you accept,” she points out. 

“True,” you laugh. “But I… I’ll do better. I’ll get my head straight tonight and treat tomorrow like my first day and you know, show him I’m capable.”

“That’s good. And you can come over again this weekend if you want. The storm should be gone by then. The girls want to go to the park. I know they’d love to hang out with you. If you don’t have plans of course.”

“You know I only ever have actual weekend plans when Jimin and Soomin visit me. But yes, I can take the trip on Saturday. If Jungkook wants me to do any work… screw him.”

Your mother laughs, only because she knows you don’t mean it. You know it, too. Regardless of how you think of your boss or your job, you know the value of your work, and you’re not one to sacrifice it for any reason. 

“Are you feeling better, darling?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “The rain’s stopped somehow. I needed to be here. And I… I needed to hear your voice.”

“Good. You know you can call whenever. I don’t have to summon you with photos of a roof or grilled makchang or something every time.”

“I know. And I will. I’ll see you soon.”

You drop the call and start walking back home. Talking with your mom is the strength you need to get through such a tough day. It doesn’t change your situation; maybe Jungkook will still be upset with you in the morning but you’ll handle it, just like you handled all the difficult times before. 

Your mother taught you something else - it was grace. You’d fight back if you need to, but you can always do it with gentleness; sometimes that works wonders, especially if you can’t afford to respond with rage. 

You’re quite nervous walking to Jungkook’s penthouse the next morning. 

Before he left last night, you were sporting glassy and swollen eyes, after all; it wouldn’t have taken much for him to know what you were up to by being away from your desk for half an hour. But you’d been too upset to think of what he would think about it, so you acted like it was nothing when you returned to your seat, took note of his instructions, and watched him walk out. No other words were spoken and quite frankly, you don’t know what either of you could have said after what transpired. It’s a new day, though, and like you told your mother, you’ll just focus on your work and try to get that old version of yourself back, the one you’d felt slipped away this past week.

You enter the front door - as he’d told you to just go in so you don’t disrupt his workout - and immediately hear the loud sounds of leather hitting leather. He seems to be aggressively punching the sandbag, with more evidence of it coming in the form of his deep and successive breaths that you can hear as you walk towards the kitchen. You stop on your tracks, though, as a pair of red laced underwear lays crumpled on the floor.

That definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning so it must’ve been from last night. You’re not one to judge; he did have a frustrating day that you caused and releasing all that stress in this way is understandable. You just wish he had the courtesy to clean up, knowing that his assistant would be coming but then again, you also don’t know if that’s too much to ask of him.

You don’t realize that you’ve been staring at the underwear until you hear him, his deep breaths in tandem with his steps. You walk towards the counter and set him a glass of water before he notices what’s got your attention, but he still does, as he stops at the spot where you were and lets out a grunt. 

From your periphery, you see him pick up the piece of lingerie then throw it in the trash. You turn to him and bow in greeting, and Jungkook merely nods, the slightest of head tilts to acknowledge your presence, seemingly avoiding your eyes, even as you ask what he prefers to eat this morning. You’d like to think that in the recesses of his bitter heart, there’s remorse over yesterday at least, if not over the past few days. But you’ll take it; his silence is better than anything at this moment. 

You follow him towards his bedroom, stopping briefly as you look around and make sure you’re not intruding. You’re unsure if the woman is still here, but he picks up on that.

“She’s gone,” he says, walking to his bathroom. “I never make them stay.”

It’s a part of his life that you’ve only heard of. The gossip that Do-hyun hears from the washrooms in the office may be true, considering his weeknight bang and the left-behind underwear on the kitchen floor. He still had some energy based on his morning workout though, and you don’t know why the thought of him fucking someone and then boxing in the morning is making you feel hot all over. 

You snap yourself out of it, knowing it’s inappropriate and definitely not what you should be worrying about. He’s a stressed, obviously attractive, and rich bachelor; you’re not surprised he’d have women at his beck-and-call and be nonchalant about it.

You walk inside his closet and choose the shoes and accessories he’ll wear today before heading back to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. He walks in 30 minutes later, and you approach him to fix his collar and his tie like you always do, now getting used to his natural scent with hints of jasmine and bergamot. Your eyes focus on the silk necktie, hoping you’re able to control your nervous breathing being this close to him. 

He may still be annoyed at you and you may be invading his space, and the realization makes you step away quickly, taking his plate from the counter and placing it on the dining table. You open your iPad and go through the presentation he asked you to do, surprised that he’s already added a few things.

“Is the presentation final, Mr. Jeon?” You ask. “I see you’ve already looked through it.”

“Sort of,” he responds. “I woke up at 5 and reviewed it before my workout. Let’s go over them now.”

He looks through his iPad as he eats, going over each slide with you as if he’s practicing. The more he speaks, the more you envision the Arts Center and how he wants it done. The way he puts together the ideas into a coherent design is impressive. You almost see it as he does, and much as you thoroughly dislike him right now, for the sake of all the good things that this center will do for people, you really want him to succeed. 

You remind him of a few more things before he finishes his meal, and it’s not long after when you’re in the car, the silence thickening the tension between the two of you once more. This continues until you reach the office, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the distance between the both of you now. 

While you do feel better, the anxiety remains. You don’t want to mess up. And as you enter his room to give him papers to sign and you see him going through his presentation while the leather notebook he was drawing on earlier lays open on the desk, you find yourself also just not wanting to disappoint him. He clearly works hard and despite his treatment of you, you want things to work out for him. 

It’s an hour later when you’re both walking towards the elevator to head to the conference room on the CEO’s floor. It’s just Jungkook with his father and cousin today where he’ll present the initial plans for their comments and their verbal endorsement of the draft budget. 

It’s a massive project that’s working within strict timelines and Jungkook is adamant on getting this ready by mid-next year. You can tell how much he wants to deliver this well - the board of directors would be his next audience and a boost of confidence would be much needed. 

You make him a cup of coffee the way he likes and sit next to him. The distance allows you to keep your eyes away from him; with the pressure he’s under, you don’t exactly want to be close to where you can easily trigger him. 

CEO Jeon and Hoseok arrive, greeting you with their bright smiles, a reprieve from the stoic looks and tight-lipped and furrowed brows you get from Jungkook everyday.

“Hi, Ms. Cho,” CEO Jeon says. “A week has passed, huh? How has it been?”

“Challenging,” you say honestly, “but still good. I’m learning new things, Mr. Jeon.”

“That’s good,” he smiles, glancing at his son whose eyes are focused on his laptop. The elder seems unconvinced by your half smile but he nods, turning back to you. “By the way, I heard on the news that the typhoon hit your hometown pretty badly. How’s your mother and her family? Mr. Ri mentioned that there was an incident over the weekend. Is everything okay?”

You’re used to CEO Jeon asking things like this prior to meetings. He believes it’s a way to release certain feelings and not keep them hidden, and while you don’t really want to talk about it right now, you appreciate the concern. 

“She, uh. A large tree fell over our house last Saturday,” you say, to the surprise of both CEO and President. “I had to travel in the morning to help my mom. A portion of the roof was damaged and she had to call a company to fix it. Min-woo and the girls were away and mom didn’t want to deal with the workers since she was alone so I had to stay over the weekend.”

“That’s unfortunate,” the elder Jeon laments. “How is your house now? And your mom?”

“The roof is sealed. But she slipped on some debris and had to be assisted; she was being stubborn about it. She’s okay, though.”

“Ah, it must’ve been a tough few days. And for you, too,” Hoseok says. “I mean, given all the work and then having to be there for her. I’m sorry, ___.  But I’m glad she’s doing better. Tell her I send my regards, okay?”

“I will, thank you.”

Jungkook tries not to look affected as the older men ask you more details about what happened that he, of course, didn’t know about. There’s that guilt over how he treated you yesterday, learning now what you had to do over the weekend. You don’t seem the type to blame any oversight or mistake on something like that, but he would know that the tiredness and preoccupation could definitely affect things. Even more, he’d implied that you don’t work hard and that you’re being a burden to him, which is far from the truth. 

The conversation ends and he’s unable to look at you, as he stands from his seat to begin his presentation. Everything is set up, including a pointer and a marker and a glass of warm water on his side. He proceeds, presenting his design, the materials, the budget, and the timeline. 

You take note of all his answers to the questions and the ideas he comes up with on the spot, with him repeating things and stating how he wants certain points written down. You’re immersed in your own task, feeling like you’ve found your rhythm because you’ve done this so many times but the fear got ahead of you. This morning, it’s as if you’re in your element again, and there’s relief that fills you this time.  

The meeting is moved to a restaurant after the third hour. There’s an event that the CEO suggests that Jungkook’s team organize as a way to build linkages with the arts and culture networks, making sure that the younger Jeon becomes known in those fields as well. 

You have to go by memory as you listen and eat your meal, but the distance from Jungkook remains. You merely nod at his words and avoid looking at him unless you need to. It’s your way of getting over last night, you think. You still have his look of frustration etched in your mind and it’s still a bit fresh; you’d need at least another day before you can look at him normally again. You hope that other than Jungkook himself, no one notices. 

But you suppose you’ve underestimated Hoseok’s ability to pick up on your behavior; it’s one of his strengths as a leader, after all. He’s always been good at reading people, a skill that Jungkook clearly didn’t develop. 

“Hey.”

“Mr. Jung,�� you greet, a wave of nostalgia hitting you because his smile is one you used to see everyday, regardless of how stressed he was. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, not really. It’s just been over a week but I’m still getting used to the bigger office and the new secretary but I just wanted to check in,” Hoseok says. “You and Jungkook have been very busy, I rarely catch either of you.”

“Well, he wanted to get all the introductions out of the way so he can focus on the Arts Center,” you reply. “There’s a lot happening with that one so he’s in meetings and calls all the time.”

“Ah, of course. It’s a good design and I’m sure it’ll boost the local arts scene. He got inspired during his travels in the Southeast Asia sites and has been talking about it for years. It’s good he has the freedom to work on this now.”

You merely nod, not having much to say about your boss’ passion project that’s just made him angry and frustrated. Quite frankly, you don’t know how he is when he isn’t working on such high-pressure matters, but you can already tell he isn’t someone you’d want to be around in any other context. 

“But how about you? Are you getting enough rest? All these meetings and then traveling home on the weekend is tiring, ___. I hope you’re looking out for your health.”

“I am,” you try to assure him. “I can handle it.”

You smile before shifting your eyes to your desktop screen, not wanting to look at him any longer because a second more and you’d probably burst into tears. Experiencing Hoseok’s kindness for these few minutes has just reminded you of what you constantly miss - that feeling of safety and care, of someone looking out for you and not holding you back. 

“I’m glad you are,” he smiles again, holding your gaze when you glance at him, and Hoseok hopes that in this short moment of calm, he’s able to give comfort that he just knows you need. “Anyway, I just wanted to drop by. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“I’ll see you, Hoseok.” And as if you knew why he came over in the first place, you add, “and thank you.”

Jungkook sighs in frustration as he watches your fading smile before returning to type away on your desktop. He was about to call you to ask for a project portfolio on the shelf but stopped once he saw you talking to his cousin. You seemed a tad bit lighter than usual; Jungkook could only assume it’s your natural state, even if all he’s seen of you is that of perpetual worry and stress. 

He thinks to himself that a part of that is because of him. Maybe a big part, he admits. He wouldn’t have known about your town in Daegu or that your mother resides there and that you had to go home over the weekend, hence, your oversight yesterday. He’s at least decent enough to acknowledge that he shouldn’t have been so harsh on you in the first place. He’s just not used to things not going his way; he wonders now what the people under him suffered through to make sure of that.

Not wanting to disturb you, he decides to get the portfolio himself, so he exits his room and leans on your desk, his eyebrows scrunched as he reads through the spine labels of the folders. He doesn’t notice you stand up and attempt to ask what he needs but he does find it, reaching over on the third shelf for it. 

“I could’ve gotten that for you,” you huff.

Jungkook spots a small pout as you utter the words, disarming him a little.

“It’s… it’s fine,” he mumbles, willing his mind to go back to what he was thinking about before you said something, which is the other project he wants to look at. 

But you pick up on his words. “Seongbuk, 2021,” you repeat. 

You look up and know exactly where the portfolio for that project is. You drag your stool with your foot and walk up the steps, carefully pulling out the folder and underestimating just how heavy it is. But before it can slip out of your fingers, Jungkook gets a hold of it, his right hand gripping the spine while his left palm supports your back. 

You stiffen when you realize just how close he is to you then step down the stool, somehow nervous to look at him.

“I, uh, sorry. You were about to fall.”

You stiffen again because he didn’t just apologize, did he? Your eyes are glued to the ground and you don’t see Jungkook’s surprised look.

Because he did just that. What felt more alarming than his apology was that it had been a reflex for him to have his hand behind you, his heart leaping a bit because you really were close to falling. An injured version of you isn’t something he wants to deal with, and he convinces himself that it’s because it would look absolutely terrible for his assistant to get hurt on the job, and especially in his presence. 

“Is that all you need, Mr. Jeon?”

“Uh, yes,” he responds. “Be, uh, be careful.”

He takes both folders and heads back to his room, his face buried in the pages as you sneak a glance at him from the window.

“So, how’s the second week as VP going?” Hoseok asks his cousin from across the table of their favorite Japanese restaurant during their Friday lunch. “Worse than the first?”

Jungkook, not keen on answering truthfully, merely shrugs. 

“Well, I can bet you though that ___ is definitely having it worse than last week.”

“Did she say anything? About me specifically?” Jungkook asks, his curious eyes telling Hoseok that it’s more of concern than anger. 

“Of course not. She’s there to protect you, Kook, not tell on you. Is there something to say? About you specifically?”

Jungkook knows how well his cousin can read people, especially him. They’d grown up together after all, and had gotten close because the older man always stayed next to him, knowing how shy little Jungkook used to be. So he narrates what happened - that he’d gotten angry, that he was being too strict, that he wasn’t leaving you room for adjustment. He’d of course excluded his own oversight and need to establish distance and authority, chalking it up to not having the familiarity and conveniences he’d been used to back in Singapore. 

“I feel like working with father even closer now, it’s like I’m under a microscope,” Jungkook continues. “I don’t wanna mess up. I just don’t wanna give him a reason to criticize or question me.”

“Well, if he learns about how it’s been with ___, he’ll do exactly those things,” Hoseok responds. “He cares about his people, you know? I’m sure that’s the one thing he wants you to do right.”

“Can’t say I’d know. It’s not like he’s any more compassionate than I am. We’re talking about a man who yells at the managers who can’t get things done right.”

“They were abusing their power, that’s why,” Hoseok explains. “And I’m not here to defend the man - I’ve been on the receiving end of his anger twice and saw how he’d push people to their near breaking point a few times but he’s not a terrible person. I’ve seen him be understanding and caring to his staff way more; you just haven’t been around that much.”

“It’s not what I saw growing up.”

“Well, we remember what we want, and forget the parts that don’t make sense to us.”

Jungkook stays silent as he munches on his steak.

“He wants to get closer to you, you know?” Hoseok continues. “He hopes that with you being around, he can mentor you, learn from you. All those years that you were home, you felt so far away from him, farther away than Jeong-sik who wasn’t even here, and he doesn’t know why.”

“He can’t expect to be a rich, ambitious businessman and be close to his son,” Jungkook huffs. “All he ever cared about when I was growing up was work. Sure, he had rare good moments, but we all know it was to compensate for always being too busy. He pressured me to do well at school then missed awarding ceremonies. He scheduled some family time then left me and my brother in some cabin in the woods by ourselves. He wants to work with me here then disallows my requests. What does he want from me?”

“Your time, I suppose. Maybe your understanding, too.”

“Did he give those to me when I was younger? He had so many chances these past 30 years and he wants those now?”

“People are complicated, Kook. Sometimes they lose sight of what’s important, of what’s in front of them… doesn’t mean they’re bad people,” Hoseok says. “And it doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a second chance. I mean, don’t we all want that? Don’t we all grow out of our bad habits and just yearn for something good?”

“Not everyone does that.”

“Maybe not, but your father has. And he just wants another chance. And whether or not it was her fault, I’m sure ___ wants that, too.”

“Did you really ask me to treat you to lunch only to advocate for the people I don’t really care much about?” Jungkook laughs bitterly. 

“No,” Hoseok chuckles. “I really wanted to try it here. But also, uncle took me out to drinks before you arrived and was all honest with me, which was a little weird but I guess he thought he could get some perspective from you through me. And ___ was my assistant and I think highly of her. It’s upsetting how things started for you both. I guess I just feel kind of caught in the middle between you and the people you actually care about. So yes, I deserve this free lunch.”

Jungkook doesn’t correct his cousin, more for the fact that Hoseok really does get caught in the middle - always has, even between him and his older brother whom Jungkook never really got along with; it definitely isn’t because he acknowledges that he cares about you. There’s no reason for him to feel that; you’re just his assistant, after all. 

Being beautiful and capable and hardworking doesn’t have anything to do with being cared about. 

“I… I admit being too hard on ___. I get that she’s good and stuff but maybe that fits with your leadership style more,” Jungkook tries to reason. “Maybe she just thrives in a team where she’s led by someone like you, someone who’s good with people and who’s process-oriented and I don’t know, someone who isn’t as tough or meticulous like me.”

“I’m sorry, Kook, but you sound stupid. You clearly don’t know anything about her. She’s experienced all the lows - the disrespect from the men, the abuse of power from the women, all the long hours and ridiculous deadlines, the loudest of yells and the craziest demands,” Hoseok exclaims. “She’s been here for just eight years but it feels more. Sometimes I don’t know why she stayed but I’m glad she did, selfishly, and that’s because she helped me so much. Are you… are you giving her reasons to leave so you can have Lucas with you?”

“No,” Jungkook dismisses the thought, although he does admit it entered his mind before he even started. “I’m just… not used to her. And the mishaps didn’t help. I just wanna be able to do my job and do it right.”

“And you will, if you just loosen up a bit and give her a chance to show you that she can help you. It’s just that I’m not seeing that same joy and energy in her eyes and her smile,” Hoseok explains. “I was thinking last Wednesday that maybe it was because of her mom but during the meeting this morning, it was the same. I’d hate to think that’s because of you. Because if it is and she’s thinking of resigning, I won’t stop her. I might even suggest it to her. “

The thought of you being gone causes a lump in Jungkook’s throat. It’s selfish, really, because despite how he treats you, he still wants you here. It’s just as silly, and stupid, and something he doesn’t have a clear reason for. But other than his cousin not trusting that he could treat you fairly, it’s the possibility that you might just quit yourself, something you seem to be capable and willing to do. And that voluntary departure is something he doesn’t want to deal with. Once you leave, you’ll just be gone; he won’t have a reason to seek you. 

“I’ll do better,” Jungkook finally says. “I’ll stop being such a pain in the ass and be… kinder, I guess.”

“She’ll probably see right through you if you fake it,” Hoseok laughs. “Just be fair. Trust me, that’s what she’d want, too. Correct her if you need to, but do it constructively. And please, try to smile every once in a while. It won’t hurt you. Nor would it ruin whatever tough guy image you have.”

Jungkook playfully rolls his eyes but he lets out a chuckle. His cousin won’t ever let go of the fact that 18-year old Jungkook had his first tattoo because he wanted to look tough. 

“I still have to establish authority, Hoseok. I can’t do it like you do.”

“Well, you’re missing out. Smiling always makes you feel a hundred times better.”

“She’ll probably see right through me if I fake it,” Jungkook repeats his cousin’s words almost mockingly. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows I’m not… cheerful. It’s like, how I’m compared to you.”

The two start walking back and Hoseok takes a jab at the younger man. “Actually, I heard that I’m the handsome one, too, and the stable guy, the family man, the man you’d take home to meet your parents…”

Jungkook laughs along. He agrees, and while it was not Hoseok’s intention at all, it does make Jungkook wonder even hours later - given all the things that characterize him, which are nothing like the older man’s - who would want him? Who would even take a chance on him? Who would even think it’s worth it to be with him?

Chaerin did, and then he self-sabotaged and lost her. Maybe the women he meets at clubs and takes home, but then all they want is a good time anyway, just like him. Maybe it’s someone he’s never met, but he also doesn't know how to be someone that someone else would love. 

Maybe there isn’t any. And maybe that isn’t so bad. Perhaps he’d have to start getting used to that fact; it’s easier than realizing he’s not meant to be with someone after all. 

He pauses the thought and decides that’s for the weekend version of him to lament over. This Friday afternoon, he’s focused on firming up the project details with the design and logistics teams. He’d just finished his meeting with them, with you barely looking his way just like you’ve done throughout the week - which he can’t fault you for because he was doing the same - and he’s back in his room to coordinate with other units. 

You, on the other hand, seem to be fixated on the quarterly reports that you’ll be handing over to him. It’s past 5 and he knows you’ll be staying up late again, given that he’d ordered you at the start of the week to finish the reviews by Friday. He’s given you too much to do, and after everything he’s done, letting you off early is a way for him to apologize without actually apologizing. 

He picks up the phone and calls you.

“How many reports do you have left to review?” He asks.

“Three more, Mr. Jeon,” you answer. “I’ll finish them tonight, please just give me another hour and a half.”

“Are you going home to see your mother tomorrow?” 

“Uh, yes, sir. I leave in the morning,” you say, curious at the question that you never thought he’d ask.

“You should clock out now, then.”

“Oh, but the reports, sir. I—”

“It’s okay,” he says, surprising you. “I’ll be busy with Arts Center details this weekend so I won’t have time to sign off on the reports anyway so you can continue them on Monday.”

You’re too shocked to speak that it doesn’t register that you’re indeed not saying anything.

“Ms. Cho?” Jungkook repeats your name.

“Oh, uh, yes, as long as it’s okay, Mr. Jeon.”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“That’s, uh, thank you,” you mumble, turning on your roller chair to retrieve your bag and start packing, only to look up and see through the window that Jungkook can see you right now, smiling like a giddy child. There’s this movie that’ll show on your favorite local channel and you’re glad that you’ll be able to catch it tonight. 

You’re unsure what Jungkook’s eaten to be dismissing you this early. Maybe it was the lunch he had with Hoseok earlier; maybe it was the older man knocking some sense into him. You don’t have the energy to think about it, given that you now also have time to cook yourself proper dinner and enjoy eating it while watching and curling under your comfy blanket on your tiny couch, just like how you used to enjoy your Fridays. 

You’ll deal with the unreviewed reports and Jungkook returning to his normal, grumpy self on Monday. Tonight is all about you, and the weekend version of you is about being with your mother, her partner, and your stepsisters. There’s nothing like being with the people who make you feel safe; you’ll deal with the stress when a new week rolls by.

Jungkook watches you excitedly leave your desk. He can’t imagine the relief you’re feeling of being relieved this early and then spending your Friday evening the way you want, however that is. He lets himself wonder for a bit how you would spend time by yourself. Yoongi did say your friends aren’t in Seoul and your family obviously isn’t.

But then again, maybe you do have a partner, and maybe that’s why you looked as happy as you did. He’s not quite sure what to do with the slight distress at the thought, but with the absurdity of the amount of times he thinks about you, he decides it shouldn’t matter anyway. 

He has his own plans, too, like watching sports over bottles of beer that night, and then playing video games the next day before going to a bar with Seokjin and Taehyung. 

That Sunday, he works all morning then works out in the afternoon. In the evening, he decides to meet his friends again. 

Entering the club, he spots the table where they are - Seokjin has his arm around a woman and his lips glued to her ear; he pulls her closer as she laughs at his words. Taehyung has one next to him, too; they’re engaged in some serious conversation, it seems, given how passionately they’re talking to each other. That is, until his hand slides inside her dress; maybe it wasn’t that deep. 

Jungkook doesn’t know how his friends can converse with the women they find in these places. Given, Seokjin tends to stick to the same one for months and Taehyung is just naturally flirty and friendly so maybe it’s not that hard. 

For Jungkook, it’s just not something he’s able to fully or even properly do. What does he say? He’d brag about his work and his lifestyle if he was the type, but he isn’t, and there’s nothing else about him that he’d like to share. He’s always straightforward when it comes to these things. He’s picky; he does have a type, after all, but he always knows what they want and so do they. 

So when he spots a woman by the bar - the one who’d bought him a drink last night - he just smirks as she takes her shot and bites her lips when she catches him looking. 

“Hey, I finally caught you sober,” she giggles in his ears after she meets him halfway. 

“And I finally caught you without a man next to you,” he whispers. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah, he was just my plaything last night,” she responds. “I could be yours.”

Jungkook chuckles, enjoying her bluntness. He takes her hand and waves at his friends; they already know he’s taking off and they won’t hear from him for the rest of the night. 

It’s the way most of his evenings go anyway, whether he’s here or in Singapore or elsewhere, really. 

Jungkook likes the thrill, he likes the shallow intimacy he gets from the feelings of ecstasy and carnal desire. He likes that he doesn’t have to share anything about himself apart from his name so they could scream it, likes that there’s nothing about the other person to uncover, and that there’s nothing about himself he has to be honest about. He likes that he’ll remember the pleasure until the next day but nothing else - not her breathing, not her gentle touches on his chest, not her soft whispers of his name. 

There’s nothing much about her he’ll care for other than that she had a good time. And there’s nothing about tonight he’ll regret, except not making sure that she left his apartment like he always asks them to do.

Because it’s Monday morning, and there’s that woman wearing his coat and nothing else. 

And then there’s you, dressed in your skirt and blouse in his living room, with a look of shock on your pretty face. 

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