#but everyone already seemed kind of on-edge

[em1i2a3]

Biblical

Pairing: John Walker (U.S. Agent) x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After getting injured during a mission, John decides to tend to your wounds

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Friends (well…kind of lol) to Lovers, John cares deeply about Reader (he’s protective), John’s got average medical knowledge because y’know…The war, Mentions of Blood/Gore/Wounds, Mentions of cleaning wounds, One Bed Trope Kinda? (Fuck I love tropes JFC)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (guys…wrap it up y’all), Fingering, Handjob, Dirty Talk, Breast/Nipple Play, Hair Pulling, Biting, Sucking, Accidentally Leaving Bruises, Thigh Riding?, Oral Sex (Female Receiving)

Author’s Note: Em from 2021 would be shaking her god damn head at current me writing for John Walker, but I mean…That separation and trauma really roped me into writing for him…So here’s another Walker fic y’all :) Enjoy <3

Word Count: 12,499

“Fuck! Walker, can you take it easy?! It’s already broken as it is!” You shoved your hand against the front of his chest, palm slapping against the grime-coated fabric of his uniform. The pressure barely moved him–he was a damn wall even when he wasn’t on a mission–but it was all you could do to suppress a scream as his fingers braced the sides of your face, with his thumbs pressing dangerously close to the aching center of your shattered nose.

Blood had long since dried on your hands, crusted thick under your fingernails and streaked like war paint across your cheeks. The worst of it had happened right after the incident, when you had cupped your nose with both hands in a desperate attempt to stop the flood. You had thought it was just a minor nosebleed, until the pain sharpened into something unmistakably worse–until the world tilted and everything smelled like rusted copper and fire.

Now, the safe house was barely lit–just one flickering overhead bulb swinging from the cracked plaster ceiling, casting long shadows over the crumbling concrete walls. The floor was cold and stained with water damage, and everything seemed to have this sort of medicinal look to it, like you were transported into a hurricane bunker from the 50’s. You sat on the edge of an old metal table, legs dangling and hitting against the drawers beneath you. The stale scent of gunpowder, sweat, and rust clung to everything, and a broken cot sat unused in the corner behind you, standing out because of how neat and crisp and clean the sheets looked.

John’s thumbs paused just below the swollen ridge of your nose, the pads of them rough and calloused from years of handling weapons and working with his hands. His knuckles were still raw–scraped during the mission, probably when he had shoved debris off your back after the second explosion hit.

“Unfortunately the cartilage and bone is shifted out of place pretty badly, so I really have no other options here…Do you mind being a little more graceful that I’m even doing this?” You let out a pained groan, tilting your head forward a little, before pressing your fingertips deeper into the material of his uniform, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under it–warm and solid.

“Yeah…I’m so grateful that you’re digging your fat thumbs into my face. Whoopee!” The sarcasm that laced your voice was dry, and brittle, using your only remaining defense like it was your version of a shield. You hated displaying your pain to other people, especially when you tried to be the person who everyone looked to for comfort, so being in this situation with John was not the most pleasant thing, and that was only regarding the emotional aspect of things.

He let out a huff at the comment. A sound too short to be a laugh, but not far from one either, as he adjusted his large thick hands, letting his thumbs slide a fraction higher, directly over the jagged bump where your nose had shifted out of place. You flinched on instinct when his skin touched the inflamed area, and you nearly threw a punch, but controlled yourself. He didn’t move a muscle, staying in front of you even though he could tell you may take your pain out on him at some point–he was grateful in those moments that he had the Super Soldier serum in his veins because he had seen you in action and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of things if he was just a normal person.

There was no visible split in the skin on the bridge of your nose–no true signs that screamed broken to the untrained eye…But John knew better. He had seen the impact. Saw the way you stumbled and went down after the blast, hands flying to your face like it had been caught on fire.

What was worse though was while you were disoriented, and crouched behind cover with your ears ringing and blood pouring from your nose like a faucet, you had taken another hit. This time with sharp, jagged shrapnel. It had sliced across your lower back, tearing clean through your suit and leaving a gash deep enough to knock you out of the fight completely–meaning John had to carry you all the way to the safe house.

You were appreciative that he was as attentive as he was being–even though he was causing you all this pain in the process of it all.

You had seen John like this before. Focused. Grounded. Exacting. Always the protector, always the fixer, always ready to shoulder the burden when shit hit the fan, like the true soldier that he was. But you had never been on the receiving end of that intensity. Not like this. Not when your skin was burning and your body was completely wrecked, and he was holding your face like it might splinter into ash if he didn’t get the angle right.

You didn’t wish for this. You never wanted to be broken just so you could end up in his hands–but now that you were, now that you were wrapped in the unwavering heat of his grip, something reckless bloomed beneath the pain. To be held like this, even for a reason so fucked up and messy–it made something stir low in your belly. Not from lust or comfort. But from the raw awareness of him…And a rawer awareness of yourself in his hands.

A smile almost came up on your lips just thinking about it…But then he spoke again, his voice low and edged in the usual brand of grit that always felt like he was warning you about something.

”I’ll take it, even if it’s sarcasm…I do take offence about the fat thumbs comment though.” He murmured, as his eyes flicked to meet yours–those stormy, steel-blue irises that had seen far too much battlefield carnage to be gentle but somehow softened when they settled on you like this.

“Now…” He continued, voice dropping a shade lower, “I’m gonna try again. So you’re going to have to hold still, alright?” You barely nodded, it was more of a twitch than anything else, but it was enough for him to proceed.

Then the pressure returned as his thumbs pressed in harder than before. Your whole body seized. Every nerve in your skill lit up like an electric grid, and the pain surged like a flashbang behind your eyes, detonating somewhere deep in your sinuses and cascading through your spine in a blaze of heat and nausea. It felt like your breath was ripped out of you as you let out a broken whine–something pitiful and ragged and nearly feral as it clawed its way up your throat.

Your hands acted on instinct, as the one balled up in a fist beside you came up to clamp down around his forearm. Your fingers digging into the armor like a vice, with your nails biting into the plates as if you could somehow transfer the agony you were feeling into him.

”Motherfucker…” You gasped, your voice wet and raw, “Shit, shit–John! Ow!”

But John didn’t move.

Not an inch.

He held you steady with those thick, bruised hands, his jaw tight and his breath slow, guiding you through it like he was your goddamn metronome. The heat of his body grounded you. His fingers–trembling just slightly now–never faltered.

And then the snap.

That sickening, wet click as the bone shifted back into place.

Your vision went white at the edges. Stars danced behind your eyelids even though they were wide open, locked on the ugly water stain overhead and that damn swaying bulb. You could feel his breath on your face–close, steady, just there–and when it was finally over, when the worst of it had passed, your body sagged forward.

Immediately, his hands shifted to catch you. One moved to cradle the front of your neck, while the other slid to the back of your head, anchoring you gently so you didn’t fall forward too hard against him. Your hands slipped from his arm as you shook a bit from the aftershocks of the pain that threaded through your nervous system.

”There you go…” He murmured, his fingers digging into your hair as lightly, “It’s all done now…” His tone had changed. There was less grit to it, and it was a little more…Careful.

Once you were leaning back slightly–with your head balanced in his palm and your weight resting just enough for him to steady you–he shifted. One hand stayed where it was, cradling you, while the other reached down to rifle through the battered first aid kit perched on the edge of the table beside you. The hinges of the metal box squealed faintly as he opened it, and after a moment, he retrieved a gauze pad, unwrapping it with a familiar efficiency.

You hissed softly when he adjusted your head again, tipping it forward just enough to keep the blood from draining down your throat. His hand pressed flat against your upper back for support, firm but still gentle. Then the first touch of gauze came–cool, and dry–dabbed under your nose with a feather-light precision, as you hissed.

”I got you…Just breathe.” He exhaled, barely above a whisper. But breathing felt like trying to inflate lungs made of broken glass. Your chest stuttered as you took in air in shallow sips, your teeth clenched against another pained groan. The blood was still coming, though not nearly as much as before–just a slow trickle now, painting your upper lip and clinging stubbornly to the crusted stains already drying on your skin.

He wiped it all away in soft, methodical strokes as the gauze swept carefully under your nose again, and again. Each movement came with a quiet breath from him, steady and anchoring–something to ground yourself in, something to focus on apart from the pain.

You let your eyes fall shut, letting yourself relax a bit in his hands, at the way he handled you a bit, until the bleeding stopped. Or maybe he was satisfied enough that you wouldn’t start bleeding all over yourself and your torn tactical gear again.

He set the crimson soaked gauze on the edge of the metal table with a quiet flick of his wrist, and you watched as he lingered in front of you, eyes scanning over your face like he was checking for another invisible injury, then when he was finally satisfied with his little perimeter check, he cleared his throat.

”Need a break before I start on your back?” You gave a faint, exhausted nod, because your voice wasn’t working yet, and your body was still trembling too much to form words.

”Ca–Can’t combine pain with more pain…I need a breather.” You muttered after a moment of gathering yourself. John hummed in agreement, a low noise echoing through his throat as he stepped back slightly, his hands leaving your body. Instantly you missed the contact, but you made sure to not show it.

To distract yourself you lifted your fingers to your nose slowly, running the tips along the ridge of it–ginger, and testing. The sharpest pain had dulled into a throb, like your face had been kicked in by a steel-toed boot and someone had hit pause right after. You winced at the sensitivity but didn’t pull away.

”Least it’s still attached,” You whispered dryly, glancing down at the bloodied gauze for a moment. John let out a short exhale through his nose–not quite a laugh, but very close. Then he turned, unbuckling the strap under his chin and pulling his helmet off. The metal table clanked softly as he set it down beside you.

His short blond hair was soaked with sweat, plastered to his forehead and curling faintly around the edges. There was a red pressure line that ran across the bridge of his nose from the helmet’s tight fit–he had put in multiple requests for an adjustment–and his temples glistened with sweat. He had bags under his eyes–a sharp exhaustion that didn’t come from physical fatigue alone, but from multiple sleepless nights.

He looked like hell, just like you, but he knew how to hold himself well enough so that people didn’t question it. Your gaze lingered longer than it should have, but he didn’t seem to mind–he actually enjoyed the fact you didn’t hide that you stared at him sometimes. There was a beat of silence, before he reached for one of the canteens on the battered shelf behind him–military-issue, scratched to hell, but sealed tight. He unscrewed the cap in one clean motion, but he didn’t drink from it himself, instead he offered it to you first, arm extended with silent insistence.

You took it, fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary. The moment crackled like static. Then you brought the container to your lips, tilting it slowly as cool water slid into your mouth, over your tongue, down your throat–relief flooding in gentle waves. A few droplets spilled from the corner of your mouth and trickled down your chin, cutting tiny rivulets through the smudges of blood and grime. You let them fall, letting the water do double duty–cleansing, cooling you from the inside and from the outside.

John watched in silence. His gaze wasn’t leering or crude–but it wasn’t innocent either. There was something in the way he stared, in the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his tongue dragged briefly over his bottom lip. Maybe it was the light catching on the droplets, or the sharp contrast between your bloodied skin and the glint of water, all he knew though was he was enamored by you…Which was happening more and more often recently.

You pulled the canteen away and swiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Thank you.” He gave a small nod, then wordlessly, he extended his hand out to you again. You glanced down at his open palm, and hesitated just for a second before returning the canteen to him, your fingers brushing his in that same slow, static-laced way.

That’s when you noticed it. A faint smudge of red clinging to the rim. Your blood. Just a smear—nothing dramatic—but it stopped you for a second, made your breath catch in your throat before you could say anything.

But he didn’t blink.

He lifted the canteen, and with that same worn, easy motion, brought it to his mouth.

You thought he might wipe it first. That would’ve made sense.

But he didn’t.

He drank from the same place your lips had been, from the same metal stained with your blood, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t pause. He tilted his head back, throat flexing with each quiet swallow, and then–almost theatrically slow–his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, catching a bead of water before he smacked his lips once and capped the container.

Your heart skipped again—too hard, too obvious. You could feel it beating against the walls of your chest, uneven and startled, like it had heard something it wasn’t supposed to.

He could hear it, too. You knew he could.

But he didn’t say a word about it. He just returned the canteen to the shelf behind him and finally looked back at you, jaw tight but eyes strangely soft.

“You ready for me to look at your back now?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip and gave a slow nod. “Might as well stop delaying, right?”

He shrugged, but his voice gentled when he spoke again. “C’mon. I’ll help you down.”

You reached for him without hesitation this time. Maybe it was the pain still rolling in slow, nauseating waves…Maybe it was the water…Maybe it was the fact that he practically drank a little bit of your blood without even flinching. But your hands found his, and the callouses against your fingers were grounding–calming in a way.

You shimmied off the table, boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud that echoed through the hollow room. The metal creaked behind you, and for a moment, the silence seemed to tighten the space between you.

John stood still, broad shoulders squared, eyes trained on you with that unreadable expression he always wore when he was trying not to give too much away.

“I’ll only touch what needs fixing,” He mumbled, voice low and firm–but it was the kind of firmness that came with restraint, not indifference. Like he needed you to know he wouldn’t cross any lines.

“Reassuring,” You replied under your breath, dry again–but softer this time. Less biting. The edge had dulled, like the pain, and something else was starting to settle in its place. A hum beneath your skin. A pull.

You turned your back to him and began to work at the straps of your tactical vest, fingers trembling more from exhaustion than nerves–but they were there too, tightening in your gut like a drawn wire. Your shoulder muscles ached with every movement, and each zip and click of metal buckles felt like a slow reveal, peeling away your armor and the little bit of safety it gave you.

Each hiss and grunt slipped past your lips in ragged pieces as you tried to work the underlayer down over your ruined skin. You could feel the fabric sticking–bonded to dried blood and half-coagulated mess.

Behind you, John moved.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

And then his voice came again, just over your shoulder. “Let me.”

You didn’t answer aloud, just stilled your hands and nodded once.

His fingers brushed your side first. Just a graze, just a warning–but it was enough to send a chill racing up your spine. He moved carefully, undoing the last of the clasps at your waist and shoulders. The tension in his touch was subtle but unmistakable, like he was holding himself back from something. Like his fingers wanted to linger–but they didn’t.

The ruined underlayer peeled back with agonizing slowness. John was methodical, easing it up inch by inch as he tried not to aggravate the wound more than necessary. The air touched your exposed skin and you hissed–more out of instinct than anything–and he froze instantly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” You lied, voice muffled as you clenched your jaw and braced your hands on the table edge again. “Just do it.”

He exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t from frustration, just from focusing so hard.

When the fabric finally lifted free of the wound with a sickening slosh, you almost collapsed again, feeling the cool air biting against your bare skin. You bit down on a whimper, sucking in a shallow breath as your knees buckled–but his hand was already there, bracing your hip, holding you steady.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even meant to linger.

But it did anyway.

Just a second longer than necessary.

“Hold still,” He said quietly, shifting to kneel behind you. You could feel his breath brush your lower back as he studied the damage, and when his fingers gently pushed at the unbroken skin near the wound, you flinched again.

“Jesus…” He muttered, not at you–but at what he saw. “It went deep.” You lifted your arm slightly, elbow bending just enough to glance down at him over your shoulder. His blond head was bowed in concentration, and his blue eyes were locked in on the mess carved across your lower back–lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line. That same rigid intensity he always carried in the field hadn’t left him, but it looked different when it was this close.

“That bad?” you asked, voice quiet, dry.

He hummed, not quite a sigh. “Yeah…It’s pretty bad. Nothing that can’t be patched up though.” His fingers shifted slightly, bracing against your hip again to keep you steady. “You still have your spine, at least.”

“Lucky me,” You muttered, a low groan following close behind. Your eyes slid back to the rust-stained concrete in front of you. “Just do what you need to do, Walker…” There was a pause–just long enough for you to sense the shift. The slight tilt of his head. The softening of his voice into something edged with wry amusement.

“Want me to talk you through it?” Your lashes fluttered at the comment. Eyebrows shooting up as the implication settled into your bloodstream like a heat flare. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel the grin he was probably not fully allowing to form. Your mouth parted–but nothing came out at first. You could feel your face warm up fast, blood rushing to the surface even though the rest of you still ached and throbbed with pain. There was a part of you that wanted to throw something at him. There was another part that wanted to hear it.

“…Excuse me?”

“I’m being helpful,” He said, voice irritatingly casual–but with a note of smugness he couldn’t quite hide. “You know, give you some commentary. Talk you through each step. Make it less scary for you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” You couldn’t help it–the words came out in a bark of laughter that felt half strangled, half disbelieving. You shifted your weight to one side to glare down at him, ignoring the flare of pain that bloomed through your lower back. “You’re such a shithead.”

“Technically I’m saving your life. Again.” His gaze lifted, locking with yours–and for a moment, you were caught in the crossfire of that blue steel. Unflinching. Focused. But with just the faintest crinkle at the corners of his eyes, like he was trying very hard not to smirk.

You rolled your eyes and turned away again. “Just shut up and patch me up.”

“As you wish, princess.”

That earned him a low groan and a muttered, “I will stab you with something dull if you keep that up.” John chuckled–really chuckled this time–and it rumbled out of him in a short, rough burst that made something tighten low in your gut. There was something about that sound–something warm and real, like a glimpse of a man beneath the shield. It was rare. Disarming even…And it made you want to draw more of those sounds out of him.

“I’m gonna use some antiseptic,” He warned from behind you, the edge in his voice returning, “It’s going to sting, so…Brace yourself.”

You let out a breath that came out shakier than you wanted it to. “I figured…But thanks for the heads up.”

He shifted behind you again, steady and quiet as always. You could hear the faint creak of his knees against the concrete as he reached up to grab the first aid kit beside you. The table rattled faintly when the box was set down at his level, followed by the hollow clink of supplies being shifted aside and the pop of a bottle cap being cracked open.

“Alright…” He muttered. “It’s happening.”

And then it did.

The antiseptic met your skin in one wet swipe–and your spine lit up like it had been struck by lightning. The sting bloomed instantly, acidic and hot, racing up your nerves like it wanted to burrow into your bones.

“Jesus fucking Christ, John!” You gasped, your head snapping back slightly as the pain surged through you, white-hot and brutal. Your eyes locked on the water-stained ceiling above, and you focused on the rhythmic sway of the bulb just to keep from screaming.

“I know,” He said, his voice frustratingly calm, and infuriatingly close to your lower back. “Just breathe through it…It’s gotta be done, Y/N.” His hand slid back to your hip again, grounding you with a steady grip–firm, warm, present. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to shove him away or reach back and grab hold of him. Maybe both.

You hissed through clenched teeth, bracing both hands flat on the table as he continued cleaning the wound. Every pass of gauze dragged fire through your nerves. You could feel the sting radiate outward, down your thighs and up your shoulders, pooling somewhere behind your eyes and clenching your jaw until it ached.

But through it all–John stayed steady. Just like always.

“You’re doing really good,” He complimented, voice softer now. Like he could hear the tension starting to break under your skin. “We’re almost done.”

You hated how much that helped.

Your grip on the table edge tightened, fingers curling against cold metal, your whole body trembling with aftershocks. “You better not be lying to me right now.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he muttered, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could hear the corner of his mouth twitch. “I don’t like getting punched.”

“You wouldn’t survive it,” You managed to reply, biting down on a groan as he dabbed the gauze over the deepest part of the gash again. “I’ve got spite strength. Ask Bucky.”

“Oh, believe me,” he muttered, “we’ve all noticed.”

That earned him a half-laugh from you. Breathless. Pained. But real.

And when it passed, when the burn started to dull into a low throb and the shaking in your arms began to subside, you felt the pad of his thumb brush against your side. Just a small pass of pressure, almost like a check-in.

Then came the sound of the gauze being tossed aside, and the faint rip of tape being peeled.

“Alright,” he said quietly, the soldier’s edge in his voice softening just enough to make it feel… closer. “I’m gonna wrap it now. You’re still bleeding a little, so I’ll keep it tight.”

You just nodded, too tired to reply.

He worked quickly, efficiently–but his hands weren’t cold. They didn’t treat you like a patient. They treated you like you. Like someone who mattered. The bandage coiled around your waist with even tension, and his fingertips brushed your ribs more than once as he adjusted it into place. There were moments where his breath caught–where he stilled for half a second longer than necessary–and you didn’t mention it, but you noticed.

And you knew he noticed the way your skin goose-pimpled under his touch.

When he finally secured the tape and tucked the edge down, he exhaled–like he had been holding his breath too.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

You were still hunched slightly, gripping the table, still trembling from everything your body had just endured. But now that the pain had receded just enough for the adrenaline to lose its grip…All that was left was the awareness of him.

Still kneeling behind you. Still close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Still bracing your hip with one large, steady hand. And now, with nothing left to patch, nothing left to fix…

He didn’t move.

“John?” You asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

A beat.

Then: “Yeah?”

You swallowed. “You gonna let go of my hip or…?” His touch left you immediately, like he’d been burned.

”Sorry…Sorry, I just spaced out for a second…” He said, hearing him shuffle behind you–the soft scrape of his boots and the clink of metal as he began gathering up the supplies he’d used. His movements were quick, deliberate–but quieter than before. Like he was trying not to disturb something fragile in the air between you.

You stayed still for a moment longer, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. Then you reached up instinctively, arms folding across your front as you pressed your hands over your exposed chest. It wasn’t cold. But you felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

Turning, you faced him, voice soft but steady.

“Do you think they have any extra shirts anywhere in here?” John looked up from where he knelt beside the half-emptied first aid kit, and for a second, he didn’t answer. His eyes caught the light–just barely–and there was a flicker of something in them. A shimmer. Not lust. Not quite.

It was awareness. A crack of lightning in the stillness. But he didn’t let his eyes wander. Not once. They stayed on your face, locked there like it was the only safe place to look. His jaw flexed once, and then he cleared his throat, the sound clipped and abrupt.

“Yeah,” He replied quickly. “Probably in the dresser…I’ll go check.” He was already on his feet before the last word left his mouth. It was too fast. Too practiced. Like he needed something to do or he’d start noticing too much.

You watched him move across the room–shoulders tense, gaze locked downward like the floor had secrets only he could decode. His hand reached for the narrow dresser shoved into the corner, its paint chipped and warped from humidity, drawer handles rusted halfway through.

He opened the top drawer in one clean motion, then rifled through with a mix of precision and impatience, like he was grateful for the distraction.

You let your arms tighten across your chest just a little more, glancing down at yourself–at the ragged remains of your tactical gear now hanging loose around your waist, at the gauze pressed tight over the gash across your back. Your skin still stung, but it was different now. The pain had pulled back enough to make room for everything else.

Your heartbeat.

The heaviness in your limbs.

The heat blooming slowly in your belly from the way he hadn’t looked.

From the way he wanted to.

“Found one,” John called, voice gruff again as he pulled something out of the drawer. “Might be a size too big, but it’s clean.” You met his gaze when he turned around. He was holding up a dark grey shirt–standard-issue cotton, a little faded, but mercifully soft-looking and whole. No holes. No blood. Just fabric.

A perfect coverup.

You took a step forward, arms still crossed over your chest. “Toss it here?”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Your lips curled faintly. “Unless you wanna help me put it on, too.” That earned you a huff of a breath–more exhale than laugh, but the edge of it caught his mouth, tugging at the corner like he wanted to smile and wasn’t letting himself. He tossed the shirt to you with a practiced flick of his wrist.

You caught it easily, the worn cotton falling heavy into your hands.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” His voice was quieter now. Rougher. “Take your time.” He turned again, giving you his back–retreating a few steps toward the corner of the room, where he suddenly became very interested in the contents of the dresser drawer again.

You unraveled the shirt in your hands and slipped into it, the soft cotton dragging across your still-aching skin, snagging gently where the bandage met the raw edges of your wound. The fabric smelled like dust and moth balls–like it had been folded away decades ago–but it was dry, and warm, and better than the ruined tactical gear, so you settled for it.

As you adjusted the hem, your fingers brushed absently along the curve of your hip. You turned just enough to glance back over your shoulder, watching John from beneath the fringe of your lashes.

“So…” You began, voice casual in a way that wasn’t quite natural, your tone feeling out the space between you, “you going to sleep in the bed with me tonight?”

He stilled. Shoulders tensing beneath the stretch of his uniform, spine going a little too straight. He looked at you slowly, eyes catching yours across the dim room.

“What?”

You motioned toward the cot behind you with a small tilt of your head, keeping your tone light but your gaze steady. “There’s only one bed,” You repeated, lifting a brow. “So…Are you going to sleep in it with me tonight?”

You didn’t wait for his answer.

Your fingers found the buckle at the front of your cargo pants, undoing it with practiced ease. The metal clicked softly in the silence. He stared as you shuffled toward the cot, one boot hitting the floor, then the other, your movement slow but intentional–wounded but not weak.

“I mean… if you’re okay with it,” he said, his voice lower now, the edges softened by something that felt almost shy, “I would like to. Kind of don’t want to sleep on the concrete and wake up with a sore back…”

You looked up at him through the half-shadowed room, head tilted slightly as your fingers moved back to the waistband of your cargo pants. He stood frozen, still turned halfway toward the dresser like he didn’t quite know whether to stay or retreat–like some invisible line had just been crossed and he wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband slowly, eyes not leaving his as you began to shimmy out of the fabric. The pants slid down over your hips and thighs, dragging against the dried blood and sticky sweat. You winced slightly at the movement, but didn’t stop–not even when you caught the way his eyes flickered down.

He tried not to look. He really did. But his gaze dipped instinctively, just for a second, to where the cotton shirt barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

And then he tore it away like it burned.

You caught that little flick of his jaw, the clench in his throat, and the way he swallowed hard without saying anything.

“I don’t mind,” You stated softly, voice calm–anchored. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a tease.

Just honesty.

His gaze returned to yours slowly. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little, but it didn’t disappear completely.

“…Okay,” He said again, quieter now.

You turned from him then and moved toward the cot. Your bare feet padded softly across the concrete, the sound almost too intimate in the stillness of the room. You pulled the thin blanket back and slid beneath it with care, hissing when your back grazed the mattress too sharply. You tucked the hem of the shirt between your thighs, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, your nose pulsing with a faint pain that radiated through the bone.

Behind you, John was still standing in place, staring like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

“Walker,” You murmured without looking, your voice already fading into exhaustion, “You coming, or do I have to drag you into bed too?”

Another beat.

Then you heard it.

The faintest chuckle.

Rough. Real. And definitely not one he meant to let slip.

“Alright, alright,” He muttered, and you listened to the sound of his gear being stripped off, the clink of metal and the sound of the fabric hitting the floor in uneven thumps. Then his boots. Then his belt. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to, because you were familiar with the noises.

Then the cot dipped behind you.

You felt his weight settle in, broad and solid, the mattress creaking under the strain of two battle-worn bodies. The blanket tugged slightly as he adjusted, and then–

Stillness.

Just the sound of your heavy breathing.

The cot creaked quietly behind you as John adjusted, trying to get comfortable without jostling the mattress too much. His movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of restrained caution you only saw from him when he was navigating landmines–literal or emotional. You could feel the weight of him settle in, his body stretching out just behind yours, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the air and through the thin layer of cotton separating you.

You swore you could feel it down your spine–his heat, his awareness, his hesitation.

The silence stretched for a while, until it cracked with him clearing his throat, just enough to ripple across the tension.

”I have a question…” Your eyes stayed fixed on the rust-stained wall just ahead, lips curling slightly as you exhaled through your nose.

“Can’t guarantee you a detailed answer,” You replied, voice soft, “But go ahead.”

There was a pause. A breath.

Then the mattress shifted again–just slightly. You felt it in your lower back, the way the pressure changed. His body had leaned forward. You could feel his breath now, warm and shallow against the back of your shirt. Too close to be accidental.

And then:

“Am I picking up flirtatious vibes from you…” His voice dropped a little lower, edged with caution and curiosity. “Or am I reading too deeply into things?” Your eyebrows arched up before your mind fully caught up to the words.

It was definitely not the question you were expecting, but you took the chance and rolled over–carefully, slowly, trying not to twist your back too much. The thin blanket shifted with you, brushing over your skin as you turned to face him. His eyes were waiting, blue and dilated, in the lighting. His bare freckled shoulders peeked out from above the blanket, his pale skin practically glowing under the lighting. You tried your best to keep your composure, keeping your eyes on his.

“Is it not obvious to you?” You asked, your voice low but steady.

The shadows flickered across his face in the dim light, catching the slope of his cheekbone, the cut of his jaw beneath his beard, and the tension carved into his brow. But it was his eyes that gave him away–how they locked on yours and didn’t waver. How his pupils dilated, just a little.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew for sure…But then again, I’d rather hear you say whether or not I’m overthinking…Never really been into playing the cat and mouse game.” He said, voice rougher now, barely above a whisper. You let out a little huff of a laugh, breath brushing the air between you, and shifted just a bit closer. The cot creaked quietly under the movement, a subtle shudder of fabric and frame that made the tension hum even louder in the silence. You could feel his body react before he even realized it had–his spine going straight, his jaw locking, and then that slow, unmistakable swallow as your hand rose between you.

Your palm found his cheek–warm and rough beneath the scruff of his beard, still damp with sweat. His skin twitched under your touch, a flicker of something that wasn’t fear, wasn’t pain, but felt like anticipation barely held in check. Your thumb swept along his cheekbone, brushing over the blond scruff, and you felt the way his breath hitched–so faint, but there.

“You’re not reading too deeply into things…” You murmured, and his breath caught—just the smallest stutter in the air between you, but it landed like a detonation in the stillness.

You saw it–the way his eyes widened just a fraction, like something in him hadn’t truly believed you’d say it aloud. And maybe that was the most telling part. He could catch your pulse quickening through a wall, hear your footfall in a building full of chaos, yet still he second-guessed when it came to you.

It made you smirk–soft and a little crooked, the kind that curled up only one corner of your mouth. Your thumb stroked again along his beard, savoring the rough texture under your skin, the steady flex of his jaw beneath it.

“I’m assuming you know when I’m staring at you,” You added, voice quiet but teasing, “and you know when my heart rate picks up when I’m around you… hence the reason I thought it was obvious.”

His eyes flicked across your face, lingering on your mouth for half a second longer than necessary. Then he exhaled, slow and unsteady, and it ghosted across your cheek like heat from a match.

“I try my best not to tune into that…” He admitted, his voice a rasp now, rough from restraint. “Hard to ignore sometimes though, I’ll admit.”

You felt your cheeks go warm instantly.

Not just from the confession–but from the way he said it. Like it cost him something. Like he’d spent the last few weeks pretending not to hear the stutter of your heartbeat when you laughed at one of his dry comments. Pretending not to notice the hitch in your breath every time he got a little too close during briefings. Pretending not to feel the way something shifted in the room every time the two of you were left alone for just a little too long.

You leaned in a little further, your forehead nearly brushing his now.

“And what about right now?” You asked, your voice a low murmur, your eyes trained on his mouth. “What’s my heart doing, Walker?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back up.

And this time…He didn’t hold back.

“It’s…It’s going fucking crazy.” He whispered against your lips, and then he closed the distance.

His mouth met yours in a slow, aching press of heat and desperation–one that stole the breath from your lungs and made your fingers twitch against his cheek. You didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Your hand slid down from his face, gliding along the curve of his neck, then curling around the back of his shoulder as you pulled him in closer–anchoring him to you like gravity itself had changed course.

His arm came around you almost instantly, strong and steady, curling around your torso just below your ribs. The heat of his palm sank through the thin cotton of your shirt as his other hand–still warm, still shaking just slightly–rose to cradle your face. He was so careful with it, angling away from the tender swell of your nose and instead letting his fingers settle against your jaw, the heel of his hand cupping your cheek like he was afraid he might hurt you again.

But his kiss wasn’t hesitant.

It was full. Wanting. The kind that tasted like withheld breath and grit and something rough that had been softened only by proximity to you.

You made a soft sound–barely more than a hum–into his mouth, and your fingers slid upward, twisting into his hair. It was damp at the roots, curled slightly from sweat, and your nails scraped along his scalp in a way that made him groan low against your lips. The sound rumbled straight through you, and then his hand was moving again–down from your waist, along the length of your side, tracing your curves through the shirt he had just given you.

Then he trailed lower.

He gripped the outside of your thigh–firm, possessive, not rough–and lifted it slowly, dragging your leg up and around his hip with a deliberate slowness that made heat bloom deep in your core. His grip tightened just beneath the curve of your ass, his fingers digging into the tender muscle as he pressed forward, slotting the weight of his body flush to yours beneath the blanket.

You let him.

You wanted him.

The kiss deepened in the next breath, tongues brushing, mouths parting wider with every messy, greedy pass. It was heat and friction and bruised breaths. Your lips were already swollen, already slick from the motion of it, and when his teeth scraped gently along your bottom lip, you gasped–and that gasp fed straight into his mouth.

“Fuck,” He muttered, breath ragged as he broke the kiss for a half-second–only to dip back down and kiss you again, harder this time, “You taste…Delicious.” You grinned against his lips, then bit down–just slightly–before licking into his mouth with a slow, aching sweep of your tongue.

”Guess you just like the taste of dehydration.” He chuckled, but it melted into a groan when your fingers tugged sharply at his hair. His hips shifted forward, pressing between your thighs with more weight now, his knee nudging up until it was cradled against the heat of your core. You instinctively ground down onto the thick muscle of his thigh, the ache between your legs growing sharp with every short drag of friction. His leg tensed beneath you, solid as a slab of steel and just as unforgiving, and you could practically feel the twitch of his quadricep through the too-thin fabric of your underwear.

John’s hand slipped beneath your shirt and tightened on the sensitive skin of your hip, holding you there for just a second before guiding your motion again–slow, deliberate, dragging you across the hard ridge of his thigh until your breath broke in a stuttering gasp against his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, the words caught between a moan and a plea.

That’s when he pulled back, just barely, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke–voice thick with heat and teasing restraint.

“You trying to get off on my thigh, sweetheart?” He rasped, the edge of a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Or did you just miss the part where I said I was trying to be a gentleman?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up–half breathless, half embarrassed, all turned on. “I definitely missed the part where you said you were trying to be a gentleman…I didn’t realize you were trying that hard.” He huffed, his thumb dragging slow and rough along your lower belly beneath the hem of your shirt, making your core clench with anticipation.

“Oh, I’m trying,” He muttered, guiding your hips again, grinding you in one slow, drawn-out stroke that made your thighs tremble, “But you’re making it really hard, Y/N.” Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him bleed through skin and muscle. Every ridge of him was carved tight, twitching beneath your touch, and when your fingers slipped back into his sweat-damp hair, you felt the soft groan he let out bloom between your thighs.

“I think you like it when I ride your thigh,” you murmured against the shell of his ear, your voice a silken, low whisper that had his whole body freezing for just a second. Then his grip flexed, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to make you gasp.

“Fuckin’ love it,” he growled, dragging you forward again, the blunt muscle of his thigh rubbing right against your swollen clit through the soaked cotton. “You’re so wet for it, too…Jesus, Y/N…”

Your hips jerked with the next grind, instinct taking over now–chasing friction, chasing relief, chasing him. The heat between you was stifling, slick and sticky and laced with spit and sweat and breathless groans. Your lips found his again, desperate, messy, biting through the moans that broke out of you both.

He kissed like a man who never got the chance to–wild and greedy and reverent all at once. His beard scraped over your chin and your jaw and your throat, leaving tender burn-marks in its wake, and you wanted it, wanted all of it, every mark and bruise and swollen sting of heat he left behind.

“Keep going,” He muttered, voice breaking between kisses as he guided you forward again, thigh flexing, grinding you hard enough that you felt your body twitch against him instantly, “I want to feel you come right here.” You moaned raggedly, helpless to stop yourself from chasing the motion, thighs trembling as your fingers clawed into his shoulders, your body slick with sweat and need and the slow pulse of mounting pleasure.

And when he ducked his head, tongue flicking out to lick the sweat off your throat, then up to your ear to whisper, “You’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”–you whimpered like you’d been cracked wide open.

“Yes,” You breathed. “God, yes…John, don’t stop–”

“Not planning on it,” He growled, dragging you faster now, harder, until your entire body was rocking in his lap, the rhythm slick and unrelenting and devastating.

His other hand came up to your breast, rough fingers palming it through the shirt, thumb grazing over your nipple until it peaked against the fabric and had you gasping again.

“Shit…Gonna come–” You choked out, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing your moan as he grinded you down one last time–

–and you broke.

Clenching, shaking, crying out into his mouth as pleasure surged white-hot through your body and lit up your spine like gunfire. Your thighs clamped around him, and your whole body pulsed with the aftershocks, breath torn from your lungs as your hips jerked once, twice more before finally going still.

You collapsed against him, heart pounding, mouth open against his jaw, and you felt his arms wrap around you–solid and warm and grounding. One hand on your lower back, careful of the wound. The other cupping the back of your head like he could still feel you trembling and wanted to anchor you there.

“…Holy fuck,” you breathed into his neck, still panting.

His laugh was low, rough, a little ragged, “You okay?” You nodded, even though your knees were jelly and your thighs were still twitching.

“I’m…I’m fucking amazing .” You replied. He let out a small laugh, kissing your temple softly.

”You know I have to clean you up now, right?” You raised your eyebrows slowly, still breathless, heart still thudding between your ribs.

“Clean me up?” You asked, your voice rasping from the edge of your orgasm, “What do you mean?” John leaned back just far enough to look at you properly, one corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest, filthiest smirk. The heat in his eyes hadn’t dulled–it had sharpened, simmered, focused entirely on you.

“Did you honestly think,” He started, voice a low rumble edged in gravel and sin, “I was gonna let my reward go to waste?” Your stomach fluttered at the implication, pulse stumbling in your throat as the haze of pleasure gave way to something more dangerous–more intimate. John Walker wanted to taste you. And not just in passing. He wanted to savor what you’d left behind, wanted to put his mouth on you like it was owed to him. Like you were the victory he was meant to claim.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted again, reaching for the pillow his head had been resting on. He shook it out once, then tucked it in behind you gently, one hand steadying your hip while the other slid beneath the curve of your ass.

“Lay on this for me,” He instructed , gaze flicking up to yours. “It’ll ease the pressure off your back.” You blinked at him, lips parting as you shook your head.

“John, we can skip that…I just want you right now. Please.” But he just smiled. Soft. Sure. Like he knew something you didn’t.

“Trust me,” He whispered, running his fingers gently up the side of your thigh. “I’ll make it quick… Then you can have me however you’d like, alright?” Your breath hitched, the edge of a sigh escaping through your teeth. You bit down gently on your bottom lip, your body already betraying you by aching for more.

“…Okay,” You murmured, chest rising and falling faster now. “Okay.”

With careful hands, he helped you adjust, guiding you onto your back so that the pillow cushioned your spine. He was tender, attentive–positioning you just right without aggravating your wound, fingers brushing soothingly along your hip and outer thigh.

Then he moved to kneel between your legs.

The blanket was gone now–tugged down or kicked aside–and the soft cotton shirt you wore barely covered the heat pooling between your thighs. John’s hands found the waistband of your underwear, and he glanced up at you once more, silently checking.

You gave the smallest nod.

He slid them down slowly.

The wet fabric dragged against your inner thighs, clinging slightly before slipping away completely. He didn’t look away as he tossed them aside, his eyes burning into yours even as his hands returned to your legs, parting them gently.

“Fuck,” He whispered when he saw you fully, “You’re literally dripping.” You squirmed slightly, breath catching in your throat as his large calloused hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs brushing across the slick heat of your skin. Then he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

And then another. Higher.

And then–

His mouth met your core.

You gasped instantly, your hips jolting at the overwhelming rush of sensation. His beard scraped against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while his tongue flattened and licked one long, slow stripe through your folds. The warmth of it, the weight, the pure pressure–it was too much to the point where it overwhelmed you.

“John–fuck–” You whimpered, squirming as your hands clawed for purchase in the sheets.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into you like a low thunderclap. His arms slipped beneath your thighs, locking you in place, his hands flattening against your hips to keep you from writhing too far out of reach.

And then he dove in.

His tongue circled your clit with a focused, devastating rhythm. His beard rubbed raw and soft in tandem with each flick, dragging a burn up your thighs that only added to the chaos. Every touch sent fire arcing through your nerves, your body still over-sensitive from the orgasm that had just torn through you minutes before. You bucked against his mouth without meaning to, breath catching, fingers curling into fists at your sides.

He moaned like you were his favorite thing he’d ever tasted.

And maybe you were.

Your back arched, pain forgotten for the moment as your entire world narrowed to his mouth, his tongue, his beard, his breath. You could hear yourself moaning–high and helpless and keening with every flick of his tongue. You could feel your body trembling again, thighs twitching and core clenching around nothing as the pleasure built again, impossibly fast.

Then–his hand shifted.

One of those big, calloused palms slipped from your hip, trailing down your inner thigh until it reached the soaked, needy entrance he’d been ignoring. He teased the slick folds with two thick fingers, rubbing slow, messy circles around your opening, spreading your arousal until everything felt unbearably wet.

Your head fell back, a strangled moan clawing its way out of your throat. “John–” You barely had time to suck in a breath before he slid both fingers into you with one slow, steady push.

“Oh my God,” You gasped, your spine arching off the cot. His fingers stretched you instantly–thick and perfect, curling just enough to make your thighs jerk. The pressure made your eyes roll back, the burn of the stretch quickly melting into an overwhelming fullness that had your walls fluttering around him with desperate want.

“Fuck,” You groaned, hips bucking into his hand as your hands flew into his hair, threading through the messy blond strands already damp and tousled from your earlier tugging. You grabbed fistfuls like you couldn’t get enough–like anchoring yourself to him was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. John’s mouth pulled back from your clit just long enough for him to speak. His voice was wrecked–low, hoarse, filled with pride and pure hunger.

“You like my fingers, hmm?” He murmured, sliding them in and out with slow, teasing precision. “Like how full you feel?”

You nodded–rapid, helpless. “Yes…Yes, fuck, yes–” He grinned, breath ghosting over your clit as his blue eyes locked with yours, pupils blown wide.

“Can’t wait to see how you’re gonna react to my cock then…” Then he was gone again–mouth plunging back between your thighs, licking and sucking like a man starved. His fingers picked up pace, fucking into you deeper, faster, while his tongue circled your clit with ruthless precision.

You couldn’t stop it.

Your hips moved on instinct, chasing the pressure, chasing his hand, chasing him. The cot creaked beneath you with every desperate grind of your body against his face. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving into your soaked heat mixed with your gasps and the ragged groans he let out with every taste.

“I’m gonna…John…Fuck–”

He moaned in approval, fingers curling just right, and that was it.

You came hard, clenching down around his fingers as a cry tore from your lips, long and broken and full of heat. Your thighs shook, your chest heaved, your hands tangled deeper in his hair as you rode the waves of pleasure out against his mouth. He didn’t stop–not for a second. He worked you through every last pulse, licking you raw and filthy until your hips twitched from overstimulation.

Finally he pulled back, dragging his mouth from your center with a long, wet lick, eyes flicking up to your hot, wrecked face. You were gasping, sweat-slicked, trembling.

“Fucking hell,” You panted. He didn’t respond–not with words. Instead, he kissed the inside of your thigh once more before shifting up your body, bracing himself on one elbow as his other hand–still sticky with your release–slid beneath the hem of the oversized shirt.

“Let me get this off you,” He whispered, voice rough. You nodded, arms lifting weakly, letting him peel the shirt up over your head. His fingers were slow, careful, tugging it over your arms and then tossing it aside without a second glance.

And then you were naked beneath him.

Completely bare. Bruised and bandaged and still trembling from pain and pleasure alike–but his eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t drift, didn’t scan. They locked on yours.

Like you were the center of every war he’d ever fought.

His hand cradled your cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of your swollen mouth, and then he leaned down–kissing you.

God, the way he kissed you.

Hungry. Possessive. Starved.

You could taste yourself on his tongue. You could feel the mess of your slick smeared across his beard, smell it on his skin, and yet the kiss only deepened–your mouth opening wider to take him in, your arms winding around his back, nails dragging across the sweaty heat of his skin.

There was no hesitation now. No space left between you. Every movement screamed want, every grind of your hips against his made him groan into your mouth like he couldn’t take it anymore.

You moaned against him, whispering against the curve of his jaw between kisses, “Want you so bad, Walker…I need you…”

He pulled back just slightly, chest heaving as he looked down at you–completely naked, completely open, completely his.

And he nodded, gaze burning into yours. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. All of me.”

John sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths as he pushed his black boxers down over his hips. The fabric dragged over thick thighs, caught briefly on sweat-slick skin before sliding down to his knees. He kicked them away with a careless shove.

Your breath hitched.

His cock stood hard between his legs–flushed deep pink and veined, the head gleaming with a bead of pre-come that glistened in the flickering overhead light. The cool air that kissed his skin made him twitch slightly, and your jaw clenched at the sight–every inch of him thick and aching. He was huge–bigger than anyone else you had ever been with–and it made your pulse stutter with anticipation.

You reached for him, fingers brushing up along his chest, over his clavicles, before resting gently at the curve of his neck. Your touch was deliberate. Warm. Commanding.

“Help me up,” You instructed, voice low, sultry, devilish. “I want to sit on it.” His head fell back just slightly with a low, guttural moan, the image you’d conjured clearly slamming into his bloodstream like a drug.

“Fuck, sweetheart…That sounds fantastic.” He rasped, already shifting forward to support you. His arms wrapped around you with practiced care, sliding beneath your thighs to lift you just enough to adjust your weight. You hissed softly at the movement—your back still tender—but his hold was steady, patient, and so damn careful.

He brought you upright until your knees straddled him and the soft skin of your inner thighs kissed his own. The heat of him sat just beneath you, thick and heavy, throbbing between your bodies.

The backs of your thighs rested against his, and his hands settled at your hips—wide, reverent palms splayed against your bare skin, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then your hand moved between you.

You reached down with slow, sultry intent and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

His whole body jolted.

“Shit–” He breathed out, eyes fluttering half-shut as his head dropped to your shoulder. “God, your hand–”

You stroked him slowly, just the way you knew would drive him crazy–tight and twisting, dragging your palm up to the slick head before gliding back down with pressure. His cock twitched in your grip, pre-cum spilling freely over your fingers now, and the weight of him filled your palm beautifully. You dragged your thumb through the mess at the tip, then used it to smooth your next stroke with a delicious, obscene sound that made him groan into the curve of your neck.

You didn’t bring him to completion–just to the edge. Just until his hips started to jerk up into your hand, until his breaths turned to curses and his grip on your waist became possessive.

Then you stilled. His eyes shot open.

“Why’d you stop?” You smiled, slow and sly, as you pulled your hand away, licking some of the precum off your palm, tasting the saltiness of it.

“Because I want to feel you inside me now,” You whispered. “So help me a little bit…” He moaned softly at your words, nodding quickly, both of his hands moving with precision and care. One hand braced your lower back as the other shifted to his cock, lining himself up against your entrance. The blunt head nudged through your folds, sliding against your slick with a quiet, filthy sound.

Then he looked up at you, eyes blazing with restraint. “You sure you want this, Y/N?”

You nodded. “I want it. I want you.”

He held your gaze as he slowly lowered you onto him, his hand guiding the head of his cock past your folds, nudging against your entrance until your body started to take him in.

The stretch was devastating.

Your breath hitched, back arching slightly as your walls adjusted to the thick pressure, inch by inch. You sank down slowly, his cock dragging through the tight heat of you with an unrelenting fullness that made both of you groan in unison.

“Shit,” He rasped, his forehead dropping to yours, “You’re so tight…And so warm and wet, taking every inch of me like a good girl…” Your fingers curled into his shoulders, body trembling as he filled you deeper, the weight of him pressing against your front in the most satisfying way. You were only halfway seated and already shaking from how intense it felt. John’s hand slid from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye as you pressed your forehead against his.

“You okay?” He whispered, the roughness in his voice edged with concern.

You nodded, kissing the tip of his nose. “Keep going…Just like this.”

He obeyed.

His other hand settled firmly on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there as he slowly guided you further down onto his length. Every inch was a stretch, every moment a slow conquest of your body by his, and when you finally bottomed out, seated fully in his lap with your walls pulsing around him–

It felt like your whole body lit up.

“Fuck,” You whimpered, lips brushing against his. “You’re so deep.”

John groaned, his jaw clenching as he fought not to move yet. “I know. God, you feel perfect…”

He stayed still, buried to the hilt, holding you against him as your bodies trembled together. He groaned into your mouth, swallowing another breathless moan as your hips slowly began to grind against him, the fullness inside of you making it hard to breathe–let alone think. The stretch was so deep, so utterly consuming, that every shift of your weight made your entire body feel like it was glowing from the inside out.

John’s hands gripped your hips tightly, but it wasn't to stop you, it was to guide you, to worship you in the only way a man like him knew how…By holding and pleasing you.

Then, with a low breath, he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, trailing down your jaw, across your neck, and lower–peppering soft, almost reverent kisses along the curve of your collarbone. His lips were warm, damp with sweat and breath, and they dragged heat wherever they touched.

He licked a stripe of salt from the hollow of your throat, groaning softly as he tasted you, his mouth open and hungry against your skin. Then he found a patch just beneath your collarbone, sucking at it–slow and firm–until a bruise bloomed beneath his tongue. A mark. A reminder. A claim.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was hot against your skin as he whispered, “Lean back for me.”

His hand pressed gently but firmly to the center of your spine, and you obeyed–your body trembling slightly as you leaned away from him, your thighs still locked around his hips. Your chest arched toward him, exposing the soft swell of your breasts beneath the flickering overhead light.

“Jesus Christ…” He whispered, eyes locking onto the sight of you–raw, open, radiant.

He leaned in, mouth brushing over one breast with featherlight kisses before his lips latched onto your nipple, sucking it slowly between his teeth. The sharp contrast of heat and pressure made your back arch even more, a moan slipping past your lips as he dragged his tongue across the sensitive bud, flicking before sucking again–slow, firm, deliberate.

His beard scraped along your skin as he moved from one breast to the other, groaning low in his throat like he was feasting on something he’d been craving for too long. His grip on your hips tightened–enough that you could already feel the bruises forming, dark fingerprints blooming in your flesh with every desperate squeeze.

“Fuck, look at you…” He murmured between licks, voice low and ragged. “Your breasts in my mouth, your pussy squeezing my cock–you’re unreal, Y/N. You feel so fucking good riding me like this.” You gasped, dragging your hips in a slow, grinding circle as he sucked hard on your nipple, making your whole body jerk from the stimulation. The motion made his cock shift inside you, pressing deeper, and both of you moaned at the same time.

The rhythm built again–needier now. A steady drag of your soaked core over the thick length of him, the stretch made sharper by the angle of your spine and the way he watched you like he was memorizing every twitch of your body.

“Keep going,” He rasped, pulling off your breast with a wet sound, his mouth flushed and slick. “Don’t stop, Y/N…Fuck…You feel perfect.” Your hands reached forward, one cradling the side of his face, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone. He leaned into it instinctively, even as his hips flexed up into yours, matching your rhythm with short, upward thrusts that punched the air from your lungs.

The heat was unbearable now–between your thighs, beneath your skin, tangled in the grip of his calloused hands. The stretch of him was devastating, the press of his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you with ruthless precision.

You moaned through your teeth, your grip on his shoulder tightening. “John–I’m–I’m getting close…” He grunted, shifting one arm to wrap tight around your lower back, holding you steady as his other hand cradled your jaw. His thumb pressed lightly to your cheek, angling your face toward his.

“Don’t you dare look away from me,” He said, voice thick and low, almost trembling. “Wanna see you when you come…Wanna look you in the eyes and take in every fucking second of it.” You nodded, staring at him, your lips parted with a whimper as the pleasure started to crest. Your gaze stayed locked to his–deep blue and blown wide, full of something feral and focused and entirely yours.

Then it hit you.

You gasped—head tilting back despite his grip, but your eyes stayed on his, even as your thighs started to shake and your cunt pulsed around him in desperate waves.

“Fuck–John—” you moaned, nails clawing into his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you, body convulsing around his cock as you held his gaze, wide-eyed and gasping.

He groaned, deep and broken, holding you down against him as his hips snapped up hard into yours, chasing his own release. “That’s it—fuck, baby, look at me, don’t stop—”

Your hand cupped his face, holding him close as you trembled through the aftershocks, thighs twitching around his waist.

Then he let go.

His head dropped to your shoulder as he buried himself deep—his cock pulsing thick and hot inside you as he came with a ragged groan that sounded like it had been torn from the depths of his chest. You felt it—the warmth of him coating your insides, spilling deep and steady until it began to leak out around the base of his cock.

“God, you’re taking my cum so fucking well…” He gasped, voice shaking as his hips jerked shallowly inside you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as you rocked against him slowly–your slick and his cum making everything unbearably wet and sensitive. He thrust up into you a few more times–lazy, shallow strokes that made your body jolt from the overstimulation–before his arms wrapped around your back, holding you close.

You collapsed against him, forehead resting against his damp skin, your breaths tangled with his as you both rode the high down, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

And then finally…John pressed his lips to your temple and whispered, voice thick with reverence–

“…You wreck me, Y/N…Jesus Christ. I hope you can keep up with my stamina because I think I’m going to keep you up all night.” Your arms tightened around him in the afterglow, every inch of you pulsing and warm, your bodies tangled so tightly it felt like there was no line between where you ended and he began. Your cheek rested against the sweaty curve of his neck, his skin still buzzing with residual heat and adrenaline. You felt his pulse hammering beneath your lips, matching the erratic rhythm of your own heart.

A soft huff of a laugh escaped you, half exhausted and half incredulous as you murmured, “I think I can definitely put up a good feat…But all night may not be doable.” John let out a low, breathy laugh in response, his chest rising and falling against yours. The sound was raw and real, a little disbelieving, a little dazed.

“Okay…” He exhaled, brushing his hand down the slick arch of your spine. “Is three rounds enough?”

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to the dip of his collarbone, lips brushing over the salt-slicked skin, and whispered against it, “I can definitely manage that.”

He groaned, low and satisfied, like the weight of your words settled somewhere in his bones.

“Good…” He rasped. “Because I’m not done with you just yet.” But even as he said it, his body began to ease, muscles softening beneath yours, tension draining away slowly like melting ice.

The cot shifted beneath you both as you shifted together, limbs rearranging and tangling in a quieter kind of closeness. John rolled slowly onto his back and took you with him, keeping your body draped over his chest, one large hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head as you tucked it under his jaw.

The room around you remained quiet, just the occasional creak of the cot, the low hum of the overhead light, and the distant wind outside stirring through the window, howling in the night.

John’s thumb brushed slow arcs along your spine, tender and reverent, while your fingers traced lazy shapes over the firm plane of his pec. You felt grounded. Sore. Used in the best way. Your lower body still throbbed with oversensitivity, and your back stung with every brush of breath against the bandage, but none of it pulled you from the present.

“Y/N?” He murmured after a while, voice half-lidded with exhaustion.

“Mm?”

His throat moved beneath your cheek. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded slowly, lips brushing his chest. “I’m good. Better than good. Just… really fucking full.”

That made him laugh again, the sound rumbling deep under your palm. “Yeah,” he said, smug now. “You’re gonna be feeling that for a while.”

You lifted your head just enough to arch a brow at him. “Cocky.”

He grinned, lazy and satisfied. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You hummed, then kissed his jaw before settling back into the crook of his neck. “Didn’t say I minded. Just noting the observation.”

He gave your ass a slow, possessive squeeze, and the motion made you yelp against his skin. “Observation noted,” he murmured. “But if I’ve got three rounds to work with tonight, I might need to take a few more notes.”

You snorted against his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re addictive,” He whispered back, voice suddenly softer, the edge of heat replaced with something weightier. More intimate. “…This wans’t just sex, you know.”

You froze–just slightly. Just long enough for him to notice.

Then he added, quieter still, “Not for me.”

Your breath caught, and your hand slid slowly up to his jaw, tilting his face down until your eyes met in the dim light. The rawness in his expression gutted you a little–like he’d been holding that truth in for longer than he wanted to admit.

Your thumb stroked the edge of his beard, your voice barely audible as you whispered, “Not for me either.”

A beat passed.

Then he kissed you again–not with heat, not with hunger–but with that soft, gentleness you didn’t think a man like him was fully capable of until now.

And when you finally closed your eyes, letting your body relax fully into his, your heartbeat slowed until it fell perfectly into rhythm with his–two teammates tangled together in the quiet after the chaos.

[need4change]

The Hamptons Shift

You’ve worked weddings before, but nothing like this.

The tent was absurdly large—vaulted white canvas with golden tassels and strings of fairy lights that glittered in the soft dusk like some Disney fantasy brought to life. You’d been pouring drinks since three, and your white button-up was already clinging to your back with sweat, collar rubbing raw against your neck. The soft leather dress shoes pinched your toes with every damn step, but of course, you smiled through it. Tips were good here. Very good.

The crowd? Not your scene. At all.

Everyone was white, wealthy, and Christian, the kind of smug, tight-lipped Christians who looked like they’d tip well, then leave you a pamphlet about Jesus instead. They made polite small talk about stocks, baptisms, golf scores. And they kept looking at you—the help—with tight smiles. The men wore navy suits like armor. The women? Bare shoulders, pearls, fake smiles, and diamond wedding bands the size of your fucking ego.

You stayed silent. Hidden. You were good at that.

You’ve learned to keep the ‘gay’ to yourself at these gigs. Just a job, you told yourself. You’re 28, an aspiring actor, waiting tables and pouring drinks, just grinding, hoping for a break. In your head, you saw your name in lights. But tonight? You’re just Eric, anonymous bartender, serving lemon-thyme gimlets to people who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.

You were at the edge of the tent, watching them toast with your drinks, laughing that nasal, hollow laugh only old money can perfect, when she approached.

At first, you didn’t even notice her. She wasn’t loud like the rest of them. Just… there.

A soft click of heels on the wood floor.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, honeyed.

You looked up. Pretty. Blonde. Young. Hair in soft curls down her shoulders, pink silk dress hugging a slim, almost delicate figure. She held her vodka soda like it was an extension of her hand, poised, fingers perfectly manicured. Her smile was faint—not bubbly, not flirtatious—just… knowing.

“Uh, can I get you something?” you asked, standing a little straighter.

She shook her head, sipping. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“No. I just needed a break from the vultures.”

You offered a polite smile. “Tough crowd?”

She nodded slowly, glancing toward a table of older women in pastel dresses and tight blonde curls.

“They’re all over me,” she said. “My mom, my aunt, everyone. Asking when I’m gonna find a husband. Settling down.” She sipped again. “They think it’s urgent.”

You forced a little laugh. “Well… you’ve got time. No rush, right?”

Her gaze sharpened. Just for a second.

“Hmm.” She looked you over, head tilted. “Maybe. But you know, you’d make a great husband.”

That caught you off guard.

You laughed awkwardly. “Oh, uh… I don’t think so. I’m a gold star gay. Never even—well, let’s just say I’m not exactly in the market.”

You expected her to laugh. Maybe blush. Instead, she sipped her drink again, slow, deliberate.

“Gold star,” she repeated. “Right. That’s… cute.”

Something about the way she said it made your skin prickle. You looked away, clearing your throat.

“But hey,” you added, trying to lighten it, “I can still pour a mean martini.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly. “You just seem like someone who’s… got potential. You just need a little polish.”

“Polish?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite the sudden unease.

She nodded, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. Just some tweaks. Nothing big.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. Like your shirt had just gotten snug, right between your pecs. You tugged at the buttons absentmindedly, fingers fidgeting.

Her eyes flicked down—just briefly—then back up.

“Your posture, for one,” she said, voice feather-light. “You slouch. Like you’re hiding.”

“I—what?”

“Stand up straighter.”

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated. Then, out of instinct—or obedience?—you pulled your shoulders back slightly.

Something popped. Not painful, just… odd. Your spine crackled softly as it shifted. Your shoulders pulled back tighter, chest pushing forward, head lifting.

“There,” she whispered. “That’s better.”

You blinked, breath caught in your throat. Your back ached, just a little, but it felt… firm. Right, in a weird way. Like this is how you should stand.

You gave a weak chuckle, rubbing your neck. “I guess I needed that adjustment.”

Her eyes gleamed. “You have no idea.”

Then, casually, like she was commenting on the weather: “Your jaw could be sharper too. You’ve got… a soft look.”

Your hand flew up to your face, fingertips brushing your jawline. It felt normal. Maybe. But now that she’d said it, you felt this weird tingling—along your chin, up toward your cheekbones. A faint tightness, like something pulling beneath the skin.

“What are you—?”

Her smile widened. Still small, but smug.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice syrupy. “You’d look so much better with some angles. Masculine angles. You’re too… pretty.”

Your stomach twisted. Was she negging you? Was this some rich-girl flirting? You didn’t know. Your fingers kept running over your jaw, which suddenly felt… heavier. Square. The skin tight.

“Look, I should—”

“You’d be hot with a fade,” she interrupted, cutting you off.

You froze.

She stepped in closer. “Short on the sides. Clean. Tight. Get rid of this…” She gestured vaguely at your hair. “Floppy little theater-boy thing. You’d look like a man.”

You tried to speak. Tried to laugh. But your scalp was tingling now. Itching.

You scratched behind your ear, and—holy shit—was your hairline receding? No, no, not receding. Just… sharpening. Pulling back tight on the sides. You could feel it. Your fingers ran along the edge. The hair there was shorter. Clipped.

“I think I need to go,” you said, voice cracking. You stumbled backward, heat pulsing under your skin.

But she just smiled, one brow raised.

“You’ll come find me later,” she said. “You won’t want to leave.”

Your heart thumped—hard.

And then you were stumbling out of the tent into the sticky night air, shirt tight across your chest, scalp crawling, jaw aching—and nothing felt normal anymore.

The night air hit your face like a slap—hot, humid, thick with salt from the Atlantic nearby—but you barely noticed it. You stumbled away from the glowing tent, down the path that led toward the back garden, lungs gulping air like you’d just run a mile. Your hands were shaking.

You pressed your fingers to your jaw again—still sharp. Still wrong. You could feel the change now. Not imagined. Solid. Defined.

And your hair. You reached up again, pulling at it, but it was shorter now. On the sides, it felt stiff, buzzed, the kind of short cut you’d never get unless you were some jock with too much testosterone and no imagination. You tugged at the front, hoping to find the messy blond fringe you’d spent years perfecting—but even that felt thinner, coarser.

Your reflection in the garden mirror, hung obnoxiously on a tree for some rustic aesthetic, nearly made you gag.

Your face… was changing. The softness was gone. Your cheekbones popped sharp under your skin, and your jaw looked like it had been chiseled by a gym-obsessed barber. Your lips, once full and pouty, seemed thinner, pressed in a tight, neutral scowl. Your eyes—still blue, but darker now—held something else. A little deadness. A little cockiness. You didn’t like what was staring back.

“Just stand up straighter.”

Her voice echoed in your ears. That’s where it started. The little suggestion. Then the jaw. The haircut. You didn’t know what she was doing or how, but something was happening. And you had to get out.

You turned, almost running back toward the staff area, but your pants pinched, tight across your thighs. You stumbled, nearly falling over. You grunted—wait, that grunt, low and rough, wasn’t yours. It sounded… thicker, like it came from someone with a meatier neck.

You grabbed at your thighs. Holy shit. They were swollen, tight with pressure. The black slacks strained across them, seams groaning. You could feel the muscle—solid, hard, hot under the fabric. Your calves, too. The way they filled out your socks—they were like fucking tree trunks. Your ass—God, it felt huge, rounded, bouncing with every desperate step.

“No, no, fuck—what is happening?” you hissed, staggering behind the bar.

You found the employee bathroom again, locked the door, and stared into the mirror.

Your chest had swollen.

Your shirt barely closed now. Each breath pulled it tighter, buttons gaping around your pecs. Your nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric—hard, pointed. A thin dusting of chest hair peeked through the collar, darker than your natural blond, coarse and itchy. You clawed at it, pulling the shirt open.

You gasped.

Your abs—were real. Not the faint hint you used to have, but deep, solid slabs of muscle. Six, maybe eight. Your torso was soaked in sweat, and not the nervous kind—the rank, salty kind that stank of work, of iron, of testosterone. You reeked. Musky. Raw.

And fuck, it was turning you on.

Your cock—now thicker, hanging heavy in your tight briefs—twitched as you ran your hand down your stomach. The hair below your navel was growing too, thicker, darker, trailing downward. Your legs throbbed, constricted by the pants.

You fumbled to unbutton them—but your hands.

They were meaty, knuckles thicker, nails cut short. Your fingers looked like they belonged to a mechanic, not a twink. Veins snaked down your arms, bulging. You yanked at the pants. The button popped off, clattering to the tile. The zipper strained and split, revealing your stretched, sweat-soaked briefs underneath. Your cock strained the fabric—huge, meaty, thick as your fucking forearm.

You panted, sweat dripping down your nose.

And then—her voice again.

“You’re looking better already.”

Your head snapped toward the door.

She was outside.

You didn’t even ask how she got there. How she knew.

“I told you. Just a little polish,” she said, voice silky. “Now look at you. Thick. Strong. Smelling like a man.”

You backed away from the door, heart racing.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” you barked—but your voice…

It was deeper. Husky. That bro tone. Casual. Slight rasp, like you’d been yelling over music at the gym or screaming at a game.

“Just helping you,” she said sweetly. “You were… soft. Lost. Confused. But this—this is who you’re supposed to be.”

You shook your head, veins popping in your neck.

“No—I’m gay. I’m an actor. This isn’t me.”

Her laughter was soft. Dangerous.

“Oh honey. You were gay. You were an actor. But gay little actors don’t look like that,” she purred. “Not with those arms.”

You looked down. Your biceps pumped, heavy, swollen, corded with veins. You flexed—instinct—and the muscle bulged. Your cock twitched again.

“You wanna be seen, don’t you?” she whispered. “Not for your little monologues or drama class tears. But for your body. Your gains. For her eyes on you.”

You gripped the sink, breathing heavy.

“No—fuck—no…”

But even as you said it, you were flexing in the mirror.

Watching yourself.

Admiring.

And you didn’t know why, but you liked what you saw.

Your sweat. Your size. Your dominance.

And God help you… you wanted more.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the bathroom.

The mirror was steaming, fogged with your breath and body heat. Your shirt was long gone, pants torn at the seams, briefs soaked in sweat and stretched tight over a cock that refused to soften. You were panting, growling under your breath, unable to stop flexing, admiring yourself.

Your traps rose like fucking mountains into your thick neck. Your chest — fuck, your pecs — were massive, broad and firm, nipples jutting through coarse hair that now coated you from shoulders to abs. Your arms, roped with muscle, pulsed with each movement, and your biceps sat high and proud, begging for attention.

And you gave it to them.

“Fuckin’… alpha,” you muttered, not even thinking, just saying it, low and primal. You grunted, cock twitching, the stink of your own arousal filling the bathroom.

You tried — tried — to remember who you were before this. Your name. Your life. Something about acting? A city? Men?

But it all felt like a dream. Like some faggy, pathetic dream you used to have before you grew up.

Before she found you.

There was a knock at the door. Light. Controlled.

“Husband,” came her voice — calm, certain, like it had always belonged to you. “Come out.”

You blinked.

Husband?

You felt a sharp sting in your chest, like a rope pulling tight around your heart — and with it, something snapped inside.

You knew your name.

“Brad.”

You whispered it. Then again — louder.

“Fuckin’ Brad.”

You growled it, owned it, felt it swell in your chest like a new set of lungs filling for the first time.

Brad didn’t act. Brad didn’t pretend.

Brad lived.

Brad lifted.

Brad fucked.

You grabbed the bathroom handle, flung the door open — and there she was. Your woman.

She smiled when she saw you. Not sweet. Satisfied. Like someone admiring her work.

You stepped out, shirtless, stinking, body bronzed from head to toe. Your tight black boxer briefs clung to your monster cock, which throbbed visibly with each step. Her eyes lingered on it, and you grinned — cocky, hungry, ready.

She stepped close, running her fingers along your chest. “There you are.”

You huffed through your nose, nostrils flaring. “Damn right.”

Her touch made your cock leap. You wanted her. Needed to breed her. Your balls ached, heavy, full, ready to fill her up.

“God,” you groaned, grinding against her. “You fuckin’ did this, huh?”

Her nails dug lightly into your skin. “Mmm. You’re so much better now.”

You smirked, flexing your chest.

“Fuck yeah. Ain’t no fag actor now. Just Brad. God’s fuckin’ soldier.”

She laughed, soft and pleased. “And what do good Christian men do, Brad?”

You didn’t even pause.

“Breed.”

You lifted her — effortlessly — her dress riding up as you pressed her against the garden tree. Her legs wrapped around your waist, your cock grinding against her soaked panties.

“Gonna put a fuckin’ baby in you,” you growled, rutting against her. “For God. For us. For fuckin’ America.”

She gasped, breathless. “Yes. That’s my husband.”

The reception was still going strong—rich white guests swaying to some acoustic country bullshit, drunk on overpriced wine and family legacy. The Hamptons night was soft and warm, the tent glowing with golden light, laughter spilling across the manicured lawn.

You didn’t give a shit.

You had your girl pinned in the coat closet behind the tent, lights off, door locked, the air thick with musk and sex. The scent of expensive wool jackets mixed with the raw stink of your body—sweat, cologne, and the musky tang of your leaking cock.

You were still in that tight white button-up, but the sleeves were rolled high, sweat stains soaking the pits. The shirt strained against your chest, the fabric barely holding on over your swollen pecs. Top buttons ripped open—who cared? Your abs were carved, sweaty, flexing as you thrusted, hips pounding against her ass.

You’d shoved her up against the coats, one hand gripping her throat, the other clamped on her hip, holding her right where she belonged.

“Fuckin’ mine now,” you growled, voice low, gravelly, cock slamming deep, again and again, sweat dripping from your brow onto her back.

She moaned, breathless, body trembling.

“Brad—fuck—what if someone—”

You grinned, cocky as hell, rutting into her harder.

“Let ‘em fuckin’ hear, babe. Let ‘em know I’m claimin’ you, right here, where they can smell my cum on you all fuckin’ night.”

You reeked—like sweat, testosterone, and dominance. Your gold chain swung with every thrust, slapping against your hairy, muscled chest.

You looked down—your cock was huge, veined, soaked in her slick. Your balls swung heavy, swollen with your next load. You’d already bred her once earlier, in the garden, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Gonna fill you again,” you snarled, gripping her ass, slapping it hard. “Put a fuckin’ baby in you, right next to this goddamn coat rack. Ain’t gonna wait for marriage, ain’t gonna wait for nothin’. We own this place now.”

She whimpered, moaned, her legs shaking.

You pounded into her — and every thrust erased more of who you were. You couldn’t remember your old name. Couldn’t remember acting, couldn’t remember men, couldn’t remember why the fuck you’d ever cared about anything but this.

Her tits. Her tight pussy. Your cock. Your gains. Your God.

You flexed in the mirror behind her, watching your massive body dominate her petite frame. You looked perfect. Tanned. Jacked. Alpha as fuck. This wasn’t acting—this was real.

You weren’t a waiter. You weren’t an actor. You weren’t even gay.

You were Brad Turner, 29, fitness influencer, Christian conservative, and breeder.

You roared, balls tightening, cock exploding, spraying her full again, thick hot cum dripping down her thighs, your breath heavy, sweaty, triumphant.

You didn’t pull out. Fuck that.

You stayed buried in her, flexing, panting, smirking like the cocky bastard you were.

“Fuck, babe… that’s how a man claims his girl. Not with rings. Not with vows. With cum.”

You grabbed your phone from the coat pocket, snapped a pic of her dripping on your cock.

“For the bros,” you muttered.

Caption: “Bred her good. #GodsPlan #FitnessAndFaith #AlphaForLife”

Send.

You came hard — with a roar that shook the trees — flooding her, filling her. Claiming her.

When you pulled back, sweaty, panting, glowing with pride, she cupped your face.

“You’re perfect now,” she whispered.

You zipped up, no shame, buttoning your sweaty shirt half-assed, your chain glinting.

You walked out of the closet first, strutting, your girl limping behind, legs sticky, dress clinging to her soaked thighs.

People looked up. The air was thick with your stink.

You winked.

“Just makin’ memories,” you said, loud enough for the whole damn tent to hear.

And they all knew—Brad fucking Turner had bred his girl.

Right there.

You smiled, rubbing your sweaty, musky pits proudly.

“Fuck yeah. Brad’s the fuckin’ man.”

You looked down at your body — jacked, filthy, soaked in sweat and sex.

“Let’s go home, babe. I gotta hit the gym in the morning. Then church.”

And as you walked away, her hand in yours, you never once thought of your old life.

Brad didn’t look back.

Brad had everything he needed.

And he’d never be that weak little fag again.

[fynaissance]

rating movies/series about the kennedys

just my personal opinions on all of these! these are rated from best to worst, and i'll update them as I watch more!

The Kennedys (2011) - Would I recommend? YES ✅ i gave this miniseries a 5/5!!! all of the actors were AMAZING, dare I say nearly PERFECT, and the actors for bobby and rose sounded JUST like them. I want to give whoever casted this show a big kiss. it was engaging, it was easy to understand, it was pure, it was emotional and it was, in my opinion, the closest thing we can get to a completely accurate media depiction of the Kennedy family. some liberties were taken, but that's a given. you could hardly tell that the actors were acting. the filming and all of the sets were mindblowingly realistic, it really felt like you just time travelled back. joe sr and roses political and religious dogma, the pressure to be something great skipping down the line of the Kennedy brothers one to the next (with the exception of teddy, who isnt in the show at all) special shout-out to Bobby and Ethel. bobby TRULY cared, about everyone, and Barry Pepper made that touchingly obvious. his acting was great. Ethels energy made me smile every time she went on screen, and I don't think even watching the assassination of jfk in Jackie made me cry nearly as much as I did when it happened to rfk at the end of the miniseries.

Jackie (2016) - Would I recommend? YES ✅ i gave this movie 4/5 stars. You could tell Natalie Portman definitely put a lot of work into Jackie's voice, and I think she played the role well, though there were some moments I was "ehh" about, like things I didn't think Jackie would say/do. There were times where it was really hectic too, like she kept changing her mind on things - but hey, I didn't know her. Definitely had my throat burning the whole time. I remember when Bobby came on I literally GASPED and was like "OH MY GOSH BOBBY!!! AWW!" They nailed Lady Bird, they nailed the soundtrack (its so good I have like half of it on my playlist, vanity I'm looking at you), and, fortunately yet unfortunately, they also nailed the assassination scene. It broke my heart - she looks over, Jack's looking at her, holding his neck where he was shot, and then next thing you know, (well, you know.) I was smiling while sobbing at the end - Camelot plays (yes, THE part), her and Jack are dancing. Overall, it's a really good movie that focuses just on Jackie.

Chappaquiddick (2017) - Would I recommend? YES ✅ i gave this a 4/5. Jason Clarke was PHENOMENAL as teddy; his standing-tall-but-somehow-awkward behavior, his purposeful blind eye and how he constantly seeks to take his mind off of the incident. I mean, you just got a woman killed, and you're flying a kite?! my knowledge on the incident is definitely limited, but to me it seemed pretty accurate. prior to the incident I was on the edge of my seat bed because I knew what was coming. the filming itself was very good, but there were some moments when the other actors acting was kind of thin, if you know what I mean. this movie might be kind of boring to those not interested, though some might enjoy its filming and pacing. but to anyone interested in it, I would recommend!

Thirteen Days (2000) - Would I recommend? YES ✅ the movie that got me hooked on it all! i gave it 4/5 stars, though id settle for a little less as well. I think the casting was pretty good, especially Steven Culp, who was great as Bobby. Jackie is in it, but not for long, and the movie solely focuses on the Cuban Missile Crisis itself, and the many discussions of Ex Comm, and in that way its pretty similar to the book itself. (To be fair though my recollection of it isn't the best, it's been a while since I've rewatched it,) and if you already aren't familiar with any of these people, it might be hard to follow or remember who's who throughout the movie. I only realized like a week after watching it for the first time that yes, "Bobby" was RFK!!! (but I also wasn't paying full attention when we started watching it lol.)

The Rat Pack (1998) - Would I recommend? NO ❌ putting this here because its practically a Kennedy film. gave this one a BLAZING 2.5 stars. wheeew... (the only reason why this movie gets any stars at all is bc of dean and sammy) the film only covers the rat pack during jfks campaign - which Sinatra fawns over - and a very small part of his presidency. I think the only historically accurate thing in this movie was when frank sledgehammered his house bc jfk couldn't come to his house party bc of security reasons. here's just my thoughts on each character that's important enough to me to mention: frank - I love ray liotta but he should've never been casted as sinatra. sounds and looks nothing like him, the singing was dubbed over dean - AMAZING ACTOR!!! very nonchalant, and I'm not even kidding. I think he couldve used a biiiit more energy. but the casting for him was as perfect as could be. sammy - AMAAAAAZING ACTOR!!! don cheadle was great. there was so much personality and I appreciate that they at least did him some good jack - actor was so-so, didn't really look like him, felt like they just casted a white guy with a decent voice impression who could slightly slick up his hair and nothing more. they also REALLY focused on his affairs (and not much more) bobby - his voice was deeper than jacks, it was weird. bonus points for them including him GLARING at giancana and the other gangster. now THATS historically accurate. marylin monroe - hated her acting, im sorry. she just gave off "dumb blonde who always needs a man" and I hate that's what they reduced her to. final notes! they did pat dirty - they put little to no effort into recreating her gorgeous hair!!! and there's also a s*x scene where all of them are doing it at the same time, same hotel, but different rooms. except for dino - he was laying in bed eating cookies and watching tv.

i'll update next time I watch another!

[zluckychap]

my first and only TBS run

page 4

first prev next

[pixiefelixie]

⭑.ᐟ MAKE HIM SNAP: LEE FELIX (NSFW / 18+ ONLY)

: ̗̀➛ pairing: lee felix x brat fem!reader (a bit of seungmin x reader) : ̗̀➛ word count: ~8k : ̗̀➛ content: fluff, smut, felix is the sweetest thing but so mean, reader actively tries to make felix mad, minor injury in the kitchen

part 2 is out!

you make a bet with seungmin: you've got one week to get your boyfriend, felix—who seems completely incapable of getting mad at you—to finally snap. after a series of failed attempts, you figure if anything’s going to work, it might as well be in bed.

author's note: i’ve been on a writing grind lately so here’s a second fic in one sitting because apparently i have no self-control. i’m shitting my balls. i need felix like yesterday. enjoy! ♡

smut warnings below the cut!

: ̗̀➛ smut warnings: hard dom!felix, explicit sexual content, oral (f. receiving), reader has the biggest degradation kink, brat taming, slight edging, light bondage, power play, unprotected piv (don't), missionary, doggy style, semi-voyeurism

you’d always thought of him as sunshine.

everyone did.

even when he wasn’t smiling, felix had that glow, with freckles that danced across his cheeks like constellations and a voice that made people turn around just to hear him speak again. he was soft. gentle. sweet in every way. the kind of boy who folded your laundry before you even remembered you’d done it.

even in bed he was gentle. he was all praise and slow hands. he loved you softly. every time.

which is probably why no one—including you—had ever seen him mad.

not truly.

you were perched on the edge of the couch in the boys’ dorm, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of your hoodie. it was felix’s—slightly oversized and still faintly smelling like his laundry detergent.

you were here because you’d accidentally taken something you weren’t supposed to. a usb, to be exact. felix had handed it to you earlier in the day along with your own, and in your rush to leave, you’d pocketed the wrong one.

“i just feel so bad,” you groaned, glancing toward the hallway. “he said he needed it for something tonight. like, deadline needed.”

seungmin was sprawled across the other end of the couch, legs kicked up, eyes on his phone. he barely glanced up as he responded.

“you’re being dramatic.”

“no, like—really bad. i shouldn’t have—”

“honestly?” he cut in, finally looking at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “i don’t think he’s even capable of getting mad at you.”

you blinked. “what?”

he chuckled, flipping his phone over. “i mean, come on. you could probably punch him in the face and he’d apologize for getting in the way of your fist.”

you laughed despite yourself. “that is so not true.”

“isn’t it?”

you opened your mouth to argue—but then the front door opened.

felix stepped in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. his eyes found you immediately.

“hey,” you said, standing. “i brought it. sorry again, i seriously didn’t mean—”

“shh.” he was already moving toward you, gentle hands coming up to cradle your arms, thumbs brushing soothingly against the fabric of your his hoodie. “don’t stress, angel. it’s okay.”

“but you said you needed it for tonight,” you mumbled, guilt creeping up your spine. “i should’ve double-checked—”

“and i should’ve labeled mine.” he gave a small laugh, pulling you closer, tucking your head under his chin with that easy warmth that always made your chest flutter. “it’s not a big deal. really.”

you swore you saw seungmin choke on a laugh in your peripheral vision.

your eyes flicked sideways, just in time to catch him turning away, phone suddenly so interesting he might’ve been reading the terms and conditions. his shoulders were shaking, just barely.

felix either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

“i’m gonna head out again to drop this off,” he said, voice still soft, fingertips lingering at your elbow for a second longer before letting go. 

you nodded, brushing your hair back behind your ear. “right. of course.”

“thanks for coming all the way back,” he added, gaze warm and fond, like you’d just done something heroic instead of, well, returning the thing you accidentally stole. he gave your arm one last squeeze. “text me when you get home, yeah?”

“i will.”

then he was gone, door shutting behind him with a soft click.

and the very second it closed, seungmin’s voice rang out from behind you.

“that was disgusting.”

you turned.

“excuse me?”

he didn’t even look up from his phone. “you took his drive and somehow walked away with a hug, and a thank you.”

you opened your mouth to argue.

then closed it.

“okay, but—”

“nope. don’t justify it.” seungmin pointed his phone at the door.

you rolled your eyes, hoisting your bag over your shoulder, but the words stuck with you. warmed you a little too much. annoyingly so.

still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“he’s still a person. he’s not, like… impervious to irritation.” you muttered, half to yourself, half to the room. “if i pissed him off enough, he’d crack,”

seungmin didn’t even flinch. “tell me when that ever happens.”

you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “you know i’m gonna try to, just to prove you wrong.”

“mhm,” seungmin said flatly, not even looking up. “60 bucks. you have a week.”

“60 bucks,” you repeated. “i’m gonna find his limit,” you said, dead serious. “he has to have one.”

“good luck.”

you’d been thinking about it for days. how to do it, how to gently prod at the edge of felix’s limits without actually hurting him. you weren’t trying to be cruel. you just wanted to see something other than that permanent calm. you wanted to prove he could feel sharp things, too. that he wasn’t made of clouds and soft blankets and baked cookies.

jealousy. that was your angle.

was felix ever jealous? you genuinely didn’t know. he’d never so much as blinked when people flirted with you—though to be fair, you’d never exactly flirted back. you never had a reason to and you never wanted to.

but now, you needed a reaction.

so when your company hosted a casual dinner event—open to significant others and friends—you didn’t hesitate to bring felix. he looked unfairly good that night, dressed in soft black slacks and a black button up that hugged his torso a little too well. his hand found yours under the table the second you sat down, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your palm like always.

you were seated at a long table with a mix of coworkers and guests, plates being passed around, wine glasses clinking gently, hearty laughter filling the room.

he was beside you, close and always tuned in to you.

but the guy on your other side was friendly. talkative. a little too charming. you leaned into it. just enough to have felix notice.

you laughed at something the guy said—tilting your head just slightly, gently hitting his arm in that way that could maybe be seen as flirty. maybe. you were careful.

felix didn’t say a word.

he was smiling, even. still soft spoken. still squeezing your hand every now and then. still brushing your thigh under the table with his when he shifted in his seat. he even leaned in at one point and murmured, “you okay?”

you nodded, playing it cool. “mhm. just chatting.”

felix grinned. that same soft, sunny smile that always made you feel like you were the only one in the room.

“alright,” he said, brushing your cheek with his knuckle before pulling back like nothing was even slightly off.

he went back to being quiet and polite. still engaged in the conversation going around the table, nodding at someone’s story, chiming in with a laugh when appropriate. he didn’t stiffen. didn’t narrow his eyes. didn’t even glance at the guy beside you like he might be competition.

you sat there smiling and nodding at whatever work guy was saying about his vacation to bali, but your stomach was knotting. tighter by the second.

because you knew what you were doing. you knew exactly how much you were leaning. exactly when you let your laugh ring just a little louder, your fingers trail just a little longer.

but felix wasn’t reacting.

or at least he wasn’t reacting the way you expected.

he was still him. gentle. and he could’ve been using this moment to get back at you.

there were plenty of chances. the woman across the table who complimented his accent. the one seated diagonally, sipping wine and laughing just a little too brightly at his jokes. one even asked him how his skin was so clear and if he worked out—which, in fairness, was a valid question.

felix didn’t take the bait. he was polite, as always. gracious, even. gave small answers. thanked them with a nod and a smile. but he didn’t engage.

he didn’t lean in. didn’t offer even an ounce of attention that could be mistaken as anything more than manners.

and slowly—almost like he was aware of your internal panic creeping in—his knee pressed against yours beneath the table. then reached for his water glass and poured some into yours before you could even realize it was empty.

this wasn’t going to work.

you weren’t going to rattle him. you weren’t going to get that possessiveness, that glint of jealousy in his eyes.

because felix didn’t play games.

not with you.

he loved you out loud, completely, and without keeping score. he didn’t need to punish you or mirror your actions to prove a point. he didn’t flinch under pressure. he didn’t crack under quiet provocations.

this wasn’t going to work.

it had been a few days since the whole work dinner experiment—since felix had unknowingly, demolished your plan by doing absolutely nothing except love you the way he always did. respectfully. infuriatingly.

but you weren’t done.

not yet.

jealousy didn’t work, sure. but irritation? that had potential. everyone had a limit, and you were determined to find felix’s.

you were at his place now—technically his and seungmin’s—kitchen lights warm, sleeves rolled up, and flour already dusting the countertop like early snow.

the goal today was mild sabotage. nothing irreversible. nothing that would actually ruin the cake. just… enough sugar to make it way too sweet. enough to maybe make him sigh. maybe scold you a little. maybe just something.

you waited until he stepped away to grab a new mixing bowl, and then—quietly—you dumped in an extra quarter cup. maybe a little more.

by the time he came back, you were standing innocently with the spatula, gently folding the batter like you hadn’t just committed a culinary crime.

he paused. looked at the bowl. then looked at you.

“…did you add too much sugar?”

he caught you. you blinked up at him. “no?”

he hummed. scooped a bit of batter on his finger. tasted it.

and then, smiled?

“if you wanted it sweeter, you could’ve just told me,” he said, voice playful, handing you a towel to wipe your fingers off. “i’m gonna balance it so it doesn’t taste like pure syrup.”

you sighed loudly, dramatic, flopping back against the counter. “this is so annoying.”

he laughed and leaned past you to grab a lemon from the fruit bowl.

“go chop up some of the fruit, okay? i’ll deal with this.”

you looked at seungmin, who hadn’t said a word. he gave you a look that screamed pathetic.

you stuck your tongue out at him and turned back to the cutting board, muttering under your breath.

great. jealousy failed. sabotage failed. what were you supposed to do now? bake the cake upside down? hide the eggs?

you didn’t know.

you really didn’t know anymore.

your plan—whatever it had been—was slipping through your fingers. and the worst part? you kind of… didn’t want to push anymore. felix had been so patient, so kind through all of it, and suddenly, you just felt silly. immature. you had something good, and you were trying to poke holes in it just to see if it would leak.

lost in thought, you didn’t even realize how close your fingers were to the blade until it was too late.

the knife slipped.

there was a sharp sting.

you yelped, the sound cutting through the warm haze of the kitchen as the knife clattered onto the counter and fruit scattered everywhere.

“ah!” you gasped, clutching your hand. blood was already rising.

felix’s head snapped up instantly. “what happened?”

you stepped back, breath shallow but trying your hardest to stay calm. “i just cut myself.”

he was already there. crossing the kitchen faster than you’d ever seen him move, his hands reaching out to check your fingers, but the moment he saw the blood, his eyes darkened.

“what were you even doing?” he snapped, voice sharper than the knife that slipped. he grabbed a towel with jerky, frustrated movements, wrapping it around your wound with practiced precision but no softness. “were you even paying attention?”

your lips parted, stunned. “i—i don’t know, i was just—”

“you weren’t thinking,” he cut in, tone clipped.

his voice rose. that low, velvety rasp he usually used to whisper sweet things into your ear was now slicing through the air.

“for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, shaking his head, “i asked you to do one simple thing. not play with the goddamn knife.”

you stared at him, completely disarmed. not just by the tone. but by how he looked.

chest rising and falling under his fitted sweater, sleeves pushed back just enough to show the flex of his forearms. his jaw clenched, eyes dark with something deeper than just irritation. he looked… furious. and so hot.

your mouth went dry.

you couldn’t stop staring at the way felix was breathing, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying to bite back whatever else he wanted to say. his hands, still stained with flour, flexed at his sides. every muscle in his jaw was tense.

seungmin stood up, crossing the kitchen to the cabinet. nothing was gonna progress if you stayed there ogling at felix's mad state.

he grabbed the first aid kit, crouching beside the chair you’d sunk into. he opened it like lee felix hadn’t just snapped for the first time in recorded history.

“here,” he said, pulling out some antiseptic and a band-aid. “don’t bleed on the tile. it’s ugly enough already.”

you gave him a weak glare, but he just smirked.

felix hadn’t moved. he was still standing there, looking at the floor now, his expression twisted as if he was starting to come to his senses

“you got really worked up there, man,” seungmin said, tone light but clearly pointed.

that made felix move. he blinked like he was coming out of something, then turned toward you—eyes wide now, voice quiet.

“i’m sorry, baby” he said.

you didn’t say anything for a second. just stared at him, still a little stunned by the whiplash.

but even now, with his shoulders slumped and his tone apologetic, he still looked good. still had that anger simmering just under the surface. still had you simmering.

you swallowed hard.

“it’s okay felix,” you said slowly. 

seungmin raised a brow but said nothing, silently peeling the wrapper off a band-aid.

felix crouched in front of you, his hand ghosting over yours. his voice was soft again, almost too soft.

“i won’t yell like that again,” he murmured. 

you blinked at him, and for a second you wanted to say don’t promise that.

because the way his voice had cracked when he was angry. the way he looked at you like your carelessness shot him. the way he was filled with something that wasn’t just rage, but deep concern—you hadn’t expected it to do something to you. 

but he was still doing everything out of love.

even when his voice rose and his hands tightened and his eyes darkened—he was still the same felix. still checking if you were okay. still apologizing even though you had started this whole mess.

and somehow, that made it worse.

you hadn’t even pissed him off correctly. not really. he didn’t yell because you were annoying. he yelled because you were bleeding and he didn’t know how else to handle the sudden fear curling in his gut.

and now he was kneeling in front of you, shame written in every line of his face, like he had done something unforgivable.

you wished he hadn't come down from it so fast.

you wished—maybe more than anything—that he knew he didn’t have to keep being perfect for you to love him.

you didn’t know what else to do.

jealousy had failed. sabotage had failed. even blood hadn’t done it right. every attempt chipped at something inside you—your confidence, your ego, your grasp on what you were even trying to prove. and yet…

seungmin had texted you the evening of the baking incident: [that was a close one] [but it didn’t count. try harder.]

you'd stared at it for a long time.

one last attempt.

if you couldn’t get felix to be mad at you, then maybe you could make him lose control somewhere else.

which is why he was between your thighs right now.

you were sprawled across his bed, hips twitching, sheets clutched in your fists.

felix was eating you out like it was a mission. like you were something sacred, and he had all the time in the world to worship every inch of you.

his mouth was obscene. lips slick, tongue working you open so slowly you wanted to scream. and he kept murmuring things between licks.

felix’s tongue traced a slow line up your slit, lips closing over your clit with a tenderness that made your hips twitch. he groaned softly into you, the sound vibrating through your core like a low hum of devotion, and his arms curled tighter around your thighs, anchoring you in place. every motion was soaked in patience. you were trembling, half mad with need already, and all he’d done was kiss you like he loved you—which, of course, he did.

“taste so good, angel… always so sweet for me, aren’t you?”

“f—felix…” your voice broke on his name, hands knotted in the sheets. he just hummed again, content like he could spend the rest of his life here, lips gliding over your clit, tongue flicking in slow, perfect circles that had your thighs quivering. he was gentle, so gentle. like you were the only thing in the world worth touching delicately.

and maybe that was the problem.

you were panting, already so close and he hadn’t even slipped a finger inside yet. you could feel your orgasm mounting fast, could feel the heat blooming in your belly, the ache curling in your spine, and you knew what would come next. he’d hold you through it. he’d kiss your thighs, murmur praise, make you feel like you were the center of the universe.

you were already trembling, one hand fisting in his sheets, the other tangled in his hair, breath coming in staggered whines. he didn’t speed up. didn’t deviate. tongue curling soft and hot over your clit again and again until your hips twitched and a ragged moan slipped out without thinking.

and then he paused. just for a second.

his eyes lifted to yours, warm and glassy, lips shiny with you.

“shhh, darling…” he whispered, and the way he said it made your stomach flip. “seungmin’s in the living room, remember?”

your chest heaved. right. he always reminded you. because you’d confessed once—embarrassed and flushed, the sheet pulled up to your chin after a particularly loud session—that you hated the idea of his roommate hearing. and since then, felix had always made sure to keep things quiet. to warn you. to soothe you when your voice got too high, your cries too desperate. he’d press a kiss to your throat, a hand hovering over your mouth, shushing you.

but tonight, something changed in you.

you weren’t going to hold back.

so when his mouth dipped again, lips closing over your clit in a slow, gentle suck, you let it out. a high, shaky moan that cracked at the end, followed by a breathless, “fuck, felix.”

he froze.

lifted his head.

his mouth was still glistening, chin slick with you, flushed and beautiful in that way that always made your stomach twist. but his brows were drawn, just slightly, and his voice—when it came—was low and firm, not scolding but edged with something you didn't know he had.

“hey.” his thumb stroked up your inner thigh, slow but deliberate. “quiet down.”

it wasn’t a soft reminder like before. it was certainty a command.

and of course it did something to you.

your breath hitched, thighs twitching around his shoulders as the authority in his tone settled in your chest.

you pouted. just a little. “why?”

his eyes narrowed. there was a flicker of disbelief there, like he didn’t quite believe you were pushing this boundary.

“because kim seungmin’s out there,” he said, slower this time, more deliberate, as if you’d forgotten. “and you hate being overheard.”

you shrugged, arching your back slightly, enough to grind your hips closer to his face again. “maybe i changed my mind.”

his eyes flicked to your cunt, glistening and shamelessly on display, then back up to your face. his expression had shifted. no longer just disbelief. something darker had crept in now. it was possessive and sharp.

“well i don’t want him to hear you.”

the words were flat. he meant it.

you blinked, breath catching.

“i don’t want anyone hearing what you sound like when i’ve got you like this,” he continued, leaning in until you could feel the heat of his breath against your inner thigh. 

you bit your lip, the heat rising in your face. in your chest.

“but…” you started, trying to keep your tone airy. “you always do what i want.”

that did it.

you watched his jaw clench tighter, watched the tension rise in his shoulders, watched the composure crack. just a little.

felix rose slowly, and settled over you, forearm bracketing your head, chest brushing yours as he leveled his face just above yours.

you felt it instantly.

gone was the usual ease in his posture, the pliant softness you always leaned into. what loomed above you now wasn’t your sweet, sunny felix—it was the part of him he always held back, the part that simmered under the surface like magma, always contained, until you poked at it.

and tonight you’d done nothing but poke.

he leaned in again, slow, like a feline in tall grass, and planted his palm flat against the mattress beside your head. his voice was soft now, but laced with something that made your spine arch—authority and control.

“you really think i don’t know?”

you swallowed hard.

“that you’ve been bratty for days,” he said, like it was fact. like it was math. “flirting with that guy at dinner. cutting your hand because you couldn’t stand that i didn’t break. ”

your cheeks flamed, breath catching, but you still held the edge in your smile.

“i was just distracted—”

his hand moved fast, gripping your jaw, enough to make you stop talking.

“don’t,” he said. “don’t give me that look.”

your heart kicked up behind your ribs. he’d never grabbed your face like that before. never interrupted nor spoke like that.

it made your thighs press together. instinctive.

and he noticed.

he dipped closer, forehead brushing yours, and you could feel his heart beating in time with yours.

“you think i haven’t been watching you push?” he hissed. “every. little. act.”

you whimpered, lips parting, but he kept going.

“you’ve been begging for this,” he said, biting out the words. “not out loud. but with every goddamn thing you’ve done.”

you shivered.

“and you think i don’t see you?” he growled. “you think i don’t know exactly what that look means?”

his fingers tightened on your jaw, tilting your face toward his—close enough to kiss, but he didn’t. he just held you there, breath brushing your lips, eyes burning through you.

“tell me the truth,” he said, voice a warning, a promise. “tell me what you want.”

you could barely breathe.

your voice came out thin, cracked around the edges. “you, like this…” your eyes were wide, lashes wet, trembling as you looked up at him. “this is what i want.”

felix didn’t flinch.

didn’t soften.

he just stared, his grip on your jaw unrelenting, eyes dark and unforgiving as they searched your face—saw the way you shook beneath him, the way your thighs pressed together, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked little gasps.

“of course it is,” he said flatly.

you blinked.

he tilted your face up a little more, so much that it hurt your neck to hold the position. his voice dropped, hard and disgusted. “look at you. shaking like a leaf, soaking the fucking sheets—just because i stopped being nice.”

you winced.

but your cunt clenched hard.

his words were true. and he knew it. you weren’t just turned on. you were feral. dripping and desperate, your shame crawling over your skin like fire ants—but still, the burn felt good.

“you’re pathetic,” he said, letting go of your jaw like your skin burned his fingers. 

he pushed you back roughly, your bound wrists catching against the bed as your shoulders hit the mattress. his hands were already on your thighs, spreading them open without care. not gentle.

like you were his and he was sick of pretending otherwise.

“you want to be hated, don’t you? love isn’t it for you?” he muttered, gaze locked on your slick cunt as he stroked two fingers through the mess between your legs. 

your hips bucked.

“well,” felix said, voice like gravel dragged slow across glass, “if that’s what you want…”

his fingers sank into you—two at once, fast, merciless. your body jolted, a high cry tearing from your throat before you could stop it. he twisted his wrist, curled just right, and you felt the tremble start in your toes.

“i’ll give it to you.”

you gasped, back arching. “y-you don’t mean that,” you choked, words splintering on a sob. “you love me—”

“i’m gonna fuck you like i don’t.” he said, without softness. 

his fingers pulled free. you barely had a second to breathe before he shoved your thighs wide, leaned over, and pressed his cock to your dripping cunt—still wet.

he held there.

right at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing just enough to make you squirm, to make your hips buck in desperate little jerks that only dragged the moment out longer. he could’ve slammed in. could’ve torn the rest of you open in a single thrust, left you breathless and sobbing.

but he didn’t.

because under all that dark fire, under the roughness and anger, he was still him. still good. still your felix.

his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking as he looked down at you—ruined and trembling, legs spread wide, wrists bound and face flushed with lust and tears. he blinked, and for a second, just a second, you saw the question flicker through his expression.

“is that what you want?” he asked.

he was still offering you a way out. still giving you that choice even though the answer was clear.

you knew it for what it was.

you nodded, frantic. fast. moaning as you tried to roll your hips, tried to force him inside again, but his grip on your thigh only tightened.

“talk to me,” he rasped, a thread of control still clinging to him.

you blinked at him through the haze, a smile curling on your lips—half brat, half breathless.

“yes,” you said, voice thin and greedy. “yes, i want it. i want you to fuck me like you’re sick of me. like i finally got under your skin.”

he cursed.

low and vicious.

you saw it—the moment that final wall crumbled, the way the storm in his eyes finally spilled over. his cock pushed in deep, slow at first. he wanted to draw it out, make it last.

but then your cunt clenched—tight and wet and fluttering around him—and he snapped.

“you did,” he growled, pulling back and slamming in hard enough to make the bed jolt, your cry piercing the room. “you fucking did.”

his hips snapped forward again. it was harder this time, the rhythm punching out choked sounds from your throat with every thrust. not words anymore. just ragged little whimpers, helpless and high, your whole body jostling beneath him as he used you—fucked you—with none of the gentleness you’d always known.

“you wanted this,” he spat, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his hairline onto your chest as he folded you tighter, pushing your thighs up toward your shoulders to drive in even deeper. “you fucking asked for it.”

you sobbed—messy and wet as the tears finally spilled. they streaked hot down your cheeks, dripping into your hair, your jaw slack with pleasure too sharp to feel good and too good to survive. your wrists twisted uselessly in their binds, fingers curling tight as your whole body tried to keep up with the pace of him.

it was too much.

it was everything.

he growled—an actual growl, guttural—as he looked down at you, at the tears rolling over your cheeks, at the way your mouth opened and closed, begging silently for something neither of you could name.

his rhythm never faltered.

not once.

he watched your face twist with every thrust. watched you come apart. and even then, you couldn't stop.

your lips trembled open around another sob, your voice half-hoarse, but still you met his glare with a shaky smirk, eyes glazed and bratty to your last breath.

“i never knew you were capable of being mean,” you gasped, voice cracking as you arched under him.

he groaned, something between pain and disbelief, and slammed in so deep you screamed, your entire body jolting up the bed from the force of it.

“because i love you,” he growled, voice so low it scraped the inside of your chest. “i’ve only ever tried to treat you well. like you matter. like you’re everything to me.”

he leaned in closer, one hand pressing hard into your hip, the other curling around your throat.

“but that’s not what you wanted, was it?”

you sobbed. not an answer. it was just a pathetic sound.

he dipped lower, lips barely brushing yours. “you wanted this. you wanted me mean. you wanted me to use you, and now you’ve got it.”

his cock dragged out slow, and then drove back in so hard your moan broke on your tongue.

“you never wanted soft.”

you blinked up at him, tears hot and sticky down your temples, your mouth quivering.

“i was—” you panted, a hiccupped cry catching in your chest, “i was trying to prove a point.”

he sneered, not stopping, pounding into you like he wanted to fuck the brat right out of your soul.

“to who, y/n?” he hissed, words snapping like whips.

you moaned, high and messy, because you were still so turned on, because the way he said your name made your body sing even while you trembled.

“who?” he shouted again, voice rising.

and you said it.

whimpered it.

half-mindless, but not mindless enough.

“seungmin.”

felix went still.

then he laughed.

it was low. bitter. a hollow sound of disbelief as his hand slid up the length of your thigh, slow and mocking, his cock still throbbing just barely inside you.

“fucking knew it,” he muttered, more to himself than you, jaw tight as he gave a small, almost deranged shake of his head. “you and him. the way you bicker. the way you look at each other.”

his hand curled around your throat again, thumb dragging over the mess of tears smeared across your cheek. not to wipe them.

just to feel them.

“and of course you’d moan his name out while i’m balls deep in you.”

you gasped, breath stuttering under the press of his palm, legs twitching around his hips.

he laughed again—sharper now, teeth flashing in the low light. “fucking pathetic.”

you whimpered.

“here i am,” he snarled, voice dropping to a whisper, “treating you like you’re mine—spending months giving you everything. holding you when you cry. spoiling you.”

he slammed into you again, cruel and sudden.

you screamed, head snapping back.

“and you’ve been pushing me,” he said, voice quiet, almost calm—but beneath it, something was cracking.

another thrust, hard and fast, punching a choked cry out of your lungs.

“all of that just to prove a point to kim seungmin?”

your mouth dropped open. it was useless and silent, your head lolling on the pillow as his cock hit that deep, devastating spot again and again, your body unable to hide how badly you were still enjoying it.

he sneered. “do you even understand what you’re doing?”

your eyes flicked to him—lashes soaked—and your lips moved, trying to form a denial. but you couldn’t lie.

not with your cunt sucking him in so greedily. not with the moans that still clawed up your throat even when you bit down on them. not with the guilt chewing holes through your stomach while your body begged for more.

“i-i wasn’t trying to—” you whispered, but he cut you off.

“you weren’t trying?”

he laughed. dark and sharp and filled with something that sounded like it hurt his ribs to release.

“you’re worse than i thought,” he spat, pulling out just enough to let the next thrust slam in deeper. “you don’t even know what game you’re playing. you’re playing me, you’re playing him—”

you didn’t know anymore.

if he was really mad. if this was just another version of his anger wrapped in arousal, or if something had actually shattered under the weight of everything you’d done. you couldn’t tell if he meant the things he said—or if he was just saying them because it was what you’d pushed for until something inside him snapped.

all you knew was that your head was spinning, your lungs barely worked, and your body couldn’t stop trembling around him.

“i’m close,” you whimpered, your voice a rasp, broken and high and soaked in panic, “felix, please—”

he didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder.

you were sobbing now, face sticky with tears, wrists straining in the binds as your body shook from the pressure curling tighter and tighter in your belly.

“i don’t think you deserve to cum,” he hissed, biting the words like they tasted foul. “not after what you did. you little bitch.”

the word slapped.

“i’m sorry,” you cried, the words tumbling out, raw and hoarse and true. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean it, i didn’t, felix, please, i’m so sorry, let me cum—”

and for a second, just a second, something shifted in his face. his eyes—not all the way, but just a little—softened.

he looked down at you, at your flushed face, your tear-soaked skin, your body trembling and still trying to push back against him, even through the guilt, even through the shame. begging for him.

he cursed under his breath. a low, ragged sound.

then he pulled out.

you whined—sharp and instinctive, your whole body lurching, chasing him.

“no, please—”

but he grabbed your hips and turned you, until you were flat on your stomach, then dragging you up to your knees. 

he leaned in, lips at your ear, voice back to that whisper.

“all fours.”

you scrambled to obey, tears still dripping from your chin onto the sheets, your ass high, back arched, your pussy swollen and dripping.

he stared for a long second.

then, flatly:

“prove it. prove your sorry.”

he knelt behind you, one hand resting on your lower back, the other wrapped around the curve of your ass—fingers digging in, spreading you open so wide the air hit your cunt like ice.

but he didn’t move.

“you want to cum so badly?” he said, voice low and flat, unreadable, like it didn’t matter either way. “do it yourself.”

you blinked, stunned.

he gripped your ass harder, a sharp squeeze that made you jolt forward, but he didn’t move to stop you. 

“come on,” he said, the cruelty now bitter. “you were so good at playing games earlier.”

your whole body shook.

you whimpered once and then moved. slowly. shamefully.

you rocked your hips back. tentative at first. your slick folds kissed the head of his cock and you moaned, soft and strangled, before pushing further, inching down onto him until the stretch began to burn again. your was cunt pulsing with how close you were, how desperately your body wanted him to take over.

but he didn’t.

“make yourself cum,” he snapped, voice tighter now. 

you nodded, rocking your hips again. you slid down fully this time, burying him inside, your body jerking as your sob turned to a long, high cry. your knees were slipping, your arms too bound to help you balance, and every time you moved your hips, your body twitched with the effort.

he just watched.

watched you ride his cock without rhythm, without grace. his hands stayed on your ass, holding it open, holding you wide for him to see.

but he didn’t help. you were doing it alone.

“felix, i can’t—”

“you wanted this.”

each roll of your hips got weaker. your knees buckled inward, the sheer weight of him inside you unbearable. 

your arms were still bound, chest pressed into the sheets. you tried to keep going. but your body wouldn’t move. 

you shook your head, weakly, voice cracking as you rasped, “i—i can’t… i can’t do it…”

you felt his exhale first—long and deep. then the weight of his hands on your hips shifted. and his voice followed, low and so done.

“of course you can’t.”

you shivered.

“you couldn’t even fuck yourself properly,” he muttered, hands gripping your hips with new purpose. “you begged for this. cried for it. ruined both of us trying to prove something—and now you can’t even finish what you started?”

you sobbed but that was all he gave you time for. because he snapped his hips forward. you screamed, head slamming into the pillow, the thrust knocking your whole body up the bed.

and then he didn’t stop.

he fucked into you from behind, deep and punishing, dragging you back onto his cock with every stroke, the sound of skin on skin wet and violent, your cries rising in pitch until you couldn’t hold anything in anymore.

“isn’t this what you wanted?” he growled, voice right at your ear now, one hand on the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist so tight it burned. “to get used like this? to cry on my dick and act like you’re sorry?”

your throat was raw, your eyes stinging, your body screaming with the oncoming wave, your orgasm building so hard it almost felt like pain.

“felix, fuck—i’m gonna—”

his pace didn’t stutter.

didn’t falter.

“yeah?” he breathed, his voice a rasp, full of hate and heat and something so possessive it twisted your stomach. “that’s right.”

his thrusts turned vicious, his cock pounding into you, his voice ragged and shaking.

“cum then.”

and you did.

you came with a scream—full-bodied, wrecked, your spine arching like it was trying to tear free from your skin. it hit so hard you thought for a second you might black out. your pussy clamped down around him, fluttering and pulsing in rhythmic spasms, gushing slick down his cock in hot, wet waves that soaked your thighs and his lap and the sheets beneath you.

felix groaned. a sound ripped from the very pit of his chest, primal and deep, his pace faltering for the first time as he felt it. felt you soak him. felt you break.

“fuck, ” he hissed, rutting through the mess of your orgasm, the loud slap of his hips against your soaked skin. “you’re dripping, baby, fuck, you’re making such a mess.”

you sobbed into the sheets, body twitching, overstimulation crawling up your spine like static. but he wouldn’t let up.

and then—slowly, like the fire had finally started to burn itself out—his rhythm began to falter. just a little. his groans turned heavier, strained, his thrusts rougher but less precise. his body hunched forward, chest heaving, cock throbbing inside you as he buried himself one last time.

he shuddered against your back, hips twitching as he came inside of you, the warmth of it spilling deep and raw, filling you in heavy bursts. he stayed there for a moment, his hands slowly loosening their grip on your hips, breath ghosting against your shoulder.

then, gently, slowly, his body folded over yours.

his forehead pressed to the space between your shoulder blades. his chest to your back. one hand slid forward and rested just beneath your ribs.

he stayed there, breathing with you.

then, he eased back.

he softly slid one palm down the arch of your spine. then came the slow shift of his hips. his cock slipped out, so tender in contrast to everything before.

you whimpered from the loss and the mess. his wascum already spilling out of you in lazy drips, sliding down your thighs, thick and warm, clinging to the backs of your knees as gravity pulled it down. you twitched from the sensitivity, your body still trembling in little aftershocks, your hips useless, your arms limp where they lay tangled and bound under your chest.

you heard the faint shuffle of a drawer, the rustle of fabric, the hiss of warm water being poured. your eyes fluttered closed, head sinking into the pillow, your whole body too loose to lift.

you barely registered the soft wet cloth between your thighs until it was there. he held you gently, one hand under your hip to tilt you, the other cleaning you with slow, careful strokes, wiping away the slick, the sweat, the release still dripping out of you.

he then settled you on clean sheets, wrapped a new blanket over your shoulders.

still nothing.

not a single word.

but he lay beside you, close but not pressed in, his fingers brushing soft through your hair, over your temple, down the curve of your jaw. you blinked slow and you opened your eyes.

and there he was.

your felix.

bathed in the low light of the room, hair a tousled halo of gold against the pillow, freckles blooming soft across his cheeks, lips pink and parted just barely. he looked tired. beautiful. like something that shouldn’t exist outside a dream.

you loved it. all of it. the softness now. the brutality before.

the way he made space for every version of you. the way he let himself be more than just the sun.

“i love you, felix.”

his hand stilled, resting against your cheek. his eyes softened then blinked, and they turned glassy.

“i love you too,” he whispered, his voice low, husky, still thick with the weight of everything.

you gave a little smile, lids already starting to droop again, your limbs heavy under the blanket he’d wrapped around you.

“i wouldn’t want you any other way,” you murmured.

that made him laugh.

and then you laughed too. barely a sound, more breath than voice, your smile curling into the pillow as your eyes slipped closed again.

he stayed beside you.

his fingers returned to your hair, softer than ever now, smoothing it back from your face as your breathing evened out, your body finally letting go.

and when you fell asleep, it was in silence.

the next morning, you woke slowly—warm, sore in all the right places, and still tangled in the soft scent of felix. the sheets around you were a little crooked, the pillow beside you empty.

you blinked blearily and reached for your phone, but it wasn’t the screen that caught your eye.

there was a note. folded and sitting neatly on the nightstand.

recording right now, but i’ll be back soon. pour yourself a cup of coffee. i love you! – lix ♡

you smiled—small, sleepy, still a little ruined from the night before. the words made your chest ache and flutter all at once. he hadn’t said anything heavy. no apologies. no over-explanations. just soft and simple. just felix.

you stretched out your limbs, wincing slightly at the ache before dragging yourself out of bed and into one of felix’s oversized sweaters and boxers. 

barefoot and quietly smug, you padded down the hallway into the kitchen.

and there he was.

seungmin.

leaning against the counter in sweats and a hoodie, eyes fixed on his phone, coffee half-drunk on the table beside him. he looked up when he heard you and you did what anyone would do after getting absolutely obliterated in the next room over by his bandmate.

you pretended nothing happened.

“morning,” you said, voice light, moving straight to the coffee pot. “didn’t think you’d be up.”

“i’ve been up,” he said simply.

you nodded and reached for a mug—felix’s, the pale blue one with the tiny chip in the rim—and poured yourself a cup. steam curled up around your face, and you focused on it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

and then you felt it.

his presence. he stepped closer. closer.

you didn’t dare turn around.

then, casually—like it was nothing—he reached over your shoulder and set something on the counter in front of you.

sixty bucks in cash.

you stared at the bills for a second.

then turned.

slowly.

seungmin was already taking a sip of his coffee, eyes flicking to yours over the rim of his mug.

“congrats.”

your mouth twitched, the corner pulling into the smallest smile.

you looked down at the cash again and without saying anything, you plucked the bills off the counter and shoved them straight into the front pocket of felix’s hoodie like you’d just been handed your trophy.

“you really thought i wouldn’t pull it off?” you asked, turning back to your coffee, tone breezy.

“i hoped you wouldn’t,” he deadpanned. “i was rooting for the soft boy.”

you huffed a laugh, lifting the mug to your lips. “he’s still soft.”

seungmin gave you a long, dry look.

you shrugged, eyes twinkling over the rim. “...just not all the time.”

he snorted.

then leaned back against the counter, sipping slow from his mug. “so,” he said casually, “how’d you do it?”

“do what?”

“make him snap.” 

you licked your lips, fighting another smile. “i might’ve… slipped your name in there a few times.”

his eyes narrowed, slow. “yeah?”

“just—it got him pretty worked up.” you said, laughing as you set the mug down. seungmin stared for a beat.

then—he rolled his eyes. “of course it did.”

there was a long pause. not uncomfortable. just tension.

he said, quiet but clear, “tell him he doesn’t have anything to worry about.”

you nodded.

“i will.”

you stepped back slowly, letting the silence hold, and turned toward the hallway—when the front door clicked open.

both your heads turned.

felix stepped in, hair tied back, hoodie sleeves bunched at his elbows, a little windblown from the walk. his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“hey, angel,” he said, smile so warm it melted straight into your ribs.

you crossed the room in a few slow steps, rising onto your toes to meet him halfway. your hand curled around his jaw, thumb brushing the skin just below his cheekbone, and you kissed him.

his other hand found your waist immediately, like muscle memory, pulling you in as he smiled against your lips. he pulled away just enough to wrap his arms around you, tucking you into his chest. his chin rested lightly on top of your head, breath warm as it fanned through your hair.

you melted into him, your hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie, fingertips grazing the bare skin at his waist. his heart beat steady against your cheek, and you let yourself breathe him in.

then, behind you, a shift in the air.

felix’s gaze lifted—over your shoulder.

met seungmin’s across the room.

you didn’t see what was unraveling between the two of them.

after a moment, you pulled back slightly, enough to tilt your head and meet his eyes.

felix looked down at you with a smile. and that was all you needed.

[iydiamartinx]

RIDDLE ME THIS, HOODS GOT A GIRL?

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources & thecutestgrotto word count: 1.7k synopsis: The Bats need information, Jason has an informant...who might also be more. a/n: I feel so utterly single writing these imagines, but I only want one of the bat boys 😭

The night sky over Gotham shone with its usual smog-streaked clouds faintly glowing orange from the city’s lights.

Inside the Batcave, it was a whirl of activity as the team tried to figure out the Riddler's location.

“We need someone who knows Riddler’s movements—someone who’s worked with his patterns recently,” Bruce said, gaze narrowed on the glowing map display.

Jason leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, helmet tucked under one arm. “I’ve got someone.”

Tim paused mid-keystroke. “You’ve got someone?”

Dick raised a brow. “Someone you’re willing to share with the class?”

“She’s not exactly a people person,” Jason said with a lazy shrug, already turning to leave. “But she’s solid. I’ll get the info.”

“No way,” Damian said flatly. “If there’s an informant involved, we’re all going.”

Jason sighed. “She’s not exactly an informant.”

“But she has intel,” Dick added, voice teasing. “And you just happen to be the one she’s willing to talk to? Sounds suspicious.”

Jason shot him a look that could’ve cracked concrete. “Just stay out of the way.”

They met you beneath the derelict train yard off Kane Street—barely lit, long forgotten, and exactly the kind of place no one stumbled into by accident. The rusted metal groaned in the breeze, and the distant hum of Gotham felt muted here, swallowed by shadows and silence. You were already waiting, perched atop a decaying train car like a sentinel, one leg bent, the other dangling with casual ease.

The moment they stepped into view, you jumped down with fluid grace, boots landing soundlessly on the gravel below. The black and steel tactical gear you wore clung to every sharp line of your body, outlining lethal efficiency. Twin pistols were strapped tight against your thighs, and the half-raised hood left your expression mostly concealed—save for the sharp glint of your eyes.

“You’re late,” You said, voice low and smooth.

Jason smirked beneath the helmet. “Traffic.”

“Uh-huh.” You didn’t sound convinced.

That was when Nightwing stepped forward, all charm and sunshine grins, as if that smile of his could melt any armour. “And who might you be, gorgeous?”

Your eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. “Not interested.”

Tim coughed into his hand, clearly trying to hide a laugh. Damian smirked, crossing his arms with a tilt of smug satisfaction. Both of them had encountered you before—brief run-ins during missions that didn’t last long. You were direct. Cold. All business. No patience for pleasantries or ego-stroking.

It was one of the reasons Bruce was even considering pulling you into the fold. Claiming, he needed more serious people but everyone was sure he needed someone who brooded as much as him. But tonight you didn’t seem as broody.

Jason tilted his head. “Play nice.”

“I am,” You shot back, then turned back to him—and your tone shifted. 

You took a few deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between you and Jason until the toe of your boot nearly touched his. Your fingers reached out, grazing the edge of his chest armour.

“You look good, Hood,” you said, voice low and sly. “Still wearing red for me?”

Jason’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk pulling beneath his helmet. “Figured it hides the blood.”

Your lips curved into dark dangerous amusement. “You always did bleed pretty.”

A cough from behind broke the charged silence.

“I didn’t know you two had met,” Tim said, cautious, eyes flicking between the two of you.

“We’ve crossed paths,” you replied smoothly, gaze still locked on Red Hood like no one else existed. “Several times.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, his stance loose but alert. “She saved my ass once.”

“And he returned the favour,” You replied.

“You got something for me?” he asked, jumping into business.

You reached into her jacket, producing a drive between two gloved fingers, holding it just out of his reach. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

“You know what I want,” You crooned.

Jason’s reply was steady, unwavering. “You know I always deliver.”

That earned a smirk from you. You leaned in just a touch more, voice a soft purr. “You gonna say please, Hood?”

Jason reached out, his hand closing lightly around your wrist. The grip was firm, a warning more than a threat. “Don’t push.”

Your eyes sparked with interest—delight, even. “Oh, but it’s so fun.”

Still, this time, you relented. Slowly, purposefully, you stepped closer and tucked the drive into the utility pouch strapped at his hip. Your hand lingered there longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the gear, grazing the curve of his waist.

“Under Tricorner,” you said quietly, close enough now your breath warmed the space beneath his helmet. “He’s nesting under the old cathedral ruins. You’ll want to take the west tunnel—avoid the gas traps.”

“Appreciate it,” he replied, but his voice was a little rougher now.

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You always know how to say thank you.”

And then, with the same casual audacity you wielded like a blade, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the underside of his helmet leaving behind the faintest mark of your lipstick

Backing away, you turned on your heel, already fading into the fog that clung to the edges of the train yard. But your parting words were clear. “You know how to find me… to pay up, Hood.”

Then you were gone, swallowed by the dark as if you’d never been there at all.

The boys stared at Jason in stunned silence.

He turned slowly, expression unreadable beneath the helmet, and said dryly, “What?”

Dick blinked, visibly thrown. “You and her?”

“I told you she’s not a people person and…” Jason shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “We’ve got history.”

“I—how long has this been happening?” Tim asked, looking genuinely lost.

Jason was already walking past them, shoulders relaxed, “Long enough.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, trailing behind. “What kind of payment is she demanding from you?”

Jason didn’t even look back.

“None of your business, Demon Spawn.”

LATER THAT NIGHT

Riddler had been taken care of and Jason was finally off the clock. But instead of heading to his apartment, he headed over to another.

He slipped through the open window, careful not to get tangled in the curtains as they fluttered in the warm breeze. The light in the kitchen dimmed low. The soft trace of gunmetal and something sweeter, like vanilla lingered in the air.

His armour peeled off piece by piece, left in a silent trail across the hardwood. Chest plate. Gloves. Utility belt. Boots. Until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

The bedroom door was cracked. Light from the street spilled across the bed in thin golden ribbons, illuminating the figure curled beneath the sheets.

She was there. Tucked into the centre of the mattress, tangled in a nest of linen and shadows. His shirt—an old, faded thing he’d once bled in and meant to throw out—was all she wore, slipping off one shoulder and riding high on her thighs.

She always looked like a contradiction like that. Sharp in every moment of the night—cold eyes, cutting voice, touch like a weapon—and soft here, in the early mornings. Laid bare and defenceless in the place no one else got to see.

Jason paused in the doorway, his breath catching for reasons he didn’t want to name. He didn’t get softness often. He didn’t let himself want it. But here… here it waited for him.

Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fanned against her cheeks, one hand curled beneath her chin.

He moved quietly, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he settled behind her. She stirred—just a little—but didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t need to. Her body curved instinctively back into his.

“Mm,” You murmured, barely a whisper. “Thought I felt you…”

Jason’s voice was rough, low against your ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Liar.” Your voice was sleep-drenched, teasing. “You always do.”

He let his arm curl around your waist, pulling you close until your back was flush against his chest, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck.

“Riddler’s out of the picture,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Gotham’s quiet… for now.”

You smiled against the pillow, but it was fleeting—because a heartbeat later, you moved.

With a slow arch of your spine and a shift of muscle, you rolled, tossing your leg over his hip in one fluid, practiced motion that had him flat on his back before he could blink. You were straddling him now, perched above with that smug, lazy grin he’d come to recognize—and maybe dread just a little.

“Which means,” you purred, voice low and velvet-rich, “it’s time for you to pay up.”

Jason huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half groan. “You made that up,” he muttered, eyes narrowing like he was trying not to smile. “You spun that whole ‘transactional intel’ stuff just so my brothers wouldn’t find out about us.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence as your fingertips ghosted over his chest—trailing from the dip of his collarbone to the ridges of muscle, your nails skimming along the old scar just over his heart, making him twitch. “Doesn’t matter,” you whispered, leaning down so your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “You agreed to the terms.”

Your voice dropped to a sultry murmur, wicked with promise. “And what I want… is you. All to myself. For the next few days. No patrol. No Bat drama. Just you. That’s how this works, baby.”

His arms encircled you before you could fully retreat, keeping you flush against him. One hand tangled into your hair, possessive and grounding, while the other slid along your thigh, reverent and slow, stopping just beneath the hem of his shirt that barely covered you.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice husky now, low and warm.

“Guilty,” you breathed, lips brushing against his.

And then he pulled you down.

The kiss wasn’t hurried. Deep and warm, burning slow and sure as his hand tightened in your hair and yours slid along his ribs. You melted into him like you always did.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to press his forehead against yours. His voice was barely more than a breath.

“You know you always have me to yourself.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Good. Because I don’t share.”

Jason smirked, voice low and rough. “Wouldn’t let you if you tried.”

[kismetlotts]

cw: mentions of oral sex, first date with Simon Riley, Simon is very awkward, drabble

Simon Riley being such an awkward and blunt individual when it comes to dating- it freaks you out because you don't know where you stand. In the SAS, Simon was a cold-hearted bugger, even to his own team. There was little they knew about him and he liked to keep it that way because when things were private they were easier to deal with. What would the point even be filling his teammates, co-workers, in on private matters?

He was impassive. Socially awkward but not in the shy, anxious way people would assume. He could never read the room or bring himself to give a shit, he did what he wanted and took little to no notice of what others though. It sounded fine, and for the most part it was.

But dating was fucking hard- being paired up with real whiny, bitchy women who would just complain over every minuscule thing- fucking hell, he wasn't a goddamn therapist. He didn't have time for people like that- his job showed him how short and vague life can be and he wasn't letting anyone waste his valuable minutes. He hated dating, hated putting himself out there just to come back home and sight in relief at the emptiness- he hated everything about it until he went out with you.

Your first online interaction was a mess of you trying to use some god-awful pick-up line that everyone aside from Simon could comprehend. 'What that mean?' and 'Ok.' Being your only two responses and what the hell, you were intrigued. He was just so- cutting? So rambunctiously dull in a careless manner, you couldn't help but wonder what he was life in real life. And after a few more messages back and fourth, there was no need to wonder anymore.

You drove to the restaurant you were meeting at yourself as he didn't even offer to come pick you up. His overwhelming chivalry and charm, clearly seeping in through his actions already! But honestly you were glad that he didn't. It gave you an exit just in case the date was bad and you just had to leave. Driving there yourself on the first date wasn't anything out of the norm anyway but you were used to men offering most of the time.

You greeted each other at the entrance and you were not expecting from a few blurry selfies of him to be so tall and jacked. Muscles only just squeezing out the armholes of his shirt as he nodded to you and walked inside. Not opening the door for your or even bothering to hold it after himself- nope. Just walking inside as casual as he can be; you couldn't contain your laugh.

He ordered what he wanted to eat, letting you order what you liked as well and the two of you finally got to talking. You shared things about yourself, listened to his deep, gruffly voice share things about him and honestly- it was probably the weirdest yet the best date you had ever been on.

You weren't used to people being like this and it made you surprisingly comfortable and not so on edge as usual. There had been dates that you had gone on that you thought were great; you felt a connection, they said they reciprocated but after it was over ghosted and blocked you for some reason. It hurt you every time and with Simon, you felt like that wouldn't be the case. He seemed like the kind of person that wouldn't mess about and wouldn't still be at the table if he felt nothing.

The food came and Simon dug straight into his steak. Your cheeks warming slightly at all the people sat around the two of you, eating softly, chuckling and sipping on red wine meanwhile Simon just enjoyed himself. His chin was dripping from the juice, fingers messy because despite the knife and fork he made an attempt to use- it was just easier with his hands. Deep brown eyes catching your own and blinking in confusion. His chest fluttered at the sound of your chuckle, a small smirk inching onto his face and he hadn't felt this relaxed with someone in months. He hadn't felt able to be himself.

The dinner went on as you swallowed and picked at your food, not wanting to scare him away or embarrass yourself which was stupid given how messily and carelessly he ate. You knew he probably wouldn't care at all but still- you did it anyway. Looking up at him as you placed your fork in your mouth, catching him sucking his fingers clean. Fucking hot. The lighting was so warm- and suddenly the room felt burning hot. The electricity between the two of you, high voltage and you bit your bashful smile down. Stomach aching in arousal as he sat back in his chair watching the way your lips chewed and swallowed.

"I want to eat you out."

And you almost choked. It was so calm, so nonchalant as it practically just leaked from his mouth. No awareness, no worry for who else might have heard him say that- simply just placing his cards upon the table and informing you of what he was thinking about. Horror coating his face as he saw you splutter and choke on your words, mouth agape in shock. He didn't mean to say anything wrong- he thought that was how it was supposed to go, was it not?

Handing you a napkin and sitting forward a little more as he apologised with a guilty smile. You shook your head, mind still spinning from his words and body boiling with a newfound sexual desire. Sipping on the glass of your drink to calm yourself as you assured him it was fine, telling him it was no big deal.

But, holy fuck.

[ttsukiimi]

───〃★ C’MERE, BRING THAT D⍣CK HERE .ᐟ

〃★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ⎯ You’ve been a good wife—you really have! But when your husband’s boss confronts you about him cheating with his secretary, you just can’t help but take up his offer to get back at him.

〃★ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⎯ nanami x fem!reader, gojo x fem!reader, Sukuna x fem!reader, geto x fem!reader, cheating (not reader), smut (mdni), exhibitionism (sukuna, gojo), slight n⍣pple play, slight cl⍣t play, slight creamp⍣e (geto), full Nelson (gojo), office s⍣x.

〃★ 𝐚/𝐧 ⎯ I was gonna add toji but realized his broke assss not the boss of anyone🤧

────〃ଘ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 - NICE ‘N SLOW

The wooden legs of his desk scrapped against the floor with every deep thrust, important paperwork scattered all over from how much he had you squirming from his slow, calculated movements. Your nails dug into the wood, scratching and latching onto the edge as your back arched, a cry of pleasure bubbling from your throat.

Was this wrong somehow? No. Your cheating scum of a husband should receive the treatment he’s given you. And you almost wished he’d walk in on the sight of his boss balls deep in his wife. Well, ex-wife, anyway.

Nanami leaned in to your ear and you shivered, feeling his breath fan past your neck, smelling his cologne and—fuck, you could feel his muscles through this suit against your back. “Hope you’ve finally found your worth. He never deserved you.”

His words entered one ear and came out the other with how hazy he had you feeling, cock penetrating you over and over in a cycle that had you feeling delirious. Your head spun, and the world seemed to blur from existence—except for Nanami; his hands, his words, his voice.

“I’ll make you feel better—cum better than he ever has.”

────〃ଘ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 - I’LL DO IT INSTEAD

Now, Satoru had always had his eyes on you. From the very first moment you came into the office, bringing your husband his forgotten lunch, he knew he had to have you. The whole interaction left him feeling bitter anyway—he only waved you off after he grabbed his lunch and refused to kiss you in front of his colleagues.

What kind of man was he?

Satoru had no problem fucking you in front of him, though.

You watched your husband’s wide eyes, embarrassed but basking in your sweet revenge. A smirk graced Satoru’s lips, his own focused on your husband’s flickering gaze from how he split your cunt open so lewdly to your bouncing tits as if in a trance.

“‘S how’s it feel? Watching your pretty little wife get ruined?” He breathed, strong arms folding you further into the full Nelson position he had you locked in. “You turned on, hm? Seein’ her lil’ cunt get fucked?”

Your eyes closed and your tongue lolled out, head thrown back onto Satoru’s shoulder as your hand came down to pinch your pulsing clit in circles.

Satoru peppered kisses upon your jawline and stopped by your ear. “Why don’t you tell him how good ‘m making you feel?”

────〃ଘ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 - DO IT BETTER!

You’d always had your eye out for your husband’s particularly hot and intimidating boss, though you’d always stray your gaze away from him out of respect and loyalty. Respect and loyalty that your husband never seemed to reciprocate.

And when his boss finally confirmed that he was cheating on you—you’d finally given into your fantasy of fucking him.

But this isn’t how you imagined your fantasy would go.

Everyone’s eyes were glued to you, either out of fear of what Sukuna would do or out of pure infatuation from how wet your cunt was. You sat on Sukuna’s lap, legs spread open for anyone and everyone to see—even your spouse whose face was a mix of anger and confusion.

He didn’t have the right to be mad right now.

You were almost about to curse him out when Sukuna slid in with one swift thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, tears already welling in your eyes as he began to move without giving you even a second to adjust to his abnormal size.

He bounced you on his lap, heavy balls smacking against your ass so loudly it resonated throughout the meeting room. His big hands groped your chest though your blouse, practically ripping it off you.

“I’ll show you fuckers how to properly fuck a pretty lil’ thing like her.”

────〃ଘ 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 - LIKE YOU DESERVE

Heat creeped up into your face. You hadn’t expected your day to amount to anything—considering your husband’s boss had told you about his affair just a day before—but there you were, sat on the same man’s lap as he fucked up into your cunt.

I’ll fuck you like you deserve. Those were his words—the words that got you here in the first place.

Suguru’s fingers toyed with the hood of your clit, pinching the nub of nerves in such a gentle yet pleasurable way that had shocks of electricity rocking through you. Your legs shook and quivered with how wide he had you spread them, muscles beginning to feel sore after some amount of time.

But Suguru hadn’t had his fill yet, he had to show you—make you feel what your husband couldn’t do to your body. So, with his cock still pumping in and out of you recklessly, two fingers entered your mouth while his unoccupied hand pinched and twisted your hardened nipples.

“Suck,” he ordered, and you did. It was almost embarrassing how fast you complied, wrapping your tongue around his thick digits as you suckled on them, excess saliva dribbling down your chin.

And it was all so lewd. The ring of cum coating his cock from both your multiple orgasms, your red and pulsing clit, your moans—and shit. If Suguru knew one thing it was one thing only; he would keep his promise and fuck you like you deserve.

[screampied]

❝ HELL ON HEELS . . ! ❞

ᡴꪫ sum. it's your third day on the job as a flight attendant. you work around a lot of snobby rich elites, but a particular one catches your eye. a particular one who tips you $300 dollars in cash and wants way more than just your uninvited attention.

wc. 6.5k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy!gojo au, this is how gojo and reader meet, mile high club trope, flight attendant reader, age gap (early twenties/early thirties), semi public sēx, praise kink, degradation, dry humping, squırting, spanking, edging.

an. thank u to everyone who voted for this on the poll <3

➤ sd!gojo masterlist

the low-pitched whirring of the plane’s engine was quite loud. white noise could be heard through first class as you walked alongside the aisle. with a heavy sigh, you’d just wish the day would be over. the overall duration of the flight was about a good two hours, not too bad but you were already over it. dealing with haughty a-list celebrities or elites as a whole wasn’t for the weak. a majority of them were rude, snobby, and just stuck up individuals. except for one . .

as thick pieces of rubber stick against your heels and clank against the carbon fibre floor, you sashay through and from the rows before a cheeky voice calls over to you. “excuseee me, miss ‘ttendant,” and you crane your neck to where it was coming from. sat right by the window near the left— draped in nothing but a sable-black tuxedo with a pricey g-shock wrapping around his wrist, he simpers. “do you ahh, mind if you . . ?”

“huh,” you quirk your eyebrows into a brow before he nods his head up toward the cabin compartment above all of the seats. “oh,” you give him a soft smile. he takes a quick glance at your name tag that’s glued on the left side of your blazer. you lean over against him, reaching towards the latch to pull it down. the more you get close to him, the more you smell his cologne. it’s so strong, you were sure it was some kind of expensive designer brand. a small grunt leaves your lips as you stretch before just when you’re about to pry open the cabinet, the plane grumbles with a rude shake. a rude shake in which you fall—right onto the older man’s lap who’s got the smuggest grin.

“we’re experiencing a bit of turbulence up here, sincerest apologizes passengers..”

the pilot mutters through the intercom— it’s blaring through the speakers. he talks for about seven seconds, as well as reminding for everyone to have their seatbelts on at all times before he stops.

as if things couldn’t have been anymore embarrassing, your face lands right into his crotch. “oh my god—i’m so sorry sir,” you try to atone, sitting up and as you’re up so close to him, you take a moment to actually get a good glimpse at the man.

he was pretty, simply no denying it. you knew him from anywhere. gojo satoru, the gojo satoru. the snowy white hair was a dead giveaway.

he was more of a well known business man—a ceo of some hot shot company. he had his own clothing brand, does lots of men photoshoots, and even modeled a bit in his early twenties. although, the more you gawk at him, the more it seems like he barely even aged. gojo looks like he was still in his twenties, he had a bit of a stubble but was quite really well shaved. azul-blue eyes return the stare right back at you as you take in his prepossessing features for just a bit longer.

god, he was handsome.

gojo’s hair was neatly neat, a simple slick back of a sort with a few strands of white hair running down his face. he brings a wrist up to his face to rub his mouth before covertly humming. “. . oh, am i that good lookin’, princess?”

you gulp once he catches you staring, and then it hits you again,

you were still dumbly laid on his lap as he’s gazing into your eyes with the most complacent grin. “i-i’m sorry,” you mumble, cringing at your own stutter. thankfully, it was probably about four am, it was a private jet and only a few other passengers scattered around the sectioned row. sitting up, you rub your neck sheepishly before sighing. “i . . don’t usually fall on passengers during on my shifts.”

“heh well i’d hope not,” he teases. “oh, and don’t worry about getting my luggage by the way,” and his eyes trail you down before he glances at your name tag again. “hm, i think i’d like to request something else though,” and the more you stare into his pretty cerulean eyes, the more you get lost in them.

his eyes were equivalent to a maze, you’re always getting lost in his pretty irises—never finding your way out. “you’re probably all sore from walkin’ around in those heels, how ‘bout you take a little break?”

and he was right. the entire lower parts of your calves were a bit sore, so you do. you take a break . . although,

your 'break' mainly consists of you being hunched over, propped up in front of gojo’s seat with him eating you out from behind like a starved man. your bottom lip feels all numb and puffed from chewing on it for so long. your lips part into an exaggerated ‘o’ as your head’s repeatedly being pressed against the back of the airplane seat in front of you. the softly made material rubs against your face and you moan. some older woman was snoring in the front of it, headphones plugged in both sides of her ears.

thank god, you prayed whatever heavy metal track she was listening to would distract her slumber from hearing your loud, whiny moans.

alas again, by ‘break’, you didn’t expect this but you weren’t exactly complaining either. with gojo’s tongue rummaging against your clit, it had you gasping for desperate various breaths. “s-sirrrr,” you whimper, a lewd smile pursing against your lips. two broad hands of his had your jade-colored business skirt pulled up all the way to the very hem of your torso— just about reaching near your now wrinkled blazer. as you sling an arm over the seat in front of you, you whine once his nose prods against your soddened entrance. “ngh, ‘m gettin’ close again i think. f-fuck, right there.”

“please, call me satoru, baby,” he whispers against your pussy. you shudder from the coldness of his breath aerating against your bare skin—you whine once his palm swats by your right ass cheek, giving it a mean spank. “ooh,” he coos from the recoil of your rear. so pretty, it was quite funny how things even escalated so quickly.

right before he was buried into the depths of your plush thighs, you were just chatting with him. gojo had a charm to him. he was a lot different from the other stuck up elites you occasionally dealt with. he was quite easy to talk to. you make it a habit to talk to each passenger, despite how snobby they might come across anyway.

with him though, he was a pure smooth talker.

gojo showered you with a plethora of compliments. it came natural, it didn’t seem forced—he’d point out your pretty eye color, your hair, just anything. with your job, you were used to getting a few compliments here and there—but he’d go all out, all out in a way where it makes your heart flutter and fly. you’re rutting your ass against his face, loving the way his wet tongue curls into a few alphabetic letters. he’s just filthy. each breath that escapes from your lips as if it was being held captive felt like it was gonna be its last.

“so . . fuckin’ sweet,” he purrs, dragging a thumb down your slit for a moment. gojo takes a second to admire the way you easily soak in his digit, such a breathtaking sight inside. lewd, but breathtaking. “mhm, look at her givin’ me a little show. move your ass against my face a little more, sweetheart. yeah, fuck.”

your heart does jumping jacks at his dialogue. his voice was deep, rich—and seductive.

the silvery band of his watch continues to skim all across your skin as your hips judder. you shiver, feeling yourself about to reach your inevitable orgasmic peak before you moan out loud. you tried to suppress your noises, you did—but it was no use. you’re already biting at your hardened knuckles but oh, his tongue.

every few seconds, he’d break away to spit and slobber on your pussy. his nose consistently smears all against your folds, getting you ten times more wetter than you already were. he’s nasty, making sure you keep that arch for him. your skirt was pulled up and all wrinkled. the teeth-shattering stimulation makes you feel nerves surge all throughout your body like galvanic electricity.

“s- satoruuu.” you’d huff out in tiny pants, feeling your tummy cave in a few times. your sweet moan, its like a tune—a harmony, hell, it was melodic. he’d listen to you whine his name like that all day if he could. a gentle hand of his runs down your twitching leg, giving every part of your body from behind attention.

he was starting to get addicted, you were too sweet . . candied even, it was dangerous. he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth anyways and perhaps you were his new favorite treat.

the raving pace of his tongue was simply relentless. you’re gripping onto the back of the seat for dear life, barely able to keep up with him.

ethereal ivory lashes of his open and close every millisecond that passes. it’s as if time was going slow for you— of course it was though, considering how you were thousands of feet in the air. you don’t know why, but the thought of someone just walking by and stumbling upon you all bent over for a passenger,

not just a passenger but the gojo satoru . .

you’d be lying a bit if you said it didn’t turn you on a bit. you knew it was against policy to screw on the job, in the air at that, but it was the middle of the night and partly everyone onboard was asleep anyway. having some affluent attractive guy right between your thighs, you were living the dream. you thought this only happened in the movies.

“aw, don’t give up on me just yet, pretty,” he soothes a tune against your cunt. after a while, gojo’s speedy flicking of his tongue transitioning to pure sucks. you’re shaking within the suction of his mouth. it’s almost too much to bare yet you didn’t want him to stop. he knows just the right tempo to make you roll your eyes back too. with prying hands, gojo’s spreading open your ass a bit more to lick a deeper area with his tongue. you zealously whine once he playfully uses a thumb to poke against your puckering hole. “mhm, yeah. thaaaat’s it, but don’t be so loud though, princess. i know we’re in the back row but still, heh.”

and with that— he gifts your ass another smack. he proudly relishes in your lewd, pornographic reactions. you’re an entire mess and he’s slurping your fervor shamelessly.

“s- satoruuuu, fuck f-fuck,” your breathing starts to significantly pick up. with your chest continuing to sink in and out, he briefly sneaks his dampened lips away from your entrance to bite near your thighs. the way you were shaking to him was just so cute. the white noise that continues to sing and reverb throughout the plane’s structure grew louder. or . . that was just the ringing through your ears—regardless, it was between that noise and the sounds of your own obscene pleasure that had a competition. a competition on who could be the most louder. your name-tag that’s still pressed against your blazer remains to rub off against the fabric of the seat in front of you.

your perked nipples snag in the process as you’re arching a bit more before a wail dies out your throat. “i- i’m gonna cu— oh!”

“another few hits of turbulence, folks. please stay in your seatbelts. time of arrival should be around six thirty am..”

you bring a hand over your mouth in a cute attempt to silence yourself as you’re meeting your high—listening to the pilot, you sob out a squeal from the inside of your palm. gojo’s slurping you up again with his tongue, your grinding against his face makes him chuckle. with his jaw tightening a bit, he doesn’t care—you were so sweet, he could eat you out all day. not to mention, he was quite thirsty. instead of having you retrieve one of his bags, he was gonna originally ask for a glass of water. but this quenched his thirst a lot better in his humblest opinion. his warm breath fans against your cunt all the while you feel his stubble tickle near the undersides of your thighs. “mmph.” you moan, peeking in front of you to still see the old lady knocked out cold. with the way you were rocking into the back of her seat— you were surprised she didn’t wake up. you were glad she didn’t though. otherwise, you’d embarrass yourself yet again.

with your orgasm still having its moment, you start to calm down a bit. he’s still slithering his tongue down your folds, savoring your taste as if it’s the last thing on the planet. his chin was coated with all of your slick, and he snickers before dragging a thumb to get another taste. “good girl. give it to me, ride my—ride my tongue, uh huhhh.”

a swarm of butterflies wanders around inside of your tummy from his words—his tone, it was so soft yet the dialogue that spoke out was just downright dirty. you pulse between your thighs and it only makes you crave him more.

as you’re still arched over in front of him, you take a few hard gulps to swallow as you’re finishing your perfect nirvana state. ecstasy, just ecstasy overtakes your entire body as he gives your pussy it’s final sucks and nibbles. once he finishes, he’s still sat in his chair. spinning you around, he gives you a warm smile.

“c’mere, sweetheart..”

out of breath and pants snatching out of your full lungs with ease—you move into him with your eyes half-lidded. “. . . atta girl, taste how sweet you are. gimme a kiss,” and you get on top of him. sliding off your heels, you get onto gojo’s lap. now straddling him, you lean into a steamy, hot kiss. two hefty built arms of his wrap around your waist, pulling you in close. once your lips meet, it’s just utterly sloppy.

throwing your arms around him and tugging on his tucked out collar, you deepen the kiss. he groans at your enthusiasm, allowing his hands to glide against every inch of your body. gojo’s fingertips dance against the pieces of clothing you wore, despite it being so few. your blazer was still on and yet couldn’t help but rock against his lap as your tongue parts inside of his mouth. gojo’s head leans back as you’re enjoying yourself. but all of a sudden, you moan once you feel it. 

his boner, right in the middle part of his pants. gojo satoru was hard—hard for you.

he grunts lowly, a hand of his snaking up your leg as you taste the sweet remnants of your own flavor on his tongue. the closer you are to him, the closer you get a nice everlasting sniff of his cologne. so manly, it’s a rich scent that you could never get enough of. it was so strong—roaming through the air so much that it almost gave you a headache. 

“fuck,” he sibilates. a single hissing word that comes from his mouth makes you throb oh so easily. you’re swaying your hips against him and his adam’s apple bobs back in rapture. every few seconds, he pulls away to leave a wet slope of kisses down your neck. a hand of yours tugs against his tie that was neatly worn on him. “damn girl you’re kinda kinky,” and he finally pulls away, teasingly biting on your bottom lip before finally departing. “i’m startin’ to like you.”

“more,” you murmur, leaning in to nip a wet kiss of your own near the crooked crevices of his mouth. naturally parted lips of his twitch, causing him to wryly smile back at you. “i need more, sir. we have a few more hours left. please.”

“baby, you can call me satoru. cut the formal shit yeah?” and his voice was a pitchy low, an almost rasp hidden underneath. a hand of his gently grabs your chin and you’re met with the most prettiest eyes. if it wasn’t his long lashes, it was his celestially blue eyes. so blue that it was as if you were star gazing at a summer sky. gojo satoru a pretty man, no doubt. he hums to himself in amusement at your cute doe-eyed expression, hungry for more. sitting on his boner was already torture enough, you just wanted him inside. 

sure, you were technically working but you didn’t care about that. “satoruuuu,” he’s being playful, a thumb still pulling down your bottom lip. as you’re both maintaining such intimate eye contact, his voice softens once more. gojo’s hand slides its way between your thighs before he raises a brow in a taunting manner. “what do you want satoru to do to you? tell me, girl.”

“t- touch me.” you almost whine out, it yanks out from your throat so pathetically. the throbbing you were feeling behind your panties only turned into straight convulses. 

playfully, he tilts his head with a smile. “yeah? touch ya where.”

“i gotta spell it out for you?” you pout, and he chuckles at your frustrated attitude. you start to jerk your hips against his lap and he holds your waist in place to bring those movements to a stop. “f-fuck, ‘s hard.”

stroking a thumb against your quivering lips, his minty breath hits against your nose—you smell it and it’s minty fresh. a scent of what seemed to be some kind of tangy beverage and a gum like substance. with a mocking tone, he presses a kiss against your nose before jibing. “i just wanna know where ‘m gonna put my hands on this pretty body. that’s all,” and his voice was so smooth, an almost purr. with a chortle, he moves a few strands of hair out of your view of sight before continuing his words. “now now, i’ll ask again, pretty. where do ya want me to touch you? let’s be descriptive this time.”

“between my t-thighs,” you confess, already soaked from him devouring your pussy just merely seconds ago. the shocking friction between both bodies had you feral, had you dizzy, had you stupid.

gojo gradually brings a hand down before you press a hand against his chest, pouting again. “actually, i want you to fuck me. please, satoru.”

“there we go, good girl. ‘n heh, aw i figured,” he cheeses, licking a single stripe up your neck. “mhm, you’ll have to ride me though. ‘s only so many positions you can do on a plane, heh.”

you barely let him finish your sentence before you start to unbuckle his pants. you’re so quick with it. gojo stares at the way you’re so desperate, taking it off the tiny hooks before yanking his belt all the way off. seconds later, you’re pulling down his pants toward his ankles. “ooh,” his eyes flicker towards your chest as you start to align yourself against his lap. you take a moment to stare at his now exposed cock and it was so pretty. lengthy if anything, a leaky mushroom like tip that was a bit reddened. he was so hard too, just gawking at his heavyset bulge that had you almost drooling. gojo leans back, rubbing against his thigh before flashing you a cheesy smile. “wellllll,” he sings. “don’t be shy girl. get on up here. ride all that stress away from work, pretty thing.”

he was so cocky, yet you were so needy. 

as you’re still aligning him, your damp entrance rubs off against the head of his tip. it’s peeling open a bit, the skin that attaches to the frenulum was just so mesmerizing to look at. it’s got a pinkish color, almost red. shortly following, a mere tannish color flushes on his cock near the base down. you moan once he grabs ahold of his length, helping you adjust. 

“easy . . easy baby, i gotcha,” he sighs, feeling your warmth slowly swallow him whole. those short seconds you spend taking in gojo’s dick feels like long, consecutive hours.

you’re dripping wet. as you straddle his lap, preparing to ride him, he slouches back in such a sexy way. manspread—gojo grunts out a single breath as his chest deflates. shifting his gaze towards your cunt, he spreads open your folds to get a better view. “ughhh, look at how she opens up for me. ‘s fuckin’ nasty,” he groans, staring dead at your cunt. you were indeed coating him with your slick from the base down. “give it to me, upside daisey, yeah.”

you’re taking his inches as the seconds go by before after a while—you plop down, feeling him bottom out already. gojo moans, gifting your ass with another spank. “f-fuck ‘toru,” you hiss, knowing that was a non-verbal sign for you to start up your hips. a cooling air that passes through the plane sets against your skin as you move. you whine, feeling his hands trickle alongside the secretive edges of your thighs. “touch me more, l- like that.”

“i don’t remember saying you could tell me what to do,” he meets your eyes as you start to thrust forward. he’s got the most impish grin stretching against his lips. gojo grips your chin for what was probably the nth time within this hour before he grins. “nuh uh, don’t look away. i wanna see those gorgeous eyes,” and he sneaks another wet kiss against your mouth. “ride it like you own it baby.”

you start off realllll slow, 

sashaying your hips up and down against his lap in the most alluring way. all six eyes were on you and only you..

your arms still wrap around him and he’s keeping eye contact with you the entire time. with your blazer practically ruffled and wrinkled, you continue to move yourself against him. gojo’s cock stretches you out in such a way you didn’t even know was possible. your walls craved him, you craved him.

as he leans further back, a hand’s still glued to your ass before he smacks it . . again.

he pats it afterwards, watching a cute sour expression slowly marinate against your facial features. 

gojo giggles at your cute noises, it doesn’t take long before you bury your face into the crook of his neck, gnawing your teeth against his collared shirt. “f-fuck, satoru,” you’d whine out, feeling his grip tighten against your ass. his cologne’s got your head spinning like a merri-go-round, giving you whiplash in all the right ways. “s-so big, stretchin’ me.”

“takin’ it so good, baby,” he licks against the lobe of your ear.  his breath against your neck was warm—not so cold anymore. two rough hands grasp onto your active hips, encouraging you to go more forward, more faster. “good girl, mhm, fuck me like that. use those hips for me, yeahh.”

his dick curves through every part of your walls as if it’s exploring. you feel him reach deep within every part and it’s driving you toward the first street of crazy.

breathy pants skate out from your lips as you’re swinging yourself back and forth against him. “s-satoru,” you whimper, feeling his hands continue to feel against the bare bottom parts of your ass. you could feel the bands of rings he wore rub off against your skin also, so fridgly cold. “f-fuck, ‘s good. mhm, fuck.”

“you’re so pretty,” he groans, the brief sounds of skin slapping resounding through your ears. it’s loud, almost sonorous.

his hair was getting a bit ruffled and unkempt, adding to his suave, mature features.

as he looks off into the nearly empty dim lit aisle, a silhouette appears—someone’s coming. it’s a familiar sound of heels hitting against the floor and you were too occupied of being horny to turn your head. at first, you barely even notice as you’re still grinding against his lap. “oh shit,” gojo gasps, grabbing the sides of your hips, suddenly bringing you to a stop. with a sly smile, he hums against your ear. “baby, don’t freak but i think your co-worker’s coming.”

“w- what?” you murmur, and he makes you spin around, still having his heavy cock hidden into the swollen depths of your cunt. glancing up, it was one of your co-workers coming. in a weak attempt to fix your nearly messed up blazer that was about to pop, you lean against his chest. “who— where?”

as he’s pressed right up against you, you’re met with a playful deep voice against your ear. “relax. act like you’re totally not cockwarming me, obviously,” and he runs a few fingers down your uniform, feeling you shift your hips a bit at his touch. gojo tries to make it look like you were just sitting on his lap, moving a cover over you and him from the waist down. you feel so full, you were growing more and more needy, a pout comes onto your lips because you didn’t want to stop so abruptly. you just wanted to keep riding him, but of course—you were working. “play it cool, baby.”

“um, is everything okay?” one of your fellow co-worker flight attendants, serena murmurs.

with a furrowing brow, she takes in the sight in front of her. you, happily straddling a passenger's lap whilst you’re heaving as if you’d just finish a 5k race. “we’ve been some getting complaints about noises. also, you need to restock the snacks near back. we’re runnin’ low on peanuts.”

“y-yeah, ‘m fine,” you sheepishly nod, knowing how fishy this entire scene might have looked. gojo’s dick was just idly enshrouded into your cunt, just one move and you’d be fucked. technically, you already were fucked. he’s tracing a finger against your thighs before you exhale. “but uh— can’t you restock?”

“i would but that’s not my job,” she snaps with an eye roll. gojo chortles at your co-worker’s attitude, he presses a single kiss against your neck and you almost moan. her facial expressions twist in disgust before she backs away. “anyways, just go restock,” and as she twists her heels to walk away, she utters under her breath. “weirdos. i don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

gojo lets out a breathy laugh as you finally moan again—it’s taking everything out of you and you start up the jolting of your hips again. “f-fuck, ‘m close, ‘toru,” you whimper, the friction feeling like hot static dragging against your legs. “mhm, ‘s good.”

“you’re even more dirtier than i thought, princess,” he whispers, a hand playfully wrapping around your throat as you’re moving your hips back. “i bet your co-worker put two ‘n two together. you could have been a little more believable.”

you’re moaning, his touch sending you more deadly shivers before you feel a coil within you squeeze shut tight. the beat of your heat grows rapid and your pupils dilate from pure pleasurable lust. you’re getting close again, it’s coming so quick that you barely have any time to breathe.

his aromatic cologne nearly blinds your sinuses before you feel against his neck with your palm. “i . . i don’t care if she knows,” you mumble with a scowl, feeling his base continuously rub against your entrance. you’re coating him with nothing but a pretty viscous sheet of your slick. “fuck, ‘m gonna cum again.”

“yeah? what if i want you to wait?” he purrs, his sloping trail of kisses turning into sucks. you whine, leaning into his touch as he’s stuffing your insides full of thick cock. jello—your legs felt like jello, barely even able to move. the warmth against him had you hungry for more. it was addictive, you didn’t know what it was. you didn’t get like this for any other passenger, yet here you were. your mouth croons open, whining out a single harmony at his pace. he’s still making you grind back against him, the tempo having your head going for a spin every time. “what if i want you to be a good attendant ‘n wait just a bit longer f’me?”

“but—”

“nuh uh,” he snickers, bringing a smack to your ass. “wait for me, pretty. this pussy’s gonna make a mess when i want her to.”

and he creeps a hand down between your jittery legs, rubbing a few circles against your already sopping wet cunt. a gasp wretches from your throat as you’re laid back against his chest. the rugged fabric of his tuxedo top whisks against your skin and you’re babbling out sweet nothings.

“f-fuck, ‘m not gonna last,” you whine, feeling yourself throb at the way his thumb brushes against your throat. he’s feeling the vibrations of your gruttural moans and it’s so cute. by this point, you’d already forgotten you were thirty thousand feet in the air. thirty thousand feet in the air and you were getting your pussy destroyed by one of your passengers. 

not just any passenger though, 

gojo satoru. 

he’s panting right with you as you’re just bouncing on his lap, two soft padded hands gripping against his thighs. as you bite your lip, your ass thrashes back gainst him and he hisses. “just like that, pretty girl. shiiiiit, ‘m gonna cum too.”

with his deep penetrative thrusts, it’s got you going ditzy. as he starts to spank against your puffy cunt, he nibbles against your collarbone. “you wanna cum with me, yeah? ‘s that why you keep dragging y’r nails into my leg?”

“s—sir,” you desperately spat, but he spanks your cunt again so you could switch your words around. “ngh, i mean satoru. wanna cum with you, pleaseplease. ‘s good, want it, finish in me.”

“my, well when ya ask like that,” he hums, and you feel the sharpness of his hips pivot. gojo groans, standing up before he lies you back against the now reclined seat. “lie back, baby. actually, changed my mind. i wanna push those pretty knees up to your chest.” 

panting, you lie back against the now lounged seat. gojo flashes you that same sly grin before he lifts up your leg—bringing a sweet kiss toward your ankle. “you can lose your license over this, you know? dirty girl, lettin’ your pussy think for ya instead of that brain, huh?”

“don’t care,” you moan, watching him quickly align his cock against your slit. gojo grunts, feeling you easily swallow his tip up again. your cunt was clingy, he was very much addicted to your slippery sloppy core. with his pants halfway on and hanging down to his ankles, he starts up a rapid pace again. “uh, uh,” you whimper again and again, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist. you’re keeping him warm from the inside, raw moans pulling out of your esophagus like it was nothing. “right there, ‘m gonna cum, please. s-sir, fuck me.”

“satoru,” he corrects you, a hand gripping your chin. pretty blue eyes leer down at you and he’s so close to you. as he’s jackhammering his cock into your sobbing swollen walls—eyes of your own goggle into gojo’s as he’s fucking you silly. you probably look a mess from this view, the heel of your foot grazing down his strong back muscles. gojo hears the sloshing squelches your own pussy makes and you feel the sudden throb arise from his dick. he twitches inside you and it makes his head throw back. after he gains composure again, he exhales deeply, tapping a thumb against your sealed lips.“you don’t gotta be formal when ‘m inside, princess,” and he squeezes your lips together, licking near the bottom. “open.”

you’re whining, his tempo growing quicker and you’re so close. crimson-carmine lips of his twitch into a feral smile once he sees you being so easy to comply. with your lips parting open, you tilt your head back before he spits into your mouth.

“theeeere’s your tip,” he teases, pursing your lips together with two fingers as you swallow. your cunt still gripping against him as he then pulls you into a deep kiss. with your legs clutching around his waist. “uh, manners baby. where’s my thank you?”

“t- thank you, ‘toru.” you breathe, feeling your cunt throb even quicker.

“oh, you’re welcome,” he smiles and he can’t help but giving you another kiss on the mouth shortly afterwards. the lustful stare he’s giving you could almost be described as lecherous has you more sopping wet by the second. with your legs tightly and securely keeping him from breaking away, he groans. right into your mouth, his tongue collides against yours before he sucks on it. as he brings you into a loving kiss again, gojo’s girth has you feeling a sudden arch in your back arise the moment you sit up. you’re being fucking into the reclined seat, his weight almost crushing against but it feels so good. “mhmmm, ‘m gonna cum. gonna spill so much inside of you, pretty.”

“don’t waste any,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around him. you didn’t even care how unprofessional this was. in the back of your mind, you’re thinking to yourself— if someone walked in again, who cares? not you. “please.”

“well aren’t you a doll,” gojo murmurs in a cooing tone, shoving your knees all the way up near your chest. you’re preparing yourself as you’re about to reach your final pleasurable demise. it feels almost tickling, the fat tip of his cock repeatedly kisses against that same spot within you. you’re whines sound almost melodic, not even caring if your pilot a few seats back heard. “look at me.” he taps your bottom shaking lip, leaning in to plant another kiss on your lips. one turns into two, then three, then four . .

and then— his phone rings.

you’re still a moaning mess, feeling your legs just about give out as he’s pressing such amounts of weight on top of you. gojo’s hands fondle with your neglected breasts that laid underneath your blazer. he groans, reaching for his phone near the counter of the seat. with a grunt, he answers. “tch. satoru gojo.”

still snugly shoved deep inside, he’s multitasking. one hand holds onto the left side of your waist, another holding his phone up against his cheek. he’s drilling into you so mercilessly as if his occupation was a construction worker. you whine, the scratching itch never leaving you. once it comes, it comes. “suguru, ‘m kinda busy. can this wai— oh f…fuck.”

in an abrupt gasp, he ends up finishing first. it’s so much. thick gooey spurts pour into your cunt, filling up the insides of your goopy womb. gojo’s peering down at you and his lip quivers. he finished a bit early. too quick, his hand shakes as he holds up his phone before you squeeze your legs against his torso even tighter. for a moment, he almost whines himself. the strong gripping grip your pussy has against makes him swear underneath his breath.

“huh? yeah, ‘m good,” he sexily whews, slowing his rhythm down a bit.

a hand of his snaps, making you look down between your legs.

he gives you a teasing grin and you spread your folds open. it was so much, so much velvety ropes of hot cum that ooze in and out of your sloppy folds. you’ve never felt more warm from the inside. it was a feeling that had your mouth watering, salivating with your sweet, syrupy saliva. your legs were practically mush, and once you finish, you end up gushing all out at once. it takes you by surprise more than anything. the feeling comes like a crashing, unpredictable wave, a fading fade then departures from your body. minutes eventually pass and gojo’s still yapping away on the phone—yet after a while, he decides to wrap it up and groan. “yeah yeah okay, man. i gotta go now. unless you wanna listen to how i sound post-orgasm, heh.”

“what—?”

with a quick bleep, gojo hangs up. tossing his phone aside, he looks down at you—cutely sprawled out whilst chills run down your body. he can almost see you palpitating from said chills. leaning up close to you, still balls deep, he pants heavily. gojo pressed a kiss against your right temple before teasing. “heyyy, did you just squirt on me?” he asks, and he speaks in a sly soft tone.

you don’t reply and he gives you a priggish smile. “you didddd. so nasty, i should make ya lick it off me.”

you did end up squirting. it was so much. so so much.

you’re still having your legs wrap around his waist before you grab onto his wide, stiff shoulders. “s-satoru,” you moan into his neck, getting yet another balmy whiff of his manly musk. “f-fuuuck, more.”

right before he could reply though— the intercom of the plane comes on and it’s the pilot.

“ladies and gentleman, we’ve made it to our destination. local time and time of arrival is six thirty-three am. for your own safety and others around you, please remain seated and keep the aisles cleared until i announce we’re at the airport gates. thank you.”

“aw, boo,” gojo laments, slowly pulling out of your pussy. a pout unfurls against your glossed lips as you feel suddenly empty. no more thick inches inside. the only thing you felt were the leftover masses of his cum spewing out of you. the seats were a mess, he brings a hand down to strum a few fingers against your entrance and you whine. so soaked, he gifts you with a kiss on your forehead before exhaling. “well, think it’s ‘bout time we part ways, gorgeous.”

gojo helps put back on your skirt and panties and you‘re just laid back with a cute scowl as he assists you off your feet. “i . . can’t walk like this,” and he chuckles at how stiff you were— a few droplets of his cum race down your thighs and you almost moan again. you’re still sensitive, throbbing near every inch of your body before he stands up. he’s so lean and tall. as gojo towers over you, you glance up at him and you’re met with that annoying flirtatious smirk he gave you when his eyes first laid on you. “my panties are practically ripped.”

he turns around to grab his suitcases above him from the cabinet and sighs.

zipping up his exposed fly, gojo leans in to kiss your forehead. “ah, well i can always buy you some more,” and then he pauses. “actually,” he grabs his wallet and your eyes widen once he gives you three hundred dollar bills. “i can buy you more than just panties if ya want, sweet thing,” he slides the bills in between your bra before pressing a kiss against your neck. “you’ve been such a good girl,” and he then hands you his business card. it displays his name and a cheesy saying near the front, all his information in bold blue letters too. before walking away with your bawled up underwear, he leans up to your ear for a final time and whispers, “remember though, it’s satoru gojo, baby. ah, and these panties—i’ll be keeping these as a souvenir.”

[mercvry-glow]

all that gleams (18+)

parings. jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary. everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn't seem to appreciate all of the attention you're getting.

warnings. this is 18+ so mdni, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough/jealousy sex, half plot/half porn, sex in the work place, hospital setting, age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s to early 30s), reader gets hit on by men who are not jack, non-consensual touching (patient grabs reader), reader has hair, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. where the fuck do I even begin? uhhhh- so many people asked for a sequel to all that glitters and I never thought I'd actually do it but here we are! I absolutely live for their dynamic, and they're softcore rich which is truly the dream. I'm actually really proud of this, especially bc this is my second time writing any form of smut! as always any and all feedback is appreciated and please enjoy!

wc. 4700+

all that glitters

There wasn’t a person in your life who hadn’t told you getting married so young was a mistake. A newly minted nurse with a shiny new degree, a big diamond ring, and a big house in the nicest part of town—people loved to talk. And they did, especially behind your back.

“Too fast,” they said

“Too young.”

 “She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.”

But they didn’t know Jack.

He’d been your constant through it all. Through the twelve-hour shifts, the night terrors you both had but didn’t always talk about, the tangled mess of silky bed sheets and plain coffee mornings. He never missed a beat, not with you. He always made sure the front door was locked, that you didn’t forget to eat, that you never had to face a bad day completely alone.

Jack Abbot was your storm and shelter all at once.

Still, some days it felt like you were speaking two different languages. You’d grown up with champagne brunches, sorority sisters, and an Ivy League education on Daddy’s dime. Jack grew up fast though—boots on the ground, blood on his hands, and scars no one could see unless he let them. 

His world had edges, and darkness only he could understand. 

Yours had comfy throw pillows and a walk-in closet.

Falling for each other had been a whirlwind, but staying in love… that took work. 

Especially now.

Lately, every conversation felt like walking on eggshells. He was short with you. Distant. And maybe you were a little more sensitive than usual—he always said you felt deeply, cared too much. Maybe you did miss the way he used to look at you, touch you, talk to you like you were the only person in the room.

Now? Now he was somewhere else—lost in his head, behind some wall you couldn’t climb no matter how hard you tried.

And you still tried.

 You showed up to work, same time as him, hair curled, and lip gloss on as usual. Your scrubs were still fitted just right, your badge reel sparkled, and your sneakers matched your pastel compression socks of the day. You were tired, overworked, and emotionally frayed—but damn it, you still tried, for yourself, for him, and most certainly for your patients .

He didn’t even say “Hi,” when you checked in.

Just a curt nod, eyes already scanning a trauma sheet.

Fine. You had a job to do anyway.

The ER was chaotic, as usual. You floated between rooms, upbeat as always, soft-voiced with your patients, making the new interns laugh with your sparkly pens and habit of humming softly under your breath.

That’s when he showed up.

Leo, tall, handsome in a sun-kissed, ex-lifeguard in the Baywatch kind of way, and new. The latest temp nurse from another hospital, and definitely not shy.

“You always this put-together at 7 p.m.?” he said, grinning as he helped you restock the IV cart.

You glanced up from your clipboard, smiling just enough. “Only when there’s new employees to impress.”

He laughed, nudging your elbow. “Well, consider me thoroughly impressed.”

Across the hall, you didn’t see Jack. But he was seeing everything.

You caught a flash of movement in your peripheral vision—him, leaning against the med station, pretending to read a chart. The way his jaw clenched was less than subtle. So was the way he suddenly had something urgent to discuss with Dr. Reese, right behind where you were standing.

You didn’t react. Just went back to scanning meds, asking Leo if he needed help finding anything on his first night. You were being polite. Friendly. Maybe a little intentionally oblivious—but only because it felt good to be noticed by anyone today.

Jack didn’t say a word.

But every time you turned around, he was there. Close. Watching.

He didn’t like it. You could feel it.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt something that wasn’t just disappointment.

You felt giddy.

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

But if he was suddenly remembering the woman he married? The one who lit up a room? The one who still wore t-shirts to bed and nothing else, even when he acted like he didn’t care?

Good.

Let him remember.

The next few hours passed in a blur of motion and monitors—IVs, trauma alerts, vitals to chart and families to console. You stayed busy, focused, but not so focused you didn’t notice the way Jack kept drifting into your orbit.

Not close enough to talk.

Just… there.

Lingering near the nurse’s station when you laughed at something Leo said. Answering the trauma bay calls himself when you usually did first. A silent presence, watching without watching, always just a little too close not to be intentional.

There had been so much to do between learning about coworkers drama, taking care of patients, and dealing with incoming traumas that you’d been on your feet for almost seven hours straight before getting any sort of break.

Still not having found the right time to touch the overnight oats in your lunchbox.

Typical.

You finally ducked into the break room around 2:30 a.m., practically vibrating from a bit too much caffeine and sheer stubbornness. Your sneakers squeaked on the tile as you opened your lunch tote, pulling out your jar with a satisfied “Aha”. You gave it a little shake and popped the lid, the faint scent of almond butter and cinnamon curling into the air.

Leo was already in there, lounging in the corner with a Coke Zero and half a sandwich he didn’t seem particularly interested in eating.

“That looks suspiciously healthy,” he said, eyeing your jar like it confused him.

You grinned. “It’s delicious. Cinnamon, chia seeds, oat milk, with a little bit of honey and almond butter. You should try it sometime—maybe it will lower your blood pressure.”

Leo let out a low whistle. “Oof. She’s cute and judgmental.”

You wiggled your spoon at him. “I’m not judgmental. I’m just stating a fact,”

“Same difference,”

You laughed, shaking your head as you settled on the couch. Your big water tumbler clinked softly on the table as you set it down. Leo glanced at it.

“Okay, real talk. How many cups do you own?”

“Oh at least ten,” you said proudly. “And yes, they all match my scrubs and socks.”

He chuckled. “Of course they do.”

You were in the middle of telling him about your latest homemade electrolyte concoction—something with sea salt, lemon, and maple syrup—when the door creaked open.

Jack stepped inside, silent as ever. No one noticed at first, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar pull.

You looked up and smiled, just a little.

He didn’t smile back.

He walked to the cabinet, pulled out a pod of instant coffee, and started making the world’s saddest cup of caffeine.

“You good?” you asked, casually, spoon still dangling from your mouth.

Jack shrugged. “Fine.”

Leo gave him a nod. “Rough night, man?”

“Same as every night,” Jack said coolly.

There was a pause.

You went back to your oats.

Leo leaned over slightly, stage-whispering, “Is it true you color-code your vitamins?”

You lit up. “Oh my god, yes! You have to! It’s so satisfying.”

Jack let out a breath—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything.

Just something.

Leo turned to him. “She’s kind of a fairy, huh? Healthy, pretty, and scary organized.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just stirred his coffee with the kind of force that made the spoon clink too loudly against the mug.

“I mean, who even makes time for meal prep on night shift?” Leo kept going, still playful, still oblivious. “She comes in glowing while I’m running on vending machine Pop-Tarts and anxiety.”

You grinned again. “You say that like Pop-Tarts are bad.”

Jack finally looked up. Right at you.

“I liked you better when you were sneaking granola bars from my locker.”

Your breath caught a little—not because it was mean. But because it sounded like a memory.

You raised a brow. “You never let me finish the boxes.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move.

“Maybe I liked the distraction.”

The room went quiet again.

Leo cleared his throat and stood. “Okay, I’m gonna grab another Coke. You two want anything?”

“No,” Jack said, a little too quickly.

You shook your head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When Leo left, the silence stretched.

You scooped another spoonful of oats, pretending not to feel the weight of Jack’s stare.

“You didn’t answer my text,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Which one?”

“The one about locking the side door this morning.”

“Oh.” You smiled faintly. “Sorry, I was halfway through meal prepping for us and my mom called... You know how she gets.”

Jack nodded, jaw tight. “You’re supposed to text me back.”

You raised a brow again, but this time softer. “Jack. It was about a door.”

“It was about you being safe.”

That landed somewhere in your chest.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just set your spoon down and leaned back into the couch.

“I was fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”

Jack didn’t reply. But he reached for your cup, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip (not using the straw) like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared. “That has lemon in it.”

He grimaced. “Tastes like a scented candle.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But the corners of his mouth twitched—just a little.

He set your water with a quiet thud, the lid clicking into place like it was holding something back for him, too.

You tilted your head, watching him in that way you always did when you were trying to read what was going on behind those stormy, hazel eyes. “You're drinking lemon water,” you said, voice lilting. “Should I be worried?”

Jack didn’t look at you. “I was thirsty.”

You smiled. “And yet the entire fridge full of bottled water didn’t do it for you?”

He shrugged.

“Grumpy,” you said under your breath, just loud enough.

His eyes finally flicked to yours. “I’m not grumpy.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’m tired.”

“You always say that when you’re being grumpy.”

Jack gave you a slow look—flat, dry, and just a little amused. “You finished?”

“Not even close,” you said sweetly, your elbow propped on the arm of the couch. “You’re cranky, you’re overcaffeinated, and you get weirdly possessive whenever someone’s nice to me.”

That got his attention.

“I’m not possessive,” he said.

You smirked. “Jack, you nearly snapped Leo’s neck when he said I had good handwriting.”

“That’s not what he said, and you know that.”

You blinked, then laughed. “Okay, fine. ‘Prettiest charting I’ve ever seen,’ and he winked. So what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

You stood, stretching your arms overhead in a way that made your scrub top ride up just a little. His eyes tracked the motion like muscle memory.

You stepped closer, toes nearly brushing his boots. “I like that you care about this,” you said, softer now. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time all night.

“You drive me crazy, kid.” he muttered.

You beamed. “So you are jealous.”

Jack sighed through his nose, the tension melting from his shoulders like an exhale he’d been holding in too long. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering a second too long.

“I know you’re mine,” he said quietly. “I just… sometimes I forget the rest of the world doesn’t always know it.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a painful way. In a finally, you’re here with me again kind of way.

You reached for his hand and squeezed. “Well, they do. But if you ever forget again, I’ll tattoo your name on my ass”

That earned you a snort—low and surprised.

“I’m serious,” you teased, squeezing his fingers. “Right across my cheeks. Property of Jack Abbot. Think it’d go with my Bikinis when I start tanning again?”

His lips twitched. “You’re insane.”

“Mm. And you’re stuck with me.”

“I know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, as he dipped down for a soft kiss,  “Wouldn’t change it.”

And there it was.

The part of him no one else got to see—the softness under all that armor he put up. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this chaotic, blood-slicked hospital worth holding onto.

Before you could say anything else, the overhead crackled to life:

“Trauma en route. ETA four minutes. MVA, two patients. GSW secondary.”

Jack’s head lifted, all instinct now. You were already moving toward the door when his hand caught yours.

He didn’t pull, didn’t squeeze—just held.

“Be careful,” he said.

You leaned in again, kissing his cheek, quick and certain. “Always.”

Then the moment passed, and the hallway swallowed you both—he leading, you following, hearts synced in the rhythm of the ER. But his hand brushed yours again as you walked.

The trauma had come in hard and fast—twisted metal, broken glass, and enough blood to soak through your shoes. Jack had been in the thick of it, barking orders, steady hands moving like muscle memory while you worked across from him, suctioning, suturing, stabilizing. For a while, there was no room for anything else. No talking. No teasing. Just the two of you, back in sync, locked in the rhythm you knew so well. It was easy to forget the cracks when the adrenaline kicked in.

But by 4:15 a.m., the ER had slowed to a lull.

The kind that was never quiet, but at least breathable.

You’d just finished helping a resident clean up trauma one when they wheeled in another patient—mid-40s, minor head lac, walking wounded and very, very drunk.

You smiled politely, grabbing a suture kit.

“Alright, sir. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Can you sit still for me?”

He gave you a once-over that made your skin crawl. “Sure thing, sweetheart. For you, I’ll be real good.”

You kept it professional. “Thank you.”

But the longer you worked, the bolder he got.

“You married?” he slurred.

You didn’t answer.

“Bet your husband’s not half as pretty as you.”

You offered a tight smile. “Try to stay still. This part stings a little.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You ever date older guys? I got a boat, you know.”

You glanced around the bay, but the resident was long gone, charting somewhere out of earshot.

“I’m flattered, really, but I already have a boat,” you said lightly, finishing the last stitch. “And you’re gonna feel real silly about this in the morning.”

He grinned, crooked and gross. “Not if you give me your number.”

And then he reached out—his hands brushing your hips in a way that was not accidental.

You stepped back instantly, heart thudding.

“That’s enough sir,” you said sharply, your voice still steady, still calm—but colder now. “I’m going to step out for a minute, since I’ve finished. Someone else will check on you soon.”

You didn’t wait for a reply.

You slipped into the furthest supply closet you could easily find and leaned against the shelves, chest rising and falling like you’d just run a sprint. Your hands were shaking—more with anger than fear—but still. It clung to your skin.

The door creaked open a minute later.

“Hey.”

Jack.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, gaze scanning your face. “One of the other nurses said he got grabby.”

You looked up at him, throat tight. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer that right away. Just moved closer and touched your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he needed to ground himself.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded. “Just… gross. Not the first, won’t be the last.”

His jaw flexed. “It shouldn’t be happening at all.”

You leaned into his hand. “It’s okay. I handled it.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

You looked up at him. “Jack—”

He stepped closer, and suddenly his body was pressed against yours, warm and solid and steady. His hands found your waist, rough fingers curling around your hips.

“I should be the only one touching you,” he said, voice low.

“We’ll get written up…”

“I don’t care.”

But Jack wasn’t hearing logic right now. He was standing there like he could still smell every guy you had met tonight on you, like the air hadn’t cleared yet.

“Hey.” You placed your hands on his chest, grounding him. “We don’t have to do this here…”

His hands squeezed your waist. “You’re mine.”

“I know.”

“You don’t flirt like that with anyone else, right?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Flirt like what?”

“Like you did with that prick.”

You frowned a abit. “I was being nice. He asked if I wanted  something from the vending machine- he asked you too and you looked at him like he offered me lingerie.”

Jack didn’t budge. His grip didn’t loosen.

You tried again. Softer this time.

“I steal your clothes. I come home to you. I wear the ring you bought me, and I’m your wife. I chose you.”

His eyes searched yours—tired, and heavy, with a mix of something else.

You rose on your toes, placing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “I’m yours, Jack.”

And then his arms were around you fully, pulling you in like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe it. Your heart thudded in your chest, a beat behind your breath. You looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips parted.

You didn’t hear him lock the door.

You felt it.

That soft, decisive click behind you—like a promise.

“Did you just lock the door?”

Jack’s answer was a look—slow, hot, and so heavy it pinned you in place. He stepped with the kind of precision that said this wasn’t spontaneous. No, he’d decided the second he saw you walk into the closet room, cheeks flushed, lip gloss smudged, tensions high. 

The second all these guys started paying attention to you tonight. 

Jack hadn’t liked that.

He tried to be quiet about it, like always. Quiet the way a storm is—only right before it breaks.

He stopped just barely inches from you, hand coming up to trace a line along your jaw. His fingers were thick, rough, warm, familiar. His touch didn’t ask permission. It remembered.

“You keep smiling like that,” he said low, his voice a gravel-coated whisper, “and I’ll have to fuck the memory of it out of you.”

Your breath caught—somewhere between outrage and arousal. “Jack—”

But you didn’t get the rest out.

He kissed you.

Not sweet. Not careful.

Claiming.

His hands tangled in your hair, dragging you into him like it was instinct, like your mouth had always belonged to his. You melted into him, your body curving against his like you were built for this—built for him. His hips pressed forward, pinning you to the wall of the storage closet, and your head thudded back softly against the cool plaster as his lips slid down to your throat, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“Locked the door for a reason,” he murmured, tongue flicking against the skin where your pulse fluttered. “Tired of pretending I didn’t want you every second we’re here.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers gripping his shirt like lifelines. “You’re sooo jealous.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes devouring. “Damn right I’m jealous.”

His hand slid under your scrub top, skimming up your ribs, palm flat, hot and possessive. “You’re mine—I can’t fucking stand it when they look at you like you’re not.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” you whispered, breathless, lips grazing his.

His answer was a growl.

Jack spun you, quick and controlled, pressing you front-first against the shelves. Supplies rattled, somewhere above you—gloves, gauze, sterile wraps—but it was the sound of his breath at your neck that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His hands roamed—under your shirt to your tits, over the waistband of your scrub pants, every inch of bare skin he found earning a new kind of heat.

“You wanna be flirted with?” he whispered, voice dragging down your spine. “Fine. But I get to remind you who makes you cum”

You gasped as his mouth met the base of your neck, teeth grazing, tongue following. “Jack…”

“You knew,” he said again, almost reverent now. 

And god help you, you did.

Because you’d walked in here to take a second, needing this—needing him. Not just his hands or his mouth or the way he made you come apart so effortlessly, but this claiming. This reminder. That under all the stress, the silence, the long nights and missed moments—the fire still burned. Hot. Unrelenting.

His fingers slipped lower, teasing the waist of your scrub pants, and you pressed back against him without thinking, needing more, needing everything.

“You’re mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing your shoulder, low and slow. “Say it.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “I’m yours, Jack. Always.”

And that was all it took.

He kept you facing the shelves, a hand coming down to your hips to steady you as he continued to feel you up with the other. “Yeah? You gonna be my good girl, sweetheart?” 

The whimper you let out was pathetic. A low pitched sound that came from the back of your throat, as Jack started to flood your senses. He gave your ass a quick, hard, smack. Hand going back to rub over the spot, as it snapped you out of your daze. “I asked you a question, baby.” 

You nodded, desperately. Already whoozy from the assault on your sense that your husband brought on. “Mhm! Jack-”

He shushed you, gently pushing down your scrub pants, “Gotta make this quick and quiet, or they’ll all know what a bad girl you’ve been.” 

Reaching back, you straightend up leaning into his burning touch, wanting him closer than he already was. You could feel how hard he was beneath his cargos, half chubbed as he ground his hips into your panty-clad ass. 

You would’ve felt embarressed if this hadn’t felt so right. 

Clothes barely off, lazily grinding against your husband in a closet like you’re back in some college frat house at UPenn. 

Jack doesn’t waste anymore time though, hastily shoving your panties down, rough fingers making quick work of finding your swollen clit. The tight circles he does against you, make you feel dizzy—legs already beginning to shake, as if you haven’t been working for ten hours already. 

Your moans are muffled by your arm as you lean further into the shelves, but press your hips back toward Jack. Your resolve slowly slipping, as he dips a finger in your wet heat. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” he groans out softly, continuing as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. 

Then he just pulls away.

Not entirely, still so close that you’ve basically become one. It’s enough for you to whine at the loss of contact, pushing back into him hoping he’ll start again. 

“Why’d you stop?” Jack can practically hear the pout in your voice. The breathy little lilt of displeasure showing in your tone. 

“Sorry, baby. We only have time for one thing, and I’d much rather make you cum on my cock.” He kisses the back of your neck, gentle and loving as ever as he reaches down to free himself from his scrub pants. 

He’s aching, he’s so hard. 

He takes a few deep breaths before haphazrdly stroking himself. Fisting his cock in his meaty hand, already slick after playing with your wet little cunt. 

Jack wasn’t going to make love to you. 

He was going to fuck you like you needed it. 

Lining himself up, Jack pushed in with a solid thrust of his sturdy hips. You just about collapsed into the shelves, already feeling so full of Jack as he started a steady rhythm. It was overwhelming, one of his hands tight against your hips as he used it to guide you into his thrusts, the other snaked over your mouth to muffle your breathy moans because the hallway was just beyond the locked closet door.

“Shit- you’re so fucking tight, baby.” you cleched against him as he drove himself further into you, trying to angle himself to hit the spot that would have you seeing stars in no time. 

Your walls hugged him tight, leaving him a mess as he watched himself slip in and out of you in a trance like state. 

“Fuck Jack-” you start mewling, hips pushing and grinding to meet his thrusts. “Ah- ah, you’re so deep.” 

He mumbles something incoherent against your shoulder, both of his hands moving to your hips and ass to get more leverage to fuck you nice and hard. 

You can tell you’re making a mess of yourself, panties clearly ruined with how you’re leaking down your thighs and his cock. Each thrust is a new shockwave of pleasure you don’t expect, but Jack doesn’t let up and you don’t want him to. 

“Too m-much,” his cock throbs, hard and heavy inside you as he stills for just a second. 

“Yeah? It’s too much for you, Sweetheart?” It’s almost mocking as he draws it out into longer deeper strokes—the ones that make it hard to breathe, the air escaping your lungs faster than you can take the chance to gasp for air. 

“You’re just so big,” you whimper out, trying to keep yourself from collapsing back against him as your legs start to feel like jello. 

Jack gives you a light scoff, “Good thing you’re being a good girl, and takin’ me so well, huh?” He keeps the pace steady, if not a bit quicker. Switching up the tempo to keep you on your toes and eager for him. 

“Mhm!” You can feel your orgasm building, that all too familiar pressure in your lower tummy bubbling over. “Fuck- fuck I’m gonna cum-”

It’s like a switch flips in his brain, kicking him into high gear as he spins you around to face him. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close as he lifts one of your legs around his waist. 

“Yeah, pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?” He asks you through a sloppy kiss, one that smears what’s left of your lip gloss. 

You feel like you’re about to implode, too tense and too loose all at once. Your hands find purchase on his clothed chest and the curls at the base of his neck, as he continues his loving assault on your body and senses. Jack is everywhere, and you’d never want it to be different. 

He watches as you finally let go, shivering your way through your orgasm as you cum on his thick cock. Your breath catches as he kisses you slowly, working his cock in and out of your gushing pussy still chasing his own release. 

“Fuck- you ruin me baby,” He groans into your kiss swollen lips, giving you a few more sloppy thrusts before burying himself as deep as possible. His own breathing shallow as he spills his load deep into your cunt, right where it belongs. 

Blinking slowly, you return to your body. Jack looks down at you, capturing your lips in one last sweet kiss as he gently pulls out of you. Your body shudders at the now empty feeling, “You with me, Baby?”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, gentle and loving as you just stare at him a little dazed. You manage a soft hum, and he begins the process of putting you back together for the public. 

You cringed a bit as he helped you pull the pants of your scrubs back up, at least they were dark… right? You’d change into your backups as soon as you found the courge to leave the storage room. Then there was your hair which Jack lovingly braided as quickly as he could, before fixing himself the best he could

“Everyone’s totally gonna know… Ugh…”  you leaned your head against his chest, sighing at the thought of John or Ellis questioning where you two were for the past 15 minutes. 

“You look fine, besides who cares?” He questioned, “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the same story from other departments,” 

“Yeah but this is us,” you gave him a deadpan expression, as he reached behind you so that he could grab your stethoscope and badge reel from one of the many shelves behind you. 

He gave you a nonchalant shrug, and one last kiss on the forehead. “You ready to go get ‘em tiger?”

“You’re so dead whe we get home, it’s not even funny Jack Abbot!” 

“We still have about two more hours, so I think I’m safe, Princess.” 

mercvry-glow 2025

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned to him instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

You waited for her response.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet and expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared at her.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” She sank into her desk after like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, quietly turning toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

You reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Your voice calm and measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, voice very dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. You let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“And I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

You slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp and deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance from her. Brief and sharp, but not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, she twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. She was staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapping the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. You just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands of her short hair.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glancing up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back and her hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. You looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii

[colouredbyd]

The Button Nest

wolfstar x fem!whimsy!reader

summary: you’re a shy crow animagus, quietly watching the marauders from the shadows, admiring them from afar. you think you’re invisible, but sirius and remus have started noticing you in ways you never expected. then, after a sudden accident leaves you vulnerable, the quiet distance between you begins to unravel, one button at a time.

warnings: shy reder, animagus transformation, animal form, accidents and injury, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, subtle emotional tension, insecurity, blood, infirmary, angst, lonely reader, anxiety, social awkwardness, mention of ravenclaw!reader, teasing and gentle flirting, mild language, moments of self-doubt, themes of trust and acceptance, angst, happy ending.

w/c: 6.1k

a/n: as someone who was always seen as 'weird', this was so healing to write <3 masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for you to be roaming the grounds late at night.

In fact, it had become something of a ritual—an instinct more than a plan, something stitched into your routine without you ever deciding it. The forest always felt more alive once the rest of the castle fell asleep, the air cooler, the trees older, the world quieter in a way that let your thoughts breathe. 

Most nights, you slipped from your bed and disappeared beyond the edge of the grounds, feathered and weightless in the shape of a small crow, darting through branches and perching high in the canopy where no one thought to look.

What was unusual, however, was this: Remus Lupin limping through the forest, his arms slung around the shoulders of Sirius Black and James Potter like they were the only things keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Now that—that was something new.

You stilled in the trees, tucked between the leaves, dark eyes following the scene below.

It was strange, not because they were out after curfew. That much you’d come to expect from the troublesome Marauders. But because even here, in the middle of the forest, long past midnight, the three of them still carried with them that same impossible brightness. 

You had never spoken to them before, not once, and yet somehow you knew their names the way everyone did. James Potter, Quidditch star with a laugh loud enough to rattle windows. Sirius Black, the most troublesome student, who drew people to him like a flame. And Remus Lupin, softer than the others but no less magnetic, with his weary kind of stillness that felt older than all of them combined.

You’d seen them around—of course you had, everyone had, but you’d been watching them for longer than you’d care to admit. Not deliberately, or creepily, you hoped. 

It was just that once you started noticing them, you couldn’t seem to stop. 

They moved through the castle like they belonged to it, like the halls bent slightly to let them pass. Even when they weren’t trying to be the center of attention, the world seemed to place them there anyway, everything revolving around their presence like they were born to be the stars of some story no one else had been invited into.

And even now, deep in the forest where no one was meant to see them, that pull hadn’t faded. The trees themselves seemed to lean toward Remus, branches curving like they knew he was hurting. The wind circled Sirius like it was part of him, rustling his hair just so. And James—he kept his head high even though his shoulder bore half of Remus’s weight, eyes sharp and steady in the dark like someone who refused to be afraid.

From your branch above, your small body shifted forward slightly, feathers ruffling against the bark.

Remus looked worse than you expected. Pale and exhausted. His mouth was tight with pain, and he leaned heavily on both of them, clearly fighting to stay upright. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. You didn’t need someone to spell it out for you.

You already knew.

You’d known for some time now, if you were honest with yourself. It wasn’t a secret, not if you paid attention.

The monthly disappearances, the gray pallor that settled into his skin for days afterward, the limp he sometimes carried with him, the faraway look he wore when he thought no one was watching. 

It was clear, if you knew how to see it. Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

You weren’t afraid of him.

You weren’t sure what you felt, actually. Not pity, not fear. Just this soft ache in your chest, a fluttering concern that made your wings twitch and your claws dig slightly into the bark beneath you. 

You wanted, more than anything, to help. Not in a way that would ever be noticed, not in some dramatic act of kindness or courage. Just… to be useful. To ease the weight of whatever he carried, even if only for a moment.

But you didn’t move. You stayed quiet in the branches as they passed beneath you, Sirius murmuring something to Remus that made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, just barely.

James glanced up once, scanning the canopy, but didn’t pause. None of them noticed the crow perched above them, holding her breath.

You watched them disappear between the trees, the sound of their footsteps fading into the dark, and felt that familiar twist settle in your chest again.

You were never part of their world. That much had always been clear. You moved through corridors like a ghost with pockets full of silence, a soft-footed observer in a universe that burned far too brightly for someone made of distance.

Where they shone with the ease of constellations, you lingered at the edges like mist, half-invisible and entirely forgettable.

It was not envy that caught your breath when you looked at them, it was something lonelier than that. 

You told yourself it was mere curiosity, a passing glance toward something golden.

But the truth pressed heavier than that simple excuse. You had spent so long folding yourself into the corners of rooms, shrinking beneath your own voice, that to witness something so effortlessly vibrant felt almost otherworldly.

It was not that they demanded your attention. You would have resented them if they had. It was that your attention, unbidden and unwilling, bent toward them in spite of you.

As though their presence altered the air itself. As though their laughter rewrote gravity.

You tried to retreat, to withdraw as you always had, but the further you pulled, the harder you were drawn in.

It was the slow inevitability of celestial force, like a lonely moon being dragged across the dark by a sun too blinding to ignore.

You told yourself you were content in the quiet, and maybe you were. But every so often, when the night made the world gentler, and their noise softened into something almost tender, you allowed the wondering.

You let yourself ache for the impossible. To imagine, just briefly, what it might feel like to stand in the warmth.

And then, as always, you turned back into the branches, into the dark, into the small and silent shape of someone who was never meant to be seen.

You stay in the tree long after they pass, eyes tracking the shape of them as they disappear into the thicket, the way James’s silhouette leads, the way Sirius shifts slightly to support more of Remus’s weight without ever making it seem like a burden. 

They speak in low voices, too distant for words to reach, but the rhythm of their steps is steady, if uneven, and for a moment you allow yourself to believe they’ll be alright.

Still, you follow.

You shift in the branches, feathers settling against your sides as your body lightens, stretches, and then lifts, black wings cutting through the night with soundless ease.

You dart above the treetops, careful to stay far enough that they won’t hear the flutter of your passage, but close enough that you can still see them through the breaks in the canopy.

You watch as Sirius ducks beneath a low-hanging branch—too low, it turns out. The edge catches his shoulder, just barely, and he swears under his breath.

James chuckles while Remus winces and lets out a soft noise you can’t quite hear. They all pause for a beat, just long enough for Sirius to adjust his grip around Remus’s back.

And that’s when you see it.

The glint of something small and dark tumbling from Sirius’s cloak as he shifts. It falls soundlessly into the underbrush, half-hidden by shadow and leaf, but you catch the flicker of it all the same.

A button. Round, worn, and gleaming faintly in the moonlight as it lands near the base of an old root.

They don’t notice.

They keep walking, unaware, their laughter returning faintly on the wind as they near the edge of the woods.

You watch them for a few more moments—watch as James pushes the castle door open with his shoulder, as Sirius leans close to say something low into Remus’s ear that makes him sigh softly despite himself.

Their backs retreat into the stone, swallowed by the warmth of the light spilling from within.

Only once the door swings shut behind them do you move.

You dive, wings spread in a wide curve, and land beside the tree root. The button sits half-buried in moss, still holding the faint warmth of Sirius’s coat.

You press your beak against it, tilting your head. It’s not much, just a lost scrap. An unremarkable little thing that no one will miss.

You nudge it into your beak carefully, curling your claws against the bark to steady yourself. The metal is cool, and a little heavier than it looks. A strange weight for something so small.

You glance up once more toward the castle, just to be sure. And that’s when you see him.

Sirius.

He’s paused in the doorway, slightly turned, head tilted back toward the woods. His eyes scan the tree line..

For a second, your eyes lock—his wide, gray, still crackling with whatever storm he always carries behind them, and yours small and dark and unblinking.

Then he gives a tiny tilt of his head, just barely perceptible, like a question. 

Then he turns and disappears into the castle all the same.

And you lift your wings again, button tucked in your beak like a treasure, and fly after him—back toward the tower.

The days that followed blurred into one another with a kind of quiet that felt dreamlike. Nothing monumental had happened, but something within you had shifted.

You told yourself it meant nothing. Just curiosity, perhaps. A trick of loneliness. A moment that would fade if you left it untouched. After all, you didn’t really know them.

And yet, your gaze sought them in every room. You lingered in places you normally passed through.

You didn’t know how to name the feeling that followed you. It was not love, not yearning, not anything so clear. Just a soft ache that fluttered behind your sternum whenever they looked your way.

So you tried to smother it gently, the way you always had, with quiet rituals and familiar comforts.

That afternoon, the castle pulsed with early spring. Laughter echoed through open halls, and golden light spilled across the stone like a secret.

You had left the library later than usual, the small wooden box clutched protectively to your chest, your bag slipping slightly off your shoulder as you hurried to make it down the hallway before the rush swallowed you. 

You weren’t paying close attention to where you were going. Your fingers curled tightly around the lid of the box, and your thoughts, once again, had drifted far ahead of your body

You didn’t see them until you collided.

Your shoulder struck something solid—someone’s chest—and your breath caught in your throat as the impact jarred the box from your hands.

The lid sprang open, and in an instant, a hundred small fragments of your quiet world tumbled across the cold stone floor.

Buttons scattered in all directions, clinking and skipping like startled birds, tiny kaleidoscopes of color and shape spinning out across the corridor.

You dropped to your knees with a sharp breath, heart racing, hands frantically collecting what you could before they rolled too far.

You reached for them with trembling fingers, too humiliated to look up, your mind already preparing for the laughter, for the awkward glances, for the words you’d have to stumble through.

But the first voice you heard was warm, low, touched with a gentle humor.

“Are you okay, love?,” came the voice, unmistakably Remus Lupin’s.

Your breath froze.

You looked up slowly, dread tightening behind your ribs—and there he was.

Remus stood just above you, tall even when slightly tilted from the weight of his cane, his soft knit sweater stretched slightly across his frame, the collar turned wrong in a way that made your fingers ache to fix it. 

His gaze was steady, unreadable, but not unkind—warm in that quiet, bone-deep way he always seemed to carry, as if the tiredness in him was ancient and affectionate and chose what it wanted to notice.

Beside him, Sirius Black was already crouched to the floor, hair falling in black waves around his cheekbones as he reached for one of the stray buttons—a glossy red one with a cracked side. He held it between his fingers and tilted his head as he offered it out to you.

“I think this one belongs to you,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice—not mocking, not teasing, just bright and real and somehow far too much for your chest to hold at once.

You reached for the button slowly, your fingertips brushing his for a second too long. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Sirius turned the button once more between his fingers before letting it go.

“This looks exactly like the one I lost the other night,” he said thoughtfully. “Coat got caught on a branch, and I remember it falling.”

You blinked, your mind scrambling to build some sort of casual response. “Oh. That’s… funny. What are the odds?”

Sirius narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion, but only smiled. “Yeah. What are the odds.”

Remus’s voice broke in again, quiet but curious. “Do you usually carry a whole collection around with you?”

You glanced down at the box in your lap, half-full, many of the buttons still scattered across the stone. 

“I collect them,” you said. “I find them, and rescue them, I guess.”

Sirius leaned closer, crouching again, interest flickering in his expression. “You rescue them?”

“Yeah, I just think buttons are really cute,” you said softly, cheeks warming. .

There was a pause, quiet and weightless, suspended like a held breath.

Then Remus smiled, slow and gentle. He leaned down slightly, balancing his cane with practiced ease, his gaze steady as it met yours. 

“I think you’re really cute,” he said, voice low but certain, as though he were stating a simple fact rather than handing you the sun.

Your breath caught. The heat in your cheeks flared instantly.

Sirius, still crouched beside you, let out a bark of laughter. “Moony,” he said, grinning wide, “you’re absolutely flustering her.”

He then picked up a button shaped like a starburst and turned it over in his hand.

“Do they have names?” he asked, half-smiling.

You hesitated again, but they were both still looking at you like they genuinely wanted to know. And so—shyly—you nodded.

“That one,” you said, pointing to the pink with the curved edges, “is Dai. The red one is Cheri, the little navy blue one is Ruxy, and the green swirl one is Teo.”

Sirius grinned. “Ruxy looks like a cutie.”

“She is!” you said automatically, and then blushed again.

Remus gave a small laugh—barely audible, but sincere.

And then Sirius’s gaze flicked back to you, brighter now, edged with something that felt almost like a secret.

“Well then,” he said, voice low and amused. “Can I have a button named after you, Miss Ravenclaw?”

The words hit you all at once. You stared at him, mouth parting slightly.

“I—um. You can have the whole box,” you said too quickly. “If you want, I don’t mind.”

Sirius laughed, rich and surprised, eyes narrowing just slightly as he leaned in a little.

“All of them?”

“They’d be safe with you,” you answered, almost without thinking. “With you and Remus.”

Remus looked at you again, gently. “But I thought you said they were precious.”

“They are,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter around the box. “But I think they would be safe with you.”

Sirius leaned back, something like admiration flickering behind his lashes.

You didn’t quite know what to do with the way they were both looking at you.

And just when the silence stretched a little too long, a voice called from the far end of the corridor—“Oi! Sirius! Remus!”

All three of you looked up.

James Potter stood down the hall, grinning, fingers laced with Regulus Black’s in a way that felt less surprising than it should have been. Regulus looked vaguely annoyed, but didn’t pull away.

Remus stood first, then Sirius, both of them brushing imaginary dust from their sleeves.

Before turning to leave, Remus looked down at you once more, his expression softer than it had been all afternoon.

“Buttons like these,” he said gently, his voice as low and warm as a lullaby, “are safest with someone like you.”

He smiled once more, and then he was gone—walking beside Sirius, their shoulders brushing as they headed toward James and Regulus, leaving you behind with your heartbeat in your throat and your button box held close to your chest like it had just turned into something more than what it had been that morning.

In the days that followed, you found yourself seen in ways you had not expected. It was never loud or showy. Just the kind of noticing that lingered in the spaces between things. 

Sirius would greet you with a grin that curved wide, his laughter always arriving half a beat early, as though he had been waiting for yours. 

Remus had a different quiet, a warmth that never needed words. He would glance at you across the Great Hall, the corners of his mouth tilting up slightly, as though something about your presence softened the sharpest parts of his day. 

Their light caught you even when you were not trying to catch it.

And somehow, you found yourself orbiting them without realizing when it had started. You did not speak of it. You simply moved in tune with it, steps quieter, glances longer, as though gravity had chosen for you.

But on full moon nights, the gravity changed.

You could never remain in the Ravenclaw dormitories, not when the thought of them beyond the walls left your chest tight and your sleep restless. So you became what magic had allowed. 

You shifted. Feathered and silent, you slipped into the dark as a crow, wings slicing through the wind with singular purpose.

You did not follow too closely. You never let yourself be seen, but you watched. You hovered high in the trees, a shadow among branches, waiting for their safe return.

It was not out of duty. It was something far deeper, far stranger. It was worry, but it was also something you refused to name.

Especially when it came to Remus.

There was something about the way he moved beneath the moonlight that left you breathless. Something quiet and aching, something wild and controlled all at once.

It drew you in the way a fire does to someone who has always lived in the cold. You had not meant to fall into such devotion, but you did.

What you had not meant to do was get caught.

You had not seen the branch until it was too late. It had splintered beneath your landing, sharp as a blade, and pierced clean through the delicate bones of your crow’s foot.

You had cried out, a sound that belonged to neither bird nor girl, and now you are trapped. Your leg is twisted, impaled through the narrow branch, wings fluttering uselessly, body trembling from pain and fear.

The forest is deep and dark around you. The sky is heavy with clouds. The world below is quiet in the way that makes sound feel impossible.

You try to pull free, but it only burns. You try to breathe, but each breath comes thin and shaky.

You had come to protect. You had come to be sure they were safe.

And now, you are the one in danger, and no one knows you are here.

Remus was lying curled in the grass, his body trembling with the aftershocks of transformation. His skin was slick with sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. 

James crouched beside him, murmuring something too low to hear, while Sirius stood just behind, watchful and steady, arms folded tightly across his chest.

They were preparing to carry him back—like always. The routine had become muscle memory by now: someone took his shoulders, someone his legs, and they would move through the underbrush in silence, just three boys and the weight of what they refused to name.

You watched from above.

You always watched.

Perched in the tree line, your feathers damp and trembling, your heartbeat a staccato against the splintered wood that held you. The pain was sharp now—constant.

The branch had pierced clean through your crow’s leg, the wound throbbed with each flutter, and your small body had begun to lean sideways from exhaustion. 

You really were trying not to fall.

You tried to call out again, but the sound was strange and half-formed, stuck somewhere between your beak and your pain. You blinked, dizzy and panicked, watching Remus blink slowly up at the trees, unaware that you were breaking just above him.

Sirius glanced up. It was casual at first, a flicker of curiosity. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze lingering.

"There's a crow watching us," he muttered.

James looked up too. “Bit early for birdwatching, innit?”

“Looks hurt,” Sirius added, voice quieter now, cautious. “Wing’s twitching.”

“Probably just spooked by us.”

But Sirius didn’t look away.

You wobbled again, wings fluttering helplessly, and this time the pain stole your breath entirely. Something gave—a soft sound, barely audible—but Sirius stepped forward like he heard it anyway.

“That’s not normal,” he said, a strange edge to his voice. “That—James, that bird's not flying off.”

James straightened, still holding Remus’s arm draped over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s not scared of us. It’s watching us. Bleeding, even.”

You blinked again, vision swimming. The pain was starting to blur the edges of things.

And Sirius had always been sharper than he let on. He stepped forward, squinting up into the tree line, eyes narrowing. “It’s too still, like it’s waiting.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach turn.

They didn’t know you had followed them—every full moon, without fail. That you had shifted the second they were gone, just to make sure they were okay. That you stayed out of sight. That it wasn’t a coincidence, the way a crow always seemed to circle above them at the end.

They didn’t know because you’d never told them.

Because what would they say?

The shy Ravenclaw girl who barely spoke at meals. Who had feathers hidden beneath her skin and a fondness for strange winds. 

You hadn't meant to be seen.

You hadn't meant to fall.

And now, all it took was one branch and one mistake to unravel it all.

Sirius took a step closer.

“Something’s not right,” he said, voice low now. “I’m going up.”

“Pads—” James started, but Sirius was already reaching for a low limb, already climbing, already listening to something he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore.

Sirius climbed carefully, boots pressing against bark slick with moss, one hand braced on a branch as he narrowed in on the trembling bird.

The crow didn’t flinch. It only watched him with dark, glassy eyes, chest rising unevenly with every breath. Its feathers were ruffled, one wing visibly twitching from strain, its claws caught by a jagged splinter of wood. The wound had darkened the bark below it with a smear of blood.

And beside it, nestled in the fork of two branches, was a small, uneven nest.

A nest filled with buttons.

Sirius froze.

Red. Pink. Navy. Green.

His breath hitched.

Cheri. Dai. Ruxy. Teo.

It struck him like a gust of cold wind, the memory rising all at once—how you had shown him those buttons in the quiet corner of the hallway when you bumped into him and Remus, your voice barely above a whisper, explaining that you named the small things you kept close. 

He looked back at the crow, still trembling, and his chest clenched with certainty.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low but sure, “it’s you.”

And in the seconds that followed, you shifted.

Feathers melted into skin. Wings collapsed inward and became arms, trembling and bruised. Your body curled in on itself, still perched awkwardly in the tree, leg bloodied and twisted at an angle that made Sirius’s stomach flip. 

You clutched the branch with shaking fingers, hair matted and face flushed with effort and something deeper—shame, thick and suffocating.

You didn’t cry from the pain. Not even when your injured leg gave a sharp spasm, tearing through the nerves like fire, or when your fingers trembled uselessly against bark still sticky with your own blood.

You cried because you had been seen.

It had always been the one thing you wished for. The softest, most secret ache of your childhood.

To be seen. Not glanced at, not acknowledged in the polite way professors nod at a raised hand or classmates murmur a distracted hello—but truly seen.

To be noticed with intention. To be understood in your full, strange shape. You had begged for it in silence, prayed to stars without names, asked the moon to make you visible.

And now the universe, in its crooked wisdom, had answered. You had been seen—bloodied, exposed, and caught in your smallest truth.

You had sat through years of being overlooked, of having your voice mistaken for wind or your presence mistaken for absence. You had learned to expect it, but never stopped wanting otherwise.

You had begged, in ways that did not involve words, to be noticed

And now, here you were.

Revealed in trembling flesh and blood. Not behind a desk, not through the soft offering of a smile or a story or a named button—but like this.

Injured, fragile, unraveled, and caught.

They had seen you, truly seen you. Not the version you curated in classrooms or in hallways with quiet nods and subtle glances. They had seen the strange bird who followed them into the night.

The girl who built nests out of threadbare things. The one who had watched them like they were made of light and belonged to a constellation she would never be brave enough to touch.

And it was cruel, wasn’t it? How the universe had finally answered your oldest prayer, but in the wrong language.

How being seen could still feel like being misunderstood.

You hadn’t wanted them to think you were weak. You hadn’t wanted their pity or confusion. You hadn’t wanted their worry to be born from the sight of your blood or the way your hands shook. You hadn’t wanted to be caught.

You had wanted them to understand.

You had wanted them to see the quiet devotion threaded through every watchful flight. The care behind every shadowed perch. The love it took to stay hidden when every part of you wanted to land at their side.

But now that they had—now that they had seen the part of you you kept hidden beneath feathers and wind—you wanted to disappear all over again.

Isn’t that the tragedy of it? That the very thing you once begged for could arrive in a form you didn’t recognize. That after all the aching, all the hoping, all the prayers you sent to unseen gods, being seen could still feel so much like being misunderstood.

And yet, even in that moment, even with shame biting at the edge of your vision and tears sliding down your cheeks, part of you still clung to the hope that perhaps—just perhaps—they hadn’t misunderstood you after all.

“Hey—hey. Look at me,” A voice low but urgent breaks through your haze.

Hands find your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes with a softness that makes something in your chest splinter further. 

“Don’t cry, love. Please don’t cry. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you, just breathe with me, yeah? Just stay with me.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you. His gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering, the kind of look that feels like being tethered—pulled back to something real, something warm.

You barely notice Remus limping toward you until he drops beside the branch, breath catching in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and his voice breaks around the edges. “Is it your leg? Are you hurt? Y/N—what happened?”

You can’t answer, not right away. Your mouth opens, then closes again, but Sirius is still there, crouched in front of you, hands steady despite the thudding panic you can feel rising in both your chests.

He speaks again, softer now. “You—you’ve been watching us? All this time?” His voice trembles with something between awe and heartbreak. “Alone? During every full moon?”

You nod once, a small, broken motion, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence. Your jaw is clenched so tightly it aches.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you whisper. “I thought—if you saw me, it’d be weird or pathetic, or—”

He cut you off gently, reaching out to cup your cheek with a care that made your throat tighten.

“Pathetic?” he echoed, incredulous. “Pathetic? Y/N, you’ve been dragging your body into the sky just to keep us safe. You bled for us tonight. You’ve been doing this alone. That’s not pathetic—that’s... that’s fucking brave.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Below, James appeared at the base of the tree, voice rising in concern.

“Sirius?” James shouted. “Is it hurt? Is it—wait, where are you?”

“It’s Y/N!” Sirius called back down. “It’s her. She’s an Animagus.”

“What?” James’s voice cracked. “What do you mean it’s her?”

But Sirius wasn’t listening anymore. He was already helping you into his arms, cradling your body close with infinite care, his hand pressed protectively to your injured leg, holding you like something precious and breakable. 

He whispered reassurances as he climbed down, slow, careful steps that betrayed the panic beneath his steady hands.

By the time Sirius’s boots hit the earth again, Remus was already beside him.

His breath came ragged, the lingering tremors of the transformation still curled in his limbs

Now, standing just steps from you, Remus looked like the ground had given out beneath him. All the color had drained from his face, but it wasn’t just shock. 

You tried to speak, but the moment Sirius set you down gently in the grass, Remus was already kneeling, like his body had moved before his mind could catch up.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked, hoarse and thin. “What—what happened? What were you doing out there?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Not with the weight of both their gazes pressing into your skin. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” he repeated, the word leaving his mouth like it tasted wrong. “You’ve been following us? While I’ve been transforming? Every full moon?” His breath hitched. “While I was—”

“I didn’t want anyone to worry,” you whispered. “I just needed to know you were okay.”

Remus inhaled sharply and let it go like a wound reopening. His hand hovered near yours, trembling. Then he reached for you anyway, brushing your hair back from your damp, dirt-streaked cheek.

His fingers paused near the scratch below your ear, reverent, aching.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that alone,” he said, softly but with conviction, like he was swearing an oath he never should’ve forgotten. “You shouldn’t have had to hide this. You didn’t have to hide this.”

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” you murmured, tears threatening again.

“We understand now,” he said, brokenly. “And it shouldn’t have taken blood for us to see it.”

Sirius’s jaw was clenched so tight it trembled. Remus’s voice was frayed, but firm. And both of them looked at you like you had done something immeasurably brave. Like you were worth mourning, protecting, holding—everything.

You finally looked up at them, eyes glassy, face streaked with tears and dirt and disbelief.

Sirius exhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to your temple. Remus closed his eyes, his hand settling gently over yours.

James crouched nearby, still stunned, but his voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “Next time, you don’t watch us from the trees. Next time, you’re down here with us.”

The walk back to the castle was slower than usual. Not because the path had changed, or because the forest was any darker than it had been—but because something between the three of you had shifted.

Sirius carried you most of the way, arms secure beneath your back and knees, murmuring quietly each time you winced, while Remus walked close beside him, watching your face as though afraid it might disappear. 

James had gone ahead to clear the way and fetch Madam Pomfrey, but you hardly noticed his absence.

Your body ached, but it was the tightness in your chest that throbbed hardest. You had never meant for them to know, not the Animagus form, not the secret flights, and certainly not the nest tucked into the trees like a childhood you’d never outgrown.

By the time Sirius set you down gently on the edge of the infirmary bed, your throat was dry from trying not to cry again.

Remus didn’t speak at first. He just knelt beside you, hands gentle as he peeled away what was left of your sock and began tending to your leg. His fingers were deft but soft, brushing the dried blood away with a damp cloth, jaw clenched as he examined the wound with quiet intensity.

You hated the silence. You hated how heavy it felt.

“I’m sorry,” you said, the words breaking free before you could stop them. “I know it’s weird. I know I’m weird. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”

Sirius, who had been standing nearby, leaned forward suddenly, resting one hand on the mattress beside your hip.

“Stop,” he said, firm but not unkind. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize for being the one person who cared enough to follow us into the dark.”

Your breath caught.

“I just… I didn’t want to be a burden,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Remus’s hands paused in their careful rhythm as he finished unwinding the gauze. He looked up slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.

“Y/N, if you truly believe we’d ever mock you for caring—for watching over us in the only way you could—then I’ve clearly failed to show you the kind of man I am, and the kind of man I hope to be.”

Your fingers curled in your lap. “I watched you,” you whispered, eyes flicking toward Remus. “Every month. I couldn’t sleep knowing you were out there. I just... needed to make sure you came back.”

Remus didn’t look away. He soaked the cloth in warm water and pressed it gently to your scraped skin with hands that trembled slightly—not from fear, but from how much he was holding back. “You never needed to explain that,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.”

Sirius moved closer, silent until now. He sat down beside you on the bed, his palm finding the small of your back, grounding you.

“You watched over us,” he said, his voice low and rough at the edges. “Even when we didn’t ask. Even when we didn’t know. You broke your body trying to keep us safe. And you’re still sitting here thinking we might call you strange for that?”

You looked up at him then, wide-eyed, voice shaky. “I mean... I collect buttons. I sleep with open windows so I can hear the wind. I speak to animals. I—I’m not exactly—”

“Normal?” Sirius offered, a half-smile playing at his lips. “Good. We’re not either.”

Remus finished wrapping your leg and looked up, expression softening like a wave pulling back from shore. “You think we’ve spent all these weeks noticing you for no reason? You think we didn’t see the way you listen more than you speak, or how your eyes always catch the smallest things—the things no one else notices?”

“You care in ways no one else ever has,” Remus added, more gently now. “You cared about me in a way I didn’t know how to accept until right now.”

Your breath caught. “Wait… are you saying...?”

Sirius laughed under his breath and leaned a little closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Love, we’re saying we’ve been completely enchanted by you for ages. We just didn’t know how to say it until tonight.”

You blinked, stunned. “Really?”

“Really,” Remus said, his voice warm. “In every way that matters.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came. Your throat was too full of something tender, too new. 

Remus leaned closer, his voice softening. “Listen to me,” he said. “You don’t have to hide yourself from us. Not your wings, not your magic, and certainly not your quiet. We like you—we care about you—for everything you are. You’re not strange, love.”

Your lip trembled.

“And the button nest?” he added, grinning now. “It’s the most heartbreakingly you thing I’ve ever seen. That nest in the tree… it wasn’t weird. It was beautiful.”

Sirius smiled, something quiet and bright in his expression. “Well, we were talking about it on the way back—Remus and I, and if there’s ever room for two more in that nest, we’d be honored to be named and to be part of something you created.”

You blinked. “You want to be… buttons?”

“Not just buttons,” Sirius said, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “Your buttons.”

Remus looked up then, meeting your eyes with something deep and sure and aching in its sincerity. “If we’re lucky, maybe you’ll even give us names.”

You looked down at your lap, hands trembling in your lap, and then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, tentative but real.

“You can be in my button nest,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

And for the first time, it wasn’t just that someone had seen you.

It was that they had recognized you — all the strange, quiet, fragile pieces you’d kept tucked behind your ribs, the ones you had never dared to name aloud.

They hadn’t flinched from your softness, or your silence, or the wild devotion stitched into the things you loved. They had understood it. And more than that, they had chosen it. 

Chosen you.

You had spent your life making altars out of small things. Buttons, feathers, the hush between words. You had prayed in your own language — not in churches or temples, but in the way you noticed everything others overlooked. You had asked the world for so little: just to be held in return. 

Just to matter to someone the way you had quietly, unfailingly let others matter to you.

And for so long, the world hadn’t answered.

But maybe it was not that it hadn’t heard you. Maybe it had simply taken time.

Because now, without asking, without performing, without even meaning to — you were seen. Not in passing, not in pieces, but fully, tenderly, and without having to translate your love to the world.

You were no longer a distant thing. 

And perhaps, after all, the universe had been listening the entire time.

Now, it had spoken , softly and reverently, in the form of two boys who looked at you as if you were something celestial stitched into the earth. 

After all, the button nest had always been waiting for them too.

a/n:

to the readers with soft hearts and quiet hopes; may someone see your soul the way you see the world. to the readers who love gently, who notice everything, and who wait, patiently, to be noticed in return; may your button nest always be full ❤️‍🩹

-dalia

[em1i2a3]

The Dark Side

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

Summary: Bob is having a really bad depressive episode, and you have been unanimously voted to go and provide him with the comfort that he needs to pull him out.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of like…Oddly Fluffy but not much? Bob is going through it, Mentions of a Depressive Episode (in which Bob kind of destroys his room), Mentions of Blood/Bruises (descriptions are given of the injuries…Caused by the destroying of his room), Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, Reader and Bob are very close, The Void is…In a large portion of this, like a huge portion of this…I need to write more Void tbh lol….Hinting at a part 2 possibly? I don’t know yet tho

Author’s Note: Someone requested Bob being the little spoon, and I truly loved the idea, so I took it and expanded it as much as possible to give it some…Bite. Hope y’all enjoy :) (also I’ve been literally waiting to use this song for something…And it’s so fitting)

Word Count: 7,652

The compound kitchen was too quiet for this many people. The silence thrummed with something unsaid, stretched thin and humming like a wire pulled too tight.

Ava sat cross-legged on the counter, shoulders hunched, chewing at the fraying edge of her gloved thumb. Every few seconds came the faint, squelching sound of wet leather between her teeth, rhythmic and uneasy. She didn’t seem to notice the sound–or maybe she did, and just didn’t care anymore. Her eyes were trained on the far wall where a few frying pans hung, staring at the one that was crooked and on the brink of falling.

Walker leaned against the fridge like a fixture, arms crossed so tight it made his biceps strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. His jaw twitched once. His expression–stone-cold and unreadable–was that same military-grade stillness he defaulted to in times like this. Moments where concern might as well be weakness. Where admitting you were worried meant that something had already gone wrong.

Across the table, Yelena was perched in a chair like she’d rather be standing–back stiff, boot planted against the rung of the seat, fingers drumming out a frantic little pattern against the metal tabletop. It wasn’t idle. It was tight, and sharp. Like she was trying to match the tempo of her heartbeat and couldn’t quite keep up because it just kept changing.

Bucky stood with his weight braced against the sink, one hand wrapped around a chipped Thunderbolts mug–faded red and gray–but he hadn’t taken a sip in the last twenty minutes. Steam had long since stopped curling from the lip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the handle, and every so often, his thumb would twitch like he might lift it to his lips, but he never did.

Alexei was in the chair beside you, the wood creaking with every restless shift of his weight. Normally the loudest in any room, he was unusually subdued now. His thick forearms were folded across his stomach, and his eyes–usually wild and reactive–were narrowed, watching Walker with something unreadable. His fingers tapped once against the edge of his knee, then stopped.

And you…You sat stillest of all.

Watching, listening and waiting. Because you already knew what this emergency team meeting was about. Knew it the second you got the text. The second you stepped into this room and counted the people present. There was only one person missing–and it wasn’t like him to be absent for anything.

”We need to talk about Bob.” Yelena muttered, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, but firm. There was a collective exhale of something heavy settling into the room, like everyone had been holding the thought behind their teeth and didn’t want to be the one to name it.

“He hasn’t come out in two days,” Bucky added, voice hoarse from not talking in a while, “Knocked last night…No answer. Door was locked too.”

“I phased through the wall this morning,” Ava said, voice clipped, jaw tense “Couldn’t even be in there for more than a few seconds. Got thrown into the door…Had to get the hell out pretty quickly.” Walker glanced over at Ava.

”Yeah, cause The Void’s in there, it’s not Bob.” He mumbled grimly. You felt the words before you heard them. That faint pressure behind your sternum. Like something whispering from the edge of a black hole. Bucky’s gaze found the floor.

”Last time it was like this, he didn’t eat for a week, he didn’t sleep, he just sat on the floor staring at the wall until we talked him out of it…This time I heard him breaking things in his room…I truly don’t think speaking to him is going to work this time.” He stated, shifting from one foot to the other.

”So we send someone in.” Alexei suggested, his gruff voice cutting through the tension in the room.

“And what?” Walker scoffed, pushing off the fridge just enough to gesture with one hand “Get them sent to a shame room? I’m not going through that again.” The words hung in the air. Heavy and acidic.

And then the silence came again–heavier than before, only this time there was this sort of feeling like everyone was waiting for something.

That’s when you felt it.

Eyes. Not all at once. Not direct. Just quick, darting glances. One after another. Like everyone had the same thought, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Not until–

“Y/N…” Yelena’s voice was quiet and measured, like she was testing the water of a pool, “Would you be willing to try?” You looked over at her slowly. Her brows were pinched, mouth set, but her gaze didn’t flinch. Not from you, and certainly not from what she was asking. Before you could answer, Walker jumped in.

”Nothing happened to you when he Voided New York, right?” Your lashes fluttered a bit, and you could feel your face heat up. Your fingers twitched where they rested against your thigh, and slowly your gaze dropped to your hands–open, resting palm-up.

“Well…No,” You replied softly, “But I don’t think it would be the best idea to send me in.” Walker opened his mouth, but you lifted your chin and cut him off, voice firmer now, “I think I make The Void angrier…Because he can’t…Y’know–“

”Go through every bad memory you have, and make you relive every single one like it just happened?” Bucky interrupted gently, now taking a loud sip from his mug. You turned your head toward him, and his eyes met yours. Steady and understanding of your point.

”Yeah…Pretty much.” You murmured. Another beat of silence passed.

Then Walker let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Then why the hell do we even have you on this team if you don’t want to use your powers for something as small as this?” Your eyes snapped back to him, eyebrows lifting as your expression flattened into something cool and sharp.

”Last time I checked, Walker,” You started, “I saved your ass from a bunch of mutants in Slovenia.” He opened his mouth to say something, but you went on, “Remember that? The underground lab. The one where they lured you in with fake hostages? The one where Bucky’s arm got fried while you were too busy playing Captain Knockoff to notice the tripwire?” Walker blinked at you, his gaze dropping to the ground.

”And if I wasn’t there to dampen and take away their powers, you’d still be in that goddamn hole,” You stated, voice deceptively calm now, “So–kindly?” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows on your knees, “Sit on it…And rotate.” Bucky let out a sigh, stepping in before Walker could say anything back in retaliation.

”You’re the only one who can technically get close to him without setting him off…I mean, yeah, it pisses him off. But you nullify him, Y/N…He backs off when you’re around…It also has a lot to do with the fact you’re close with Bob too.”

Bucky was right.

If it wasn’t for the fact that you were already close with Bob–closer than most, maybe too close–this would be impossible. And it wasn’t just proximity or shared downtime or familiarity on missions. It was that quiet, tangled closeness. The kind that took root when two people didn’t have to speak to understand each other. When silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but necessary.

Still, that didn’t make any of this easier.

Because even with that closeness…The Void knew who you were. What you were. And it hated you for it.

You’d only interacted with it directly a handful of times. Each one branded into your memory like scars you didn’t wear on the outside.

Once during a medbay blackout–Bob had been unconscious and bleeding, a psychic wound ripping through the space around him, and you’d been the only one able to get close enough to touch him. The Void had flickered into the room with a voice like cold static, dripping something ancient and endless against your bones. It didn’t yell. It didn’t threaten.

It whispered, and challenged.

“You take him from me.”

“He’s safer without you.”

“I could make you feel every moment of your worst night in under a second–want to try?”

Another time, on a rooftop in London, when Bob had collapsed mid-mission, shaking, breathless, clutching his skull with both hands like he was trying to hold himself inside it, The Void had poured through his cracks and stared at you through his eyes. You had been taken off guard, and in the split second that you weren’t aware he had made you see your mother, the way she grabbed you by your hair and slammed you against a mirror–which was how you got the scar above your eyebrow.

You didn’t even flinch, and that made The Void angrier with you.

You bit the inside of your lip, eyes flicking over the room again. Every face trained on you now. Some guarded, some silently pleading, but all of them were waiting.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

“…Fine. I’ll do it.”

A breath seemed to pass through the team like a wave, though no one dared say thank you. They knew better than to treat this like a favor. This wasn’t a volunteer mission. This was a gamble.

“But don’t hover around the door,” You added quickly, pressing your palms to your thighs as you stood, “I don’t need backup. It’ll just make things worse.”

They all nodded.

Bucky was the first to step back, giving you space. He dipped his chin once in acknowledgment, slow and solemn. Yelena gave you a tight nod, eyes shadowed with concern, but she didn’t argue. Ava dropped her hand from her mouth, the glove damp with spit, and looked at you like she wanted to say something–but didn’t.

Walker crossed his arms again and stayed quiet, which, for him, might’ve been the most meaningful gesture of all.

Alexei stood as well, hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder as you moved past. His grip was steady. Warm. Protective in the way only he could be–loud without words.

You didn’t say anything else as you left the kitchen. Didn’t look back.

The hallway to Bob’s quarters felt longer than usual. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, the soft hum of the compound’s systems running like a heartbeat in the background. You could feel it–low and dull–the way his presence saturated the air even through the door. That pressure in the back of your head. The coil of unease in your ribs.

You paused outside the room.

No sound from within. No breathing. No shuffling. No glass breaking. Just…Stillness. Heavy and full, like a vacuum waiting to collapse in on itself.

You raised your fist slowly and knocked twice.

“Void…I’m coming in.”You announced, already knowing he probably sensed you from miles away. The lock clicked under the pressure of your mind–an old security latch giving a reluctant little snick as your telekinesis pried it loose with practiced ease. The door creaked open, just wide enough for you to slip inside.

And the second it sealed shut behind you, the weight of the room hit.

Not just silence.

Suffocation.

The darkness was thick–almost physical. It pooled in the corners like oil and clung to the walls, layered and unmoving. The blackout curtains were to blame for that–drawn tight, suffocating what little natural light might’ve softened the edges of the space.

But even the shadows weren’t still. They writhed.

You took a single step forward, and the crunch under your boot broke the silence.

Glass…There was so much glass.

Not just from a shattered mirror, but from everything else in the room–fragments of picture frames, broken mugs, shattered bulbs. Jagged teeth scattered across the floor like a warning. In the far corner, an old desk chair laid toppled on its side, two of its legs snapped clean through, the splinters of plastic jutting upward like a broken rib cage.

The dresser was no longer a dresser.

It was a carcass. Wood panels torn from their seams, drawers ripped apart like kindling. One drawer had clearly been thrown–there were impact marks on the opposite wall where the corner had struck and left a dent, now trailing with paint dust and something darker–blood or ink or both. The walls were pockmarked with fist-sized impressions. You counted at least six from where you stood, each one blooming out in spiderweb cracks.

The air smelled like sweat, iron, static, and something metallic. Burned electronics…The scent of a mind unraveling, and overtaken by something empty.

Though, through all the destruction, the bed–miraculously–remained intact.

Sort of.

The sheets were rumpled, tangled half way down the frame, one corner half-ripped from the mattress, but the structure itself held. Just barely. The headboard was dented. The mattress had dark stains near the middle, but you didn’t want to guess what they were.

But none of that truly drew your eyes…It was him…

The Void.

Curled like a gravitational wound at the center of the chaos. A black mass draped across the unmade bed in something that only resembled the fetal position. Shoulders hunched, limbs drawn in too tightly, like he was trying to curl into the concept of himself and erase what was left. The shadows rolled off his back in slow, deliberate tendrils–molasses-thick and ink-dark. They rose and fell in undulating pulses, brushing against the sheets, licking the edge of the mattress, curling through the air like they were tasting it. He was still, but not inert, like a storm brewing, but just beyond the horizon.

You took one careful breath and moved forward.

Crossing the room meant stepping around the wreckage–splintered furniture, broken glass, ceramics, and fractured memories from the Polaroids that were scattered on the floor from the broken frames. You moved with practiced precision, keeping your steps slow, measured, and balanced. No sudden movements, no sharp noises apart from the cracking and shattering beneath your feet, just you and your presence.

When you reached the far wall, you hesitated–just for a second–then reached for the curtain. Your fingers trembled slightly as it came into contact with the thick, light proof fabric.

You took a breath, and yanked it open.

Sunlight poured into the room like a floodgate breaking.

Warm and red and golden–the last gasp of a sunset bleeding across the compound horizon. It didn’t banish the dark, but it carved a space in it. Lit the motes of dust hanging heavy in the air. Made the wreckage shimmer like a battlefield caught in the golden hour.

And it lit him.

The Void didn’t move. Not fully. But you could feel the shift. The twitch of air. The smallest ripple in the fabric of the room.

When you turned back to him–

There he was.

The Void looked…Almost beautiful in the sunlight.

Not in the way people meant when they talked about beauty. This wasn’t gentle or graceful or soft. It wasn’t something that asked to be appreciated. It was arresting. Unnatural. Terrifying, yes–but stunning in a way that made your breath catch like it had stumbled into your throat and forgotten how to move.

The golden light cut a jagged angle across the wreckage–strewn room, carving past broken drawers and shattered glass and plastic, but it slowed when it hit him.

Not physically, but perceptibly. Like the light hesitated.

The Void’s form didn’t cast a shadow–he was the shadow. A humanoid silhouette, pitch-black and impossibly dark, draped in endless, shifting tendrils that shimmered faintly in the warm light. He wasn’t see-through, not exactly, but he wasn’t solid either. Looking at him felt like peering into the night sky from the bottom of the ocean–inky, infinite, and so far removed from the natural world that your eyes didn’t quite know where to land.

He looked like a silhouette made of star-drenched tar. The only consistent shape was his outline–vaguely human, impossibly still–and the shock of those eyes.

Pale white. Pupils like burning pinholes through reality itself.

And then there were the freckles. Not normal ones. They weren’t skin-deep or superficial, but scattered like constellations across his chest and shoulders and face, splattered in soft gradients of faint violet and ghost-light blue and shocking white. They moved. Barely. Like they weren’t actually part of him, but windows into something else. Into somewhere that didn’t obey the same laws of existence.

Like someone had cracked open the body of the universe and poured it into him until he took its shape.

You took another step closer, your boots crunching on a piece of ceramic that used to be a mug, and that’s when his head turned slightly–just enough for you to meet one pale, gleaming eye.

And then–he growled. Low and guttural. Less vocal, and more…Animalistic.

”…God.” The word rumbled through the air like it had teeth, “Not you.” You blinked, and then smiled. Not unkindly. Not smugly, either. Just…Knowingly.

You shifted your weight onto one leg, arms loosely crossed, letting your gaze roam over him again now that you were closer. It was always a strange thing, seeing him like this–in daylight. You’d only ever caught glimpses. In dreams. In flickers. In the strange reflections that warped when Bob was between states. But never like this. Never with the sunset warm on your face, and him laid out in the middle of it like a void-stained wound stitched into golden light.

It made him look unreal. Like something painted across the world and only half-belonging.

“I figured you knew I was coming,” You said lightly, voice quiet but firm as you took another careful step forward, your knees almost hitting the mattress. “I’m sure of it, actually…You’re all knowing are you not?” He didn’t respond. But he moved–barely. A twitch in his shoulder. A curl of fingers you hadn’t noticed pressed into the sheets. And then slowly, with the kind of irritated dramatism only a god-tier being could muster, he turned over.

Away from you.

It was such a petty, human gesture that you nearly laughed. He curled onto his other side like a sullen teenager pretending to be asleep, the tendrils of shadow snapping faintly around his limbs–like he was swatting the sunlight away.

You sat down on the edge of the bed slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, careful to keep your voice soft as you spoke again, “I’m not here to fight with you.” A pause. The air shifted again. Like the room was breathing for him.

“I’m just here for him,” You murmured. “You know that.”

No answer.

Just the shadows tightening around his form like a second skin. Flicking sharp toward the light, then recoiling. The silence didn’t just settle this time–it spread. Like a sickness. Like smoke crawling into your lungs, seeping under your skin, and clinging to the corners of your thoughts.

You stared at the pillow beneath his head, your brow slowly pulling into a tight line.

There–just beneath the crook of where his temple met the white cotton–were stains.

Tiny, deep red drops.

Not smeared, or splattered, but fallen and sunken into the fabric.

”…Are you bleeding?” You asked softly, the question curling through the air like the edge of a breeze that didn’t quite reach him. The Void paused for a moment.

And then–he laughed.

Short and dry. Low and splintered. It didn’t echo. It shook. Like the walls of the room didn’t want to carry the sound and were trying to drop it before it could reach too far.

“I do not bleed,” He said, the words scraping over the back of your mind like cold metal dragging across bone, “The shell does.” Your jaw flexed slightly, and your frown deepened.

“…Did he do all of this?” You asked, “The mess I mean…Or was it you?” At first, he didn’t say anything. There was not even the twitch of a shadow.

Then he curled in tighter into himself, the shadows drawing closer like blankets that didn’t warm.

”Mix of both,” He admitted, reluctantly, “I don’t understand why it matters to you.” You let the breath leave your nose in a quiet sigh and dropped your gaze.

“Well…” You murmured, reaching for the zipper of your hoodie, “First, we’re going to have to replace all of this stuff.” The hoodie came off in one fluid motion. You tossed it gently to the side of the bed and leaned forward to untie your boots, voice dropping just a little more casual as you added, “And second… I’d rather be ready when he comes back.” The last boot hit the floor with a soft thud. You stretched your socked toes slightly before curling them back under you and shifting onto the bed more fully, tucking one leg beneath you.

“Because I know I’ll have to bandage his hands now.” The Void shifted again. His back hunched tighter, shadows rippling sharp across his shoulders like hackles rising on an animal trying not to snarl.

“…He’s not coming back,” He replied, so quietly you almost missed it, “He’s in too deep.” You didn’t respond right away, you just tilted your head a bit, and let your eyes linger on the slope of his back, the way the light carved out the glinting star-patterns along his skin. You didn’t let your face harden. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t rush him. You just raised your brow slightly.

“Mm,” You hummed. “We’ll see about that.”

And then–slowly–you reached forward.

The tendrils noticed first. They snapped back from your approach like struck nerves. Sizzling faintly at the edges of your reach, shadows spiraling defensively around his form, curling between your hand and his body like they could block what was coming.

They knew what your touch would do.

But you didn’t stop.

You let your fingers slip through the whorls of shadow like they were ink in water–watching them coil and twitch as they tried, and failed, to recoil fast enough.

And then your palm met his shoulder.

Cold.

So cold your breath caught in your throat. Like placing your hand against dry ice, it was so cold it was…Hot in a way.

He flinched. Hard. The entire bed jostled with the sudden jerk of his muscles pulling tight.

“Ah–!”

The hiss tore out of him unbidden, guttural and strangled like it hurt. Because it did.

You could feel it the moment your skin met his–how the shadows shrank. How the hum of wrongness faltered in the walls. How the pressure around the room thinned slightly. You were draining him. Nullifying the divine static that clung to him like rot.

His body didn’t lurch away immediately, but his breath did. A sharp inhale. Like the pain was new. Like it surprised even him.

“…Don’t,” He rasped. “Don’t touch me.”

But you didn’t pull back.

Your hand pressed firmer to his shoulder.

The shadows hissed.

He jerked again, more violently this time, trying to pull himself away–but you didn’t let him. You didn’t even move. The only shift was in the air–your focus hardening, your mind expanding like a net, invisible but unshakable.

Telekinesis wasn’t always force. It wasn’t about slamming someone across a room or crushing metal with your thoughts.

Sometimes, it was about stillness. Weight. The kind of pressure that settled over bone and muscle like gravity, inescapable and patient.

And so when he tried to move again, the Void grunted–sharp, frustrated, restrained. The bedframe creaked beneath him with the effort of a god trying to disobey the very laws of physics you wove around him.

“I will kill you.” The words were low. Ragged. Meant to shake you.

But you…laughed.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just…Soft. A breathy, disbelieving thing that came from the hollow of your throat and made your shoulders twitch with the absurdity of it.

“If that’s what you truly wanted…” You murmured, your voice a ghost just above his ear as you leaned in close, “You would’ve done it already.”

There was a pause.

Heavy. Stagnant. Tense.

He tried again. You could feel it–his form straining against your hold, his shadows cracking through the air like whips, like rage incarnate, but they couldn’t touch you. Not really. Not with your powers blanketing the space between.

He growled. Animalistic. Teeth grinding, tendrils snapping.

You didn’t flinch.

You just moved.

Slowly, quietly, you climbed onto the bed fully. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, groaning with the shift, and he hissed again–but not from pain this time. From confusion.

And then…You laid behind him.

You felt it instantly. The temperature drop was jarring, biting into your skin through your shirt. It hit your chest first, then your bare arms as you wrapped them carefully around him, curling your body along the edge of his.

You let your arm drape over his side, your palm hovering at first, before pressing flat against his chest.

Gods shouldn’t feel like this.

Shouldn’t tremble. Shouldn’t shiver.

But he did.

His body didn’t accept the comfort–it reacted to it, violently at first. The moment your skin touched his chest, his muscles tensed, his breath caught, and then came the sound.

A broken, pained little gasp.

It wasn’t quite a growl. It wasn’t even a scream.

It was…A whimper.

Low. Raw. And filled with something deeper than pain.

The tendrils thrashed. A few brushed past your cheek, stinging cold, like frostbite in motion. One grazed your lips. Another flicked across your jaw, searching, tasting, confused.

But they didn’t strike.

They didn’t push you away.

In fact, slowly…They began to shift.

Curling, and looping, almost in a tender way. A hesitant winding around your arm. A slow crawl against your thigh. Brushing, nudging, and then stilling. Like they were learning you again. Like they remembered your signature and didn’t quite know what to do with it anymore.

“Just…” Your voice trembled slightly with the cold, but you didn’t stop, “Calm down, Void…Let him come back.” Your breath fogged against the back of his neck, warm in contrast to the chill that radiated off him like a dying sun.

He shuddered. Twitched. His hand moved to grab your wrist, but didn’t squeeze–just held it. Like an anchor. Or a warning.

Then he pushed against your arm once–sharp, desperate, useless.

And then…He sagged, letting out a frustrated, inhuman sound that didn’t belong in a throat. Something halfway between a hiss and a wounded sob. You felt it in his chest more than you heard it. A tremor under your palm. A ripple in your own ribs from how tightly you were pressed to him.

The tendrils wrapped tighter, and your cheek pressed gently to the back of his shoulder.

There was a long moment where neither of you moved.

Not a breath stirred the air between your bodies. Not a word passed your lips.

Your cheek stayed pressed to the curve of his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lashes brushing the cool shadowed skin. You let your senses drift, quietly reaching–searching–for something deeper. Something alive. You tried to listen again. Tried to find it. That faint rhythm. That human thread. That flicker of Bob.

But there was nothing.

No beat. No pulse.

Just silence.

Like pressing your ear against something ancient and hollow. Something that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold life.

And still…You stayed.

Your arm slowly shifted under the pillow, tucking more securely around the Void’s form, locking him in tighter, folding yourself to him like an anchor trying to hold a black hole still.

He grunted–louder this time–when your hand slipped across his chest again. The heatless cold biting up your wrist, down to the marrow, but you didn’t let go.

“You are hurting me.”

His voice was fractured now.

Still sharp. Still foreign. But softer around the edges. Like something was fraying. Like he wasn’t used to stating pain—only inflicting it.

You shook your head gently, your breath warm against the shell of his neck.

“You’re not used to this,” You murmured, voice steady despite the chill leeching into your skin. “But this is the only way I can get Bob back.”

Your fingers flexed slightly, your grip never relenting.

“You’re not going to go away on your own,” You added, more softly now, “I know you well enough…”

The second the words left your mouth, he moved.

Fast.

The Void jerked against you, his shadows spiking like claws as he tried to break free from your arms with all the force of a universe unraveling. Your powers flared instinctively–holding him, grounding him, caging him without violence.

And then he snapped–

“You don’t know me at all,” He hissed. “You have no fucking idea who I am.” The room trembled. The broken glass shivered on the floor. One of the remaining lightbulbs overhead gave a sick little buzz and blinked out.

But you…

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t let go.

And you didn’t raise your voice.

Your reply was almost gentle.

“I know the person you live inside,” you said. “I know him.”

You let your forehead rest against the top of his spine, your hand smoothing softly over the cold, trembling surface of his chest.

“And you may not believe it,” You continued, “But you’re a piece of him. Whether you hate it or not.”

He stilled–but not with calmness–with a kind of rigid tension. The kind that only came before collapse.

You pressed on.

“And he…” You said slowly, voice like a thread stitching through the dark, “He likes being touched. And held. And wanted.”

A beat.

“Deep down inside that hollowness, I think you do too.”

The shadows tightened around your arms–an instinct. A warning. But they didn’t pull you away.

“That’s my little key to get into your head,” You whispered, “And bring him back.”

And with that, you pulled him even closer.

You melted into him–your arm cinched tighter under his ribs, your hand splayed flat against the void of his chest, fingers brushing those starlit freckles like they might ignite under the contact. Your thighs curved around the bend of his body. Your breath warmed the space between his neck and shoulder.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t hiss.

Didn’t growl.

But you felt the change.

His grip tightened on your wrist. Not to crush. Not to command. But to hold. Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to falter. Waiting for your guard to drop. Waiting for you to flinch–so he could shove you away and snap the thread.

But you didn’t.

You just held on.

“You’re not going to scare me off,” You breathed. “So go ahead. Try.”

Your voice was calm. Unshaking. Your hand moved without thinking now.

Slow, gentle circles against his chest. Fingers brushing the raised curve of a freckle, then flattening again. Just enough pressure to remind him you were there. Just enough heat to keep the ice from creeping back in too fast. Your thumb traced the faint starlit constellation scattered near his collarbone, following one mark to the next as if mapping a sky only you could read.

You didn’t know how long it took. Time didn’t work right in rooms like this–where the air tasted like static and silence stretched so long it warped.

But eventually…

The rigidness began to leave him.

Not in one dramatic exhale.

Not with a sigh or a shudder.

Just a slow, quiet shift. One vertebrae at a time. One tendon unwinding. His shadows still clung to your wrist and thighs like anchors, but their hold was less…tense. Less venom. More hesitation.

And then–you felt it.

A small, deliberate movement.

His head tilted down. Chin dropped ever so slightly toward his chest, toward your hand. Not fast enough to be startled. Not deep enough to retreat. Just…searching. Studying. Like he was looking at something he hadn’t dared examine until now.

And then–

“…You have a lot of beauty marks on your hands.”

His voice was quieter now. Duller at the edges. Like something inside him had collapsed just enough to let the words out.

“Bob looks at them a lot.”

The admission settled in the air between you like a stone into water–gentle, but heavy with weight.

You stilled for just a breath. Then resumed your tracing, softer this time, almost like you didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“He pretends he’s not,” The Void added. “But he memorized them.”

A pause. “One by one.”

Your throat tightened. Just a little. But you didn’t speak. You waited.

He inhaled once, shallow.

“…Folklore says they represent where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you.” Your brows furrowed, caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer, softer.

You tilted your head just a little against his shoulder, trying not to let him hear the quiet thrum picking up in your chest.

A moment passed.

And then you said, teasingly–light but careful–

“Seems like a lot of soulmates have kissed you everywhere…” You nudged gently at his side with your fingers. “You’ve got marks all over your body.”

There was a pause.

Then–

A sound.

It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a scoff either.

It was something between.

A sound from deep in his chest. Soft, strange. Like a hum unraveling. Like a thread pulled from a black tapestry and found to be made of silk. Not hostile. Not mocking. Just…Thoughtful.

“…It is not the same,” He murmured.

And the way he said it–

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t flippant. It was almost longing. Like he knew, with unsettling clarity, the difference between touch and intimacy. Between worship and warmth. You didn’t move your hand from his chest. Just kept brushing your thumb in slow arcs across the curve of one freckle, and then another, as your brow furrowed gently.

“How is it not the same?” You asked, feeling The Void shift beside you–not violently, but with something sharp in the tension of his shoulders, like the question had scraped a nerve. His chin dipped again, the shadows curling tighter along your spine.

“It’s just…” He muttered, clipped now, almost irritated, “…How it looks.” He rolled slightly, enough for the tendrils across his chest to shimmer faintly in the dying sunlight. The freckles pulsed there still–pale, slow-burning starlight in a galaxy of ink.

“You may interpret it as marks,” He added flatly, “But it is just…How it is. There’s nothing more to it.” His voice was distant again. Slipping back into that cold echo, like he was digging himself into a trench of denial. You hummed softly in response. Not convinced. Not arguing. Just…Thinking.

And then, after a beat–

“You’ve never felt love, or anything like that, hmm?” He stiffened entirely. Like you’d cracked a fault line that ran straight through him and threatened to split his chest open.

He didn’t reply.

So you continued–gently, but with a note of something more pointed.

”You just…Live behind Bob’s eyes, and whatever he goes through–whatever he feels–you get the little bites of it…Correct?” It was a truth you didn’t say to hurt him. But it landed that way anyway.

He groaned. Not out of pain. Not purely out of rage either. It was resentment. Pure and concentrated. Heavy in his chest and thick in his voice as he snapped–

“Listen…”

The tendrils twitched against your arms. Coiled with warning.

“I am already stuck in this position because you’re a succubus leech who drains me every time you breathe near me–” He spat, the words acidic and cutting, “I am not going to speak about what I experience through Bob. This is not a therapy session.” You bit the inside of your cheek, just barely, and sat with the sting of it. Let it pass.

“…Okay,” You said quietly, “Touchy subject. Sorry.”

Your voice didn’t waver. But it softened. Like you knew it was a wound. And not one you could cauterize tonight.

A pause fell over you both. He turned his face just slightly, half-hidden in the bend of his elbow, and the tension around him seemed to slow–not dissipate, not ease, but slow. A stalling breath caught in molasses.

And then, without even thinking about your next actions, you pressed your lips gently to his shoulder.

It was a soft kiss. Barely there. Just a whisper of heat against a body that didn’t carry it.

But the reaction was immediate.

The Void flinched–hard. But not away.

And just below where your lips touched his skin, you saw it.

A flicker.

A little fractal of a star.

Tiny. No bigger than your thumbnail. A fractured pinpoint of white-gold, like a nova caught mid-bloom. It shimmered once, flaring faint violet at the edges–like a nerve exposed. It appeared beneath the skin of shadow like light behind thin glass, and then…Stayed. Not fading. Not shrinking. Just there.

And the second your heart clenched–sharp and aching at the sight–he snapped.

“Don’t do that again.”

The voice was low. Cold, but not cruel. He sounded afraid.

You blinked. Sat up slightly behind him. Your hand still rested against his chest, but your expression shifted–watching the star pulsing softly.

”I knew you brought up that folklore stuff for a reason,” You murmured.

The Void twitched beneath your weight–tension returning, but not fury. Something more volatile in its vulnerability. He shifted, trying to roll, but the weight of your powers kept him still, your body pressed too closely against his for him to twist away.

“Jesus Christ,” he snapped, frustrated. “What are you? A rock? A boulder? I—I can’t even move.”

“Exactly,” you said lightly, settling your cheek back against his shoulder. “You’re trying to avoid the conversation… Maybe you should let Bob come back to handle this one.”

He growled low in his throat, shadows snapping once in protest, but nothing struck you.

“I’m not that easily swayed by a thing like you,” he bit out.

But there was hesitation in it now. Thinning resistance. A fracture in the spine of his anger.

You smiled against his skin.

And then—you started kissing him again.

Slow. Gentle. One after the other.

You placed a kiss at the dip of his spine.

Then at the base of his neck.

Then to the spot just beneath his jaw, where the darkness shimmered like ink floating over glass.

And each kiss—every single one—left another starlight bloom.

A pinpoint of white-gold.

A soft violet pulse.

A celestial wound that didn’t bleed—but glowed.

Tiny galaxies emerging under your mouth like his body had forgotten how to hide them.

“Are Bob and I soulmates?” you whispered against his skin, voice just playful enough to burn, “Is that what this is?”

Another kiss. Another nova. Another whimper. Not a growl this time.

He jerked again, but this time–not away.

Something loosened, and you felt it. The tension in the shadows began to stutter.

Their rhythm breaking.

Tendrils untangling.

The air around you shifted–less cold now. Less heavy. And then—you saw it.

Just a glimpse.

A slip.

A patch of pale, trembling skin where darkness used to writhe. Just beneath your hand, on the far side of his ribs, the black slid back like melting paint, retreating under your touch.

His breath hitched.

And then–suddenly–the shadows collapsed inward.

Like a tidal wave rushing in reverse.

Like the vacuum of space had just exhaled all at once.

They peeled off him in layers, the tendrils shriveling and snapping back like overstretched nerves, retreating into the floor, the walls, the bedframe. A vortex of absence pulling itself away from something it could no longer cling to.

And all that was left–was Bob.

He gasped like a man drowned. Choking on the air like it burned.

His whole body trembled–bare skin exposed now, sweat-slicked and shaking, his spine curved, arms drawn in like he was trying to hold himself together.

His fingers twisted into the sheets like he didn’t know where he was.

His eyes were wide. Unfocused.

And then–

They found you.

And the second they met yours, that glimmer of bright, beautiful blue–

You exhaled. All the weight in your chest collapsing inward with a relief so fierce it stung.

“Bob,” You breathed.

He didn’t answer.

His jaw clenched, shaking.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes–not falling yet, but close. His breath was coming too fast, too sharp.

You moved instantly.

Your hand came to his head–gently, reverently–fingers sliding into his sweaty hair, dragging softly over his scalp in long, grounding motions.

He flinched at first–then leaned into it, seeking the comfort that you had given him countless times before from outside of this context. You pulled him back toward you, tucking his head beneath your chin as your arms curled tighter around his chest.

“It’s okay,” You whispered, voice warm, threading through the cold air like gold wire. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” His fingers clutched at your forearm with sudden, desperate strength.

A choked, broken sob tore out of him as his grip tightened like a vice—raw, panicked, trembling. He clung to you like the room might dissolve if he let go, like you might dissolve. And when you glanced down to where his hand gripped your arm, your breath caught in your throat.

“…Oh my god…Bob.”

His hands were ruined.

The skin across his knuckles was torn open–bloody and cracked like old leather stretched too far. Scabbed-over lacerations split in jagged lines across every joint, with dried blood crusted thick beneath his fingernails and ground into the creases of his palm. The bruising was almost violent in color–black and violet pooled beneath the skin in wide, uneven patches that traveled from the backs of his hands to the delicate tendons along the inside of his wrists.

His palms were the worst.

Torn in places. Split where skin had given out from striking too many hard surfaces–glass, wood, stone. Splinters embedded in the meat of his thumbs. Swollen pads bruised from impact after impact, the raw friction of knuckles dragging across floors and punching through walls. There was a fine tremor in every finger, shaking so subtly it made your chest ache.

You reached for him instinctively, your other hand hovering just under his wrist–

“Let me ge–”

But he cut you off.

“Pl–Please,” He gasped, voice wrecked with sobs, “Don’t–don’t leave me. I…I don’t wa–want to be alone.”

His fingers curled harder around your arm, pulling you in tighter, frantic and shaking. Your heart cracked clean in two.

You softened instantly, forehead resting against the back of his head.

“I can’t just leave your hands like this…” You whispered, barely able to get the words out through the thick knot forming in your throat.

But he whimpered again, voice splintering apart at the seams.

“Ye–Yes you can…I d-do—don’t want to be alone…”

The words hit like a blow.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just honest in the way only raw fear could be. His body was folded in on itself, back pressed to your chest, and you felt every tremble he couldn’t suppress. Every twitch of pain. Every fractured breath.

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly, letting your brow knit tight, letting the helplessness crest over you–but only for a second.

Then–gently–you shifted back into place behind him.

Your arm curled across his torso once more, anchoring him against you, your legs folding in tighter like you could protect him from the air itself. You kissed the crown of his head–once, then again, softer this time–your lips trembling against the tangled mess of his damp curls.

Your voice came quieter now, steadier, like you were afraid speaking too loud might break him again.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand still clung to your arm, shaking, but you moved carefully–slowly–lifting one of his bruised fists with tender fingers. You brought it to your mouth, just above the worst of the dried blood, and kissed it.

One knuckle.

Then the next.

Then lower–across the cracked bend of his thumb.

Another kiss.

And another.

You didn’t flinch at the blood. You didn’t pull back at the bruises. You kissed through them like they were sacred. Like they were his and that made them worth kissing.

“I’m sorry,” He choked suddenly, the words tumbling out in gasps. “I–I’m sorry for the r-room, for everything–god, I ruined everything, I just–I–”

“Hey,” You whispered, cutting him off softly. You kissed his hand again. “It’s fine. Everyone will help you replace everything. You’re safe. You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright?”

He hiccuped a sob, still trembling, still cradled in your arms.

“Just breathe,” You repeated, your voice like silk threading through the ache in his lungs.

And slowly–painfully–he tried.

You pressed your cheek to the side of his head and spoke quietly against his hair.

“In through your nose…”

You inhaled with him.

“Good. Now out through your mouth.”

You exhaled slow and steady.

Again.

“In…”

He followed, ragged but trying.

“…And out.”

You felt his shoulders shake–but this time, they weren’t recoiling. They were easing. Piece by broken piece.

“You’re okay, Bob,” You whispered. “Just keep breathing with me. I’ve got you.”

[heejamas]

JUST LIKE HEAVEN ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 80s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, fluff … ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: you never planned to fall for your brother’s best friend, jay. but the summer before college, on 1989, something shifts—between mixtapes, quiet drives, and the kind of closeness that sneaks up on you. and after a few cassette tapes and long drives, the love you never planned for starts happening. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: it's pretty much proofread, a few cursing and drinking 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure \ read part 2 <3

your childhood home is full of memories you don’t think about much. they live in the peeling paint on the porch rails, in the creak of the floors, in the hum of the old fridge on hot afternoons. they stay quiet most of the time, until you’re older, until you come back and realize you’ve changed and the house hasn’t.

that’s when you notice jay.

he’s jungwon’s weird friend from seventh grade, with shaggy hair that falls into his eyes and those old denim jackets everyone seems to have. he drags around this beat-up backpack covered in doodles and faded patches from god knows where. your mom likes him right away, says he’s polite. your dad nods approvingly whenever jay remembers to say "thank you" after dinner. and you think he laughs way too loud whenever jungwon beats him at street fighter on the super nintendo. 

you’re fifteen. they’re thirteen, maybe fourteen. still stuck in that world where afternoons stretch out forever, filled with video games, bike rides around the block, and inside jokes you never bother to understand. you roll your eyes at them most of the time, stepping over tangled controller cords and empty soda cans on your way to do something more important, thinking they’re just kids and you’re already so much older.

jay is just jungwon’s shadow back then. wherever your brother goes, jay follows, always a step behind, a little quieter, a little more careful. it’s easy to ignore them. it’s easy to be busy with your own life, too busy dreaming about the future and flipping through college brochures you don’t even know if you want. they’re just noise in the background, a constant buzz of laughter and slamming doors and the rumble of sneakers on the stairs.

but people don’t stay the same forever.

jay starts getting taller, his voice losing the high, sharp edge it used to have. his hair gets longer, and he starts wearing beat-up converse with little drawings in sharpie on the rubber toes. sometimes you catch glimpses of him when you’re rushing past, and something about him feels different, but you’re not paying close enough attention to figure out what. you’re still too busy worrying about math tests you might fail and love stories that haven’t even started yet.

until one day, you do notice.

it’s a saturday, late september. the air is still warm, but the evenings are starting to cool down, and the house smells like dust and old wood. you come downstairs, half-distracted, looking for your walkman because you promised yourself you’d organize your tapes today. you find them sprawled out on the couch like always, controllers in their hands, eyes locked on the television screen where some new game you don't recognize is flashing bright colors. jungwon shouts something you don't catch. jay laughs, really laughs, head thrown back against the cushions, and you feel it in your chest, sudden and sharp.

he looks different when he laughs like that.

you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, walkman forgotten, and jay glances over at you. just a quick look, but he smiles a little, like he’s happy to see you. like you’re not just jungwon’s sister passing through the room. and for the first time, you smile back.

you don’t know why it catches you off guard. maybe it’s the way his hair falls into his eyes, still messy but different now, like he means it to look that way. maybe it’s the way he’s stretched out on the couch, longer, broader, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his forearms, his whole body lazy and comfortable like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged. maybe it’s just the way he looks up at you when he notices you standing there, not with that clumsy, wide-eyed look little boys get around older girls, but something steadier. familiar. like he knows exactly who you are, and he’s not scared of it.

you freeze for a second, your heart knocking strangely against your ribs. because jay isn’t just jungwon’s weird friend anymore. he’s jay.

the guy who starts hanging around the kitchen more, pulling up a chair while you’re finishing math problems you don’t really understand, pretending not to watch you struggle before quietly trying to help you. the guy who steals fries off your plate like it’s no big deal, like it’s normal, like it’s always been that way. the guy who borrows your worn-out paperbacks without asking, then returns them with the pages bent and little notes scribbled in the margins that he pretends he didn’t write. the guy who teases you just enough to make you roll your eyes, nudging you with his shoulder when you’re being too serious, who always knows when to back off if you’re having a bad day. the guy who learns how you take your coffee without you ever telling him.

it’s not one big moment. it’s all the tiny ones stacked together, like old mixtapes in your drawer, like lazy car rides with the windows rolled down and some song you both half-sing along to playing too loud on the radio. it’s afternoons lying on the living room floor, arguing over which band is better, your arms barely brushing and neither of you moving away. it’s the quiet comfort of someone who’s seen you cry over dumb movies and scream at thriller ones and doesn’t seem to mind any version of you.

sometimes you catch him looking at you like he’s trying to remember the way you laugh, like he’s memorizing it just in case. sometimes you look back.

but life keeps moving, whether you’re ready for it or not. you’re seventeen, almost eighteen, and everything starts feeling too small. the house, the town, even the streets you thought you knew by heart. there are college acceptance letters taped to the fridge door, and graduation gowns thrown into the backseat of your beat-up car, and a kind of heavy goodbye already sitting inside your chest even though you haven’t left yet.

your prom is on a sticky, humid friday night. you decide not to bring a date — you tell everyone it’s because you just want to have fun with your friends, and that’s mostly true. it’s easier that way. just dancing until your legs ache, laughing until your cheeks hurt, taking blurry disposable camera photos you know you’ll look back on someday and miss, even if you don’t feel it yet.

jay is there too, somewhere in the crowd, wearing a suit jacket that doesn’t fit quite right and a tie he keeps loosening like he can’t stand it around his neck. you catch glimpses of him across the gymnasium, in flashes of strobe lights and spilled punch and bad eighties ballads crackling through the speakers. he’s laughing at something jungwon says, head tilted back the way you love, and for a second it’s easy to forget that everything’s about to change. just for a second. 

when his eyes finally find yours, it’s not a big thing. no dramatic pause, no heart-thumping moment where time slows down. just a small, familiar look, a tiny lift of his eyebrows, a barely-there tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’s saying, there you are. like he’s been looking, too.

you catch him later, leaning against the wall, looking at his shoes, looking like he’s thinking too hard about something. you walk over without really deciding to.

"having fun?" you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours.

he glances at you, the corners of his mouth pulling up into that lazy smile you’ve grown too fond of. "define fun," he says.

you laugh, and for a moment, neither of you moves. the music shifts, and the soft buzz of a slow song fades out, replaced by the upbeat strum of a guitar. just like heaven by the cure fills the room, and you feel it immediately—the energy picks up, the rhythm infectious, almost impossible to resist.

show me, show me, show me how you do that trick—the words swirl around you, playful and light, like they’ve always belonged here.

you glance around at the couples shuffling together, trying to get their feet in sync, the way everyone’s pressing close to one another, still unsure, too stiff. and then, you look back at jay.

"wanna dance?" you ask, your words light, but your heart’s racing just a little.

jay hesitates, just for a second. then he shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting again, like it’s all the answer you need. "sure."

you’re expecting it to be awkward, the too-far-apart distance, the fumbling hands, the inevitable laughter that’ll cover the embarrassment. but it’s not like that at all. jay’s hands find your waist like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before, easy and sure, and you loop your arms loosely around his neck, feeling the warmth of him against the cool gym air. it feels... effortless. like breathing. like it’s always been this way.

his hair falls a little messier than usual over his forehead, stubbornly imperfect, like it’s just meant to be that way. his jawline’s sharper now, the angle of his face different, and his skin is warm under the harsh lights, making everything feel a little softer. there’s a crease between his eyebrows, like he’s thinking about something that’s not quite ready to be said.

you feel it before you even understand it, that pull toward him, low and steady, like a thread pulling you closer. and then he looks down, his eyes meeting yours with the kind of ease that’s new, but not. like it’s exactly what’s supposed to happen. he smiles, small and crooked, and you feel your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the music.

"you’re really leaving, huh," he says quietly after a while.

you nod, your throat tight, the words stuck somewhere between your chest and your mouth. jay’s fingers press a little harder into your sides, like maybe if he holds on tight enough, he can keep you here, even for just a little longer. maybe he doesn’t want to say goodbye either.

the song keeps playing, the lyrics swirling around, “you're just like a dream…” but you don’t really hear it anymore. all you can feel is the way jay’s body moves with yours, how his forehead is just barely brushing yours now, close enough that you can count the little mark on his neck you never noticed before. 

it’s quiet, too quiet, and you wonder if he’s going to say something else, but the words get stuck. so instead, he just pulls you a little closer, his breath warm against your face. "i’m gonna miss you," he says, his voice soft, simple. it’s almost too quiet, like it’s meant just for you, like he’s trying to memorize it.

you blink up at him, the weight of the words sinking in. he’s not smiling now. he’s just looking at you like he’s holding onto the moment, like he wants to keep it in a place that’s safe, tucked away somewhere. "i’ll miss you too," you say, and it’s more honest than you meant it to be. more honest than anything you’ve said in a while.

jay’s hands tighten just a little, like he heard something more in your voice than just the words themselves. and for a second, it feels like the whole room tilts. like there’s something hanging between you, heavier than anything you’ve had to name before. you wonder if he’s going to kiss you. you wonder if you want him to. you wonder if it would change everything, or maybe just fix it.

but then, the song ends, just like that, leaving you with the fading sound of footsteps and chatter, the world rushing back in a little too suddenly. you stand there, still close, the space between you still warm, the feeling lingering like the echo of a song you don’t want to forget. someone bumps into jay’s shoulder, laughing, pulling him a little out of the moment, and just like that, the spell breaks. he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed, like maybe he imagined it too.

"come on," he says, voice a little rough, nodding toward where jungwon is waving from across the room. "he’s probably getting into trouble without me." you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something stupid, like stay or don’t go. instead, you just smile, small and steady, and let him lead the way back into the crowd.

and even when you’re laughing at something stupid jungwon says, even when you’re posing for one last blurry photo with all your friends, even when you’re driving home with your windows down and your hair a mess and the night stretching out around you like something endless—you can still feel it. the weight of jay’s hands on your waist. and the almost of it all.

and then college happens. and it happens fast. faster than you thought it would.

you spend the first few weeks clinging to your roommate like a lifeline, getting lost on campus, pretending you’re not homesick even when you are. you go to every welcome event they offer, eat bad cafeteria food, smile too much, and drink way too much bad coffee. you start telling people where you’re from like it’s a footnote, something small and far away. you write to jungwon sometimes, mostly silly letters with inside jokes and little updates.

you write to jay too, but it’s different. it’s a slow thing, quiet. he sends you a cassette tape he’s made, filled with songs he’s discovered that semester. it feels like a part of him tucked away in the cracks of the music. each song is carefully chosen, a snapshot of his world that he’s willing to share with you. there are some songs you already know—under the milky way by the church, there’s a light that never goes out by the smiths, happy when it rains by the jesus and mary chain—but there are others that feel new, like fall on me by r.e.m., and run 2 by new order. you listen to the tape late at night, lying on your bed in your dorm room, the sound crackling a bit from the old tape player.

the music fills the space around you, and even though you're miles away, it feels like he's right there. you smile at the thought of him picking these songs out for you, the quiet way he’s trying to share himself with you through these notes hidden in melodies. it’s not much, just a tape, but it feels like something important.

you send one back, and you’re careful about it, picking songs that make sense for you, songs that represent the pieces of your world he hasn’t seen. your tape is full of the pop hits that are playing on the radio and the ones you can’t get out of your head. there’s heaven by bryan adams, heaven is a place on earth by belinda carlisle, cherish by madonna. you include hysteria by def leppard because it’s the kind of track that gets stuck in your head for days. right here waiting by richard marx because the lyrics remind you of being away. there’s even out of love by air supply, an old classic from before your time, but you love it anyway, the soft ache in the melody feeling like something you want to keep.

and, of course, you end it with just like heaven by the cure. because it reminds you of him, even if you haven’t figured it out yet.

when you listen to his tape, it’s like hearing him in each song. you start to understand the quiet parts of him a little better, and when you hear his voice on the other side of the tape, talking about how he found a new band, it makes you feel closer to him, even from so far away. but when you listen to your own tape, your music is different from his. and when he comments on it in one of his letters, saying “your songs are... nice. but i like how they’re so different from mine. it’s kind of adorable.” you can't help but laugh, because that’s exactly how it feels. a little piece of you, a little piece of him, strung together by the tapes you send back and forth, each one carrying something new, something personal.

by november, you think you’re finally getting the hang of it. you memorize the shortcuts between buildings. you figure out which vending machines still have good snacks after midnight. you write essays and go to parties and kiss a guy you meet in your creative writing class. one day he asks you to come over, you say yes. you lie on his bed, half-listening to him talk about his favorite bands, and you try to feel something. anything. but when he leans in to kiss you, all you can think about is a different laugh, a different pair of hands. and then you leave before it gets messy. but you tell yourself you’re not running away.

you tell yourself you’re doing great. you’re growing. you’re learning. you’re supposed to feel a little lost. that’s what everyone says, right?

sometimes you find yourself flipping through old photo albums when you can’t sleep. birthday parties in the backyard. summers at the lake. blurry group photos where jay is always a little off to the side, smiling like he’s in on a joke no one else knows. 

you don’t write to him as much after that. you don’t even know what you would say.

then suddenly, it’s december, and you’re coming back home for christmas. home feels smaller somehow. the rooms tighter. the streets more faded, like the whole place is holding its breath. your mom cries when she sees you, wrapping you in a hug that feels like it could last forever. your dad jokes about how you didn’t get any taller, ruffling your hair in that way he always did. jungwon hugs you, a little awkward, like he’s not sure if he should admit that he missed you.

you don’t see jay right away. you wonder if that’s on purpose. it’s funny, you think, how things feel a little different now. everything seems a little more... real. a little more complicated.

then one night, three days after you get back, jungwon says some of the guys are meeting up at the diner, the one that’s been around forever. he says you should come, and even though you don’t really want to—you're tired, you’ve got that homesick feeling lingering in your chest, like you’re not sure where you belong anymore—you let your brother drag you along.

the bell above the door rings when you step inside, a familiar sound that feels comforting and a little strange at the same time. you look around, half-expecting to see everyone as they were before, but the place feels different too. quieter, somehow. then you spot him almost immediately—jay, sitting in one of the booths by the window, his back half-turned toward the door, like he’s been keeping an eye out. the way he looks up when you walk in, it catches you off guard.

your chest tightens, but not in a bad way. it’s more like something you didn’t realize you were carrying finally settles. you hadn’t been sure what it would feel like, seeing him again after all these months—if it would be strange, or awkward, or if the distance between you would be something you could feel, like a wall that you couldn’t cross. but it’s not like that. it’s just him. and somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

he’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, nothing special, but somehow it fits different now. more grown. there’s a faded concert t-shirt underneath — something from the cure or the smiths maybe, you can’t quite tell. the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, revealing a silver ring on one of his fingers that you don’t remember from before. his hair’s a little longer now, falling into his eyes, messy in that effortless way, like he hasn’t thought about it at all. he looks tired, but good. familiar and new at the same time.

you stand there for a second too long, taking him in, feeling that odd mix of nostalgia and something else you can’t quite place. he catches your eye, and his smile is small but real, like it’s just another friday night, like no time has passed at all. you find yourself smiling back before you even think about it. something eases in your shoulders. you hadn’t realized how tense you were until that moment.

you make your way over to the booth, weaving through the scattered tables. jay shifts slightly to make room for you, his eyes staying on you the whole time. he doesn’t say anything, and it doesn’t feel like he needs to. it’s easy. it’s always been easy with him, even when it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

when you slide into the seat across from him, your knees brush under the table. neither of you moves away.

the diner’s warm and a little too bright, the light reflecting off the metal and neon in that way only places like this have. outside the windows, you can see the parking lot glowing under the streetlights. you feel a little untethered, like you’re still getting used to being home again, but sitting here, with jay, makes it better somehow.

after a while, the table thins out. people start leaving, slapping each other on the back, promising to meet up again soon. jungwon gets pulled into a conversation near the door, laughing about something you don’t quite catch.

you and jay stay behind, still nursing half-empty drinks, the fries long gone, cold now, and forgotten. jay taps his fingers lightly against the side of his glass, watching the ice melt and clink together, like he’s lost in thought.

"so," he says, glancing up at you, his voice low, "how’s school?"

you shrug. "good," you say. "weird, but good."

"yeah?" he smiles, a little lopsided. "you look good."

you feel your face warm, but you don’t look away. you whisper "you too" and it’s not awkward. it’s not anything big. just two people who used to know each other better, finding their way back in small, steady steps.

he leans back in the booth, stretching his arms out over the seat. "made any weird college friends yet?"

you laugh. "too many. one of my roommates is obsessed with astrology. another one swears she’s gonna start a business selling scrunchies."

jay grins, shaking his head. "sounds like a mess."

"it is," you say, smiling. "but kind of a good one."

he taps the side of his glass again, thoughtful. "must be nice, though. being out there already."

you glance at him. "you’re almost there."

he shrugs. "still feels far sometimes. senior year’s dragging."

"any idea where you wanna go?" you ask.

he runs a hand through his hair. "thinking about it. applied a few places. nothing’s official yet."

"you’ll figure it out," you say, and you mean it.

he smiles, a little softer this time. "hope so."

for a second, you both just sit there, the sounds of the diner filling the space between you — clinking dishes, a coffee machine steaming, a group laughing a few booths over. it’s late enough that everything feels slower, quieter. easier.

"and you?" he asks. "besides making friends with astrology girls. you like it?"

you think about it for a second. "i do. it’s overwhelming sometimes, but... it’s good. i like feeling like i’m figuring myself out a little."

he nods, like he gets it. "guess that’s the point, right?"

"i guess so." you nudge his foot lightly under the table. "and you? besides hating senior year?"

he laughs. "not much to report. football’s over. classes are boring. just trying to get through it."

there’s a part of you that remembers what that felt like, that weird limbo of waiting for everything to change. you realize now how much he’s stuck between two worlds: not quite out of here, not quite moving on yet. "you’ll be fine," you say. "you’re good at landing on your feet."

he raises an eyebrow. "you think so?"

"i know so."

he leans back, looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. then he smiles. "thanks.", he murmurs. you both fall quiet again, but it’s not heavy. it’s easy, natural, like slipping into a rhythm you didn’t even realize you missed.

christmas break passes fast. you spend most days at home, curled up on the old couch that still sags in the middle, flipping through tv channels that never seem to change. your mom keeps making hot chocolate, your dad keeps pretending not to cry during the holiday movies. jungwon drags you to the mall once or twice, but mostly you just exist. 

it’s snowing by the time christmas morning rolls around. you’re sitting by the window with your coffee, when you hear a knock at the door. you think maybe it’s one of your neighbors, but when you open it, it’s jay. standing on the porch, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, snow dusting his hair.

"merry christmas," he says, a little out of breath, like maybe he ran the last block. he holds out a flat package wrapped in plain brown paper. 

you blink at him for a second, surprised, before stepping aside to let him in. "you didn’t have to."

he shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "i wanted to."

he kicks his boots off by the door and follows you into the living room, glancing around like he’s checking if he’s interrupting something. but the house is quiet. your parents are upstairs. jungwon’s probably asleep. it’s just you. you sit down on the couch and he drops into the armchair across from you. you turn the package over in your hands, feeling the shape of it, square and thin. your heart tugs a little when you realize what it probably is.

"can i open it now?" you ask.

jay nods, looking suddenly nervous. "yeah. i mean — yeah."

you tear the paper carefully. inside is a brand new LP, look sharp! by roxette. the cover is glossy under your fingertips, all reds and blacks and bright letters. your throat tightens a little. "you said you liked them," jay says quickly. "i mean, i wasn’t sure if you had it already, but..."

you shake your head, smiling. "i don’t. i love it." he relaxes, leaning back in the chair like a weight’s been lifted off him. "wait," you say, setting the record carefully on the table. "i have something for you too."

you get up, digging around under the tree until you find the small box you tucked there last night. it’s wrapped in plain red paper, the corners a little uneven. you hand it to him before you can overthink it. jay looks at you, eyebrows raised, before tearing the paper carefully. inside, there’s a folded black t-shirt. you painted it yourself a few nights ago, hunched over your desk with fabric markers and too many crumpled up test versions. it’s simple, the bon jovi logo in white and red across the front, a little uneven if you look too close, but still clear. still yours.

he unfolds it slowly, running his fingers over the design like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch it. "no way," he says, grinning. "you made this?"

"obviously," you mutter, trying not to sound nervous. "it’s not perfect."

jay shakes his head immediately. "it’s awesome," he says. and you know he means it. he holds it up to his chest for a second, like he’s trying to picture it on, and then he just laughs, soft and real. "this is... seriously. this is the best thing anyone’s ever given me."

you duck your head, feeling your face heat up.

"i’ll wear it to school and make everyone jealous," he adds, winking.

"you better," you say, smiling into your coffee cup.

you spend the rest of the afternoon flipping through your parents' old vinyl collection, showing jay the records you used to love when you were little. you put on wham! way too loud just to annoy him. he groans dramatically but doesn’t move from his spot on the floor, and you catch him mouthing the words when he thinks you’re not looking.

outside, the snow keeps falling. inside, everything feels a little easier. like maybe being home isn’t so bad after all.

and then new year’s eve feels bigger this year. everyone keeps talking about it — the end of a decade, a fresh start, whatever that’s supposed to mean. you don’t know if you feel different yet, but there’s something in the air. maybe it’s just the cold. 

you end up at heeseung’s house with jungwon and a bunch of their friends. it’s packed by the time you get there, kids from all over town squeezed into the living room and kitchen, voices loud, music even louder. someone’s blasting "i wanna dance with somebody" by whitney houston from an old stereo. the bass rattles the windows, mixing with the sound of people laughing and shouting over each other. there’s a big homemade banner taped crooked over the fireplace that says goodbye '80s!

you recognize most of the faces. everyone’s older now, a little different, but not enough that it feels like you’re strangers. and jay finds you not long after you get there. he bumps your shoulder lightly with his when he passes, no words, just a look that makes your chest feel a little too tight for a second.

around eleven-thirty, you slip outside to breathe. the porch light is on, but the backyard is dark, covered in a thin layer of snow that crunches under your boots. the cold bites at your fingers through your jacket sleeves. you tuck your hands into your pockets, watching your breath fog up in the air. a few minutes later, the door creaks behind you. 

"figured you’d be out here," jay says, stepping onto the porch. he pulls the door shut behind him with a soft click.

you glance over your shoulder at him. "couldn’t breathe in there," you say. your voice is small in the cold.

he huffs out a laugh and leans against the railing next to you, close but not touching. his jacket is too thin for how cold it is. you want to scold him, but you don’t.

the music inside is muffled now, but you catch bits of it. "like a prayer" is playing and madonna’s voice strong and sure under all the noise. you both stare out at the yard for a while, not saying much. the snow glows faintly under the streetlights, and somewhere down the block you can hear fireworks popping early.

"weird, huh," jay says eventually. "end of the '80s."

you nod. "feels fake."

he laughs under his breath. "yeah."

you shift a little closer to him without meaning to. your arms brush lightly, and you don’t move away. neither does he. the clock inside starts ticking down. someone yells two minutes! and the whole house cheers. you don’t move.

you think about a lot of things all at once. how he’s jungwon’s best friend, how you’re supposed to be leaving again in a few days, how nothing about this is simple. you wonder if he’s thinking the same things. 

jay glances at you out of the corner of his eye. he looks nervous, but not scared. just unsure. you wonder what would happen if you leaned in just a little more. you wonder what it would feel like, kissing him here, under the freezing sky, with the decade slipping away behind you.

you feel the weight of it sitting between you, heavy and sweet. and for a second, you know he feels it too. he shifts closer and you look up at him. he’s looking at you. and you both stay like that. thinking about it. wanting it. but not moving. and then someone starts counting down inside. the voices rise, loud and clumsy. 10, 9, 8…

jay’s hand brushes yours on the railing. your fingers twitch. you almost reach for him. almost. 7, 6, 5…

you hear someone pop a bottle of champagne. laughter spills out through the walls. 4, 3, 2…

you blink up at him again, heart hammering in your chest. happy new year!

the cheers explode from inside. noisemakers screech.  jay smiles at you. small. a little sad. you smile back, even though your throat feels tight. he lifts his hand like he’s about to say something, like he’s about to do something, but then he just ruffles your hair gently, messing it up the way he used to when you were younger.

"happy new year," he says, voice rough with cold and something else you can’t name.

"happy new year," you whisper back.

he lets his hand fall to his side, standing there awkwardly for a second like he doesn’t know what to do now. you stay there with him anyway, shivering a little, watching your breath curl up into the new year, feeling the almost of it all settle quietly between you.

after a second, jay shifts closer. he slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like he’s done it a thousand times before. you go easily, leaning into him, feeling the steady weight of him against the cold. he’s warm. real. he rests his chin lightly on the top of your head. you close your eyes for a second, breathing him in. 

"i’m gonna miss you when you leave again," he says, quiet enough that you almost don’t catch it. your heart stumbles a little.

you tilt your head just enough to look up at him. "i’m gonna miss you too," you say, and it’s the easiest truth you’ve ever told.

jay squeezes your shoulder gently, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you before you go. and you stay like that for a while, neither of you saying anything else, the cold forgotten, the noise from inside fading into the background. just the two of you, holding onto something you’re not ready to let go of yet.

and the first week of the 90s  slips away faster than you want it to. you spend most of it packing, pretending you're not already thinking about how different everything is going to feel when you leave again.

the night before you go, you’re sitting on your bed, trying to squeeze one last pair of jeans into your overstuffed duffel bag, when jungwon knocks on your door. he sticks his head in without waiting for you to answer. "hey," he says, tossing a small brown paper bag onto your bed. "jay told me to give you that."

you blink, dropping the jeans. "what is it?"

jungwon shrugs. "dunno. just said not to let you forget it." then he’s gone, disappearing down the hall like he’s late for something.

you stare at the bag for a second before picking it up. it’s folded over at the top, taped shut with a ripped piece of scotch tape. your hands are weirdly shaky when you open it. inside, there’s a beaded bracelet, tiny colorful beads strung together on a thin elastic cord. simple. clumsy. perfect. in the middle, white lettered beads spell out a word: stay.

you swallow hard, pressing your thumb over the little plastic letters. tucked under the bracelet is a note. folded up small. you unfold it carefully, smoothing it out on your knee. his handwriting is messy, a little tilted to the side.

figured you could use something to take with you.

not saying you have to. just... thought maybe it’d help.

stay safe. stay happy. stay you.

— jay

you read it twice. three times. then you tie the bracelet around your wrist, the little beads pressing into your skin. it’s light, almost weightless. but it feels like something solid you can hold onto. you don’t take it off, not even when you fall asleep that night.

the next few months pass in snapshots. you get lost on campus again. you spend late nights in the library, half-asleep over textbooks you barely understand. you go to a few bad parties. you leave early from most of them. you find a new favorite coffee shop tucked into a side street no one else seems to know about. you start a playlist called songs for when it’s too quiet and fill it with songs he would’ve hated and songs he would’ve loved.

you write to jay sometimes. he writes back sometimes.

the letters aren’t anything big. he tells you about his senior year, about helping jungwon fix up his beat-up bike, about late nights driving aimlessly around town just because there’s nothing better to do. you tell him about your professors, about getting a B+ on a paper you thought you failed, about the guy who tried to hit on you in line at the dining hall and how you pretended not to hear him.

sometimes weeks pass without a letter. sometimes it’s just a tape in the mail, no note, just a playlist scribbled in sharpie on the cover. sometimes it’s a postcard with two lines written on it and a dumb joke he probably stole from someone else. you keep all of them.

and the bracelet stays on your wrist through everything. lectures. essays. early morning walks across campus when the frost still clings to the grass. some nights, when it’s too late to call home and you miss everything more than you can say, you twist the little beads between your fingers until you fall asleep.

you don’t go back home for spring break after all. something comes up — a group project that runs long, a roommate who needs support, a week that fills up faster than you expect it to. you think about going back more than once, but every time you almost book the trip, something pulls you away again.

you write to jay sometimes. he still writes back. less often now. but when he does, you can feel the way he’s still there. still him.

in one letter, he tells you about a movie night in jungwon’s basement, where the vhs got stuck halfway through and they just ended up making popcorn and talking about dumb dreams. in another, he tells you he’s thinking about cutting his hair, but can’t decide. you tell him not to, that he wouldn’t look right without it falling in his eyes. he writes back: i’ll take that as a no then.

finals come faster than you think they will. the campus is loud, you stay up late cramming for exams, your dorm a mess of open books and laundry you keep forgetting to fold. 

you wear the bracelet every day. you don’t tell anyone where it came from.

when the last test is over, you walk across the quad, your last essay still warm from the printer in your bag. someone’s playing music from their window — here comes the sun, probably as a joke. you look up at the sky and think: i made it. you don’t cry. but something inside you softens.

a few days later, you’re packing up your dorm when a letter shows up in your mailbox. the envelope is light blue, a little smudged. your name’s written in black pen, all lowercase, like always. you know it’s from him before you even touch it. you sit on the floor to read it.

hey! i got in.

it’s not close.  didn’t think i’d actually get it, but i did. i’m happy. or i think i am. i should be. i just don’t know when i’ll be back. maybe not for a while. i’m trying not to think too hard about that part. anyway, jungwon and i graduate next week. mom’s making me take dumb photos in the backyard. hope you’re doing okay. you’re probably already done with your finals by the time you get this.

write if you want.

— jay

you read it twice. then fold it slowly and tuck it into your bag with the rest of your stuff. you sit there for a while, just staring at the wall, the air conditioner humming in the background like it's trying to say something you don’t want to hear. he got in. he’s leaving.

you should be happy for him. and you are. but your chest still aches a little. 

your train gets in a few days later. the platform’s hot, crowded. your backpack sticks to your shoulders and your legs are sore from sitting too long. you don’t care.

your mom cries again when she sees you. your dad makes the same joke about how you still haven’t grown. jungwon picks you up in his old car, which somehow still runs. he talks nonstop on the drive home, half excited, half nervous. you listen, smiling. 

you sit on your bed, staring at the ceiling. the bracelet on your wrist feels heavier now. or maybe just more real.

two days before graduation, you meet jay at the park.

you told him you would, back when you first got home, when the plans were still loose and everything felt far away. but now you’re standing by the old swings, blinking against the sunlight, waiting for him to show up, and it feels like something more than just a plan. the sky’s clear, the kind of summer blue that only shows up when school’s over and everything smells like cut grass and sunscreen. your sandals kick at the edge of the mulch. the trees rustle softly above you.

you spot him before he sees you — coming up the path from the far side of the park, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, t-shirt a little wrinkled, hair pushed back like he tried to make it look like he didn’t care. he’s taller than you remember. maybe not actually taller, but something about him feels bigger now. steadier.

when he finally looks up and sees you, something shifts. he speeds up, half-jogging the last few steps, and then he’s there, right in front of you. there’s a beat where you both just look at each other, not smiling yet, not talking, just looking. and then you drop your bag on the grass and step into him. he hugs you like he means it. strong, quick, all in. his arms wrap around your waist and lift you clean off the ground for a second, your toes dangling, your heart thudding in your chest. you let out a small breathless laugh, and when he sets you down again, he doesn’t let go right away.

“you’re really here,” he says quietly.

“told you i’d come,” you say, your cheek still pressed against his shoulder for a second longer before you finally step back.

you both sit under the big tree near the edge of the field, the one that’s always had a carved heart on the trunk from someone else’s story. it’s a little cooler in the shade, and you pull your knees up to your chest as jay leans back on his elbows beside you.

it’s quiet for a bit. just the sound of birds and a distant dog barking and the soft thump of a basketball somewhere on the other side of the park.

“feels kind of strange,” he says after a while, his voice low like he’s not sure if he wants you to hear it or not.

you glance over. “what does?”

he shrugs, eyes still on the sky. “this. seeing you again. after all this time.”

you nod, because you get it. it’s quiet in a different way than it used to be. a little uncertain, but not uncomfortable. “yeah,” you say. “i’ve been thinking about this since i got back.”

he turns his head slightly toward you. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you repeat. “i missed you.”

his mouth pulls into a small smile, almost shy. “i missed you too.”

you both fall quiet again. the sounds of the park fill in the space, wind through the trees, kids yelling somewhere near the basketball court, a dog barking in the distance. “so,” you say after a minute, “you’re really going.”

he nods. “yeah.”

“it’s far.”

he glances at you, then looks away again, squinting at the sky. “i know.”

“how do you feel about it?”

he exhales slowly, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “i don’t know. excited, i guess. and nervous. i keep thinking i should feel more ready than i do.”

you take a breath, letting your shoulders relax a little. “i’m happy for you.”

he looks at you again, really looks. “yeah?”

you smile. “yeah. it’s a big deal. and you deserve it.”  he doesn’t say anything right away. just nods, like maybe he’s letting himself believe it now that you’ve said it. “you’re gonna be okay,” you tell him. “even if it’s scary at first.”

he stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back on his palms. “you think?”

“i know.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then, softly, “i don’t know when i’ll be back.”

you nod. “that’s okay.”

he turns to you again. “you’ll write?”

you smile, eyes on the grass between you. “of course. you?”

“of course,” he echoes.

the wind picks up slightly, brushing the hair from your face. someone nearby is playing music from a portable radio — i’ll be over you by toto — low and scratchy. you close your eyes for a second, letting the sound wrap around you, letting the moment stay just a little longer.

you don’t talk about the fall, or what this will mean later. you just sit side by side in the summer light, the space between you quiet and full.

the graduation happens two days later. you sit between your parents, legs sticking to the metal seats. someone behind you keeps whistling every time a name is called, loud and sharp, like they don’t know how much it echoes. jungwon walks across the stage flushed and proud, his posture too straight, the kind of serious he only gets when he’s trying to act older. he doesn’t look at the crowd, just accepts his diploma and moves on, but you still catch your dad elbowing your mom like he’s proud too.

jay comes up a few names later. he steps onto the stage like he’s not thinking about it, like he just wants to get it over with. his gown is wrinkled, his shoes are scuffed, and his tassel hangs crooked over one eye. he doesn’t smile or wave. he doesn’t try to make a moment out of it. but just before he crosses to the other side, he lifts his head and glances up toward the stands. it’s brief, so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already watching him. you don’t know how you’re so sure, but you know that look was for you.

after the ceremony, everything feels loud and fast. people are shouting names and hugging in clusters, parents crying in the open without shame. there are flowers, flash photos, and folding chairs being dragged across the grass. you weave through the mess until you find jungwon, still in his gown, arms full of random cards and half-squished flowers. he grins when he sees you, pulling you into a hug so tight you almost drop your camera bag. 

“you better be proud of me,” he says, like it’s a joke, but there’s something real in his voice. you laugh, and your eyes sting more than you expected.

you find jay later, after most people have already moved on to someone’s backyard for a low-key celebration. he’s standing off to the side, just past the fence, holding a soda can in one hand and tapping it lightly against his knee. when he sees you, he doesn’t wave or call you over. he just waits. and when you walk up, he says, “hey.” 

you say it back. simple. there’s a pause where neither of you seems to know what to say next. you tell him, “congrats,” and he shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like the whole thing wasn’t a big deal. 

“wasn’t that hard,” he says, but he’s smiling anyway, and the way he looks at you makes you think maybe it did mean something after all.

you can feel the weight of what’s not being said. about time, and change, and how nothing ever stays the same for long. the sun’s starting to dip behind the trees now, casting everything in that golden light that makes it all feel more nostalgic than it should. you shift your weight from one foot to the other and look down at the bracelet still snug around your wrist, the little white beads faded from wear.

summer days stretching long and hot, the kind that make time feel slower but heavier too. you're back in that rhythm you almost forgot, the one where the afternoons melt into each other and the nights smell like barbecues and cut grass.

you spend your days with the same people you always did. jungwon drives you and a few others out to the lake more than once, his car stuffed with towels and snacks and a boombox that only works if someone’s holding the antenna at the right angle. you sit on the hood of the car with your feet up, sunglasses sliding down your nose, half-listening to everyone talk over each other. the new madonna single plays somewhere in the background — “hanky panky”, the one everyone's pretending not to like but can’t stop singing. someone brought a water gun, and at some point everyone ends up soaked, even jay, who laughs harder than you’ve seen him laugh in months.

some evenings, the group heads to the movie theater in town. you all pile into the back rows, whispering during the trailers, throwing popcorn at each other. “ghost” is the big one that summer, and you sit next to jay the night you all go see it, his arm brushing yours on the armrest. when the scene with the pottery wheel comes on, someone in front of you groans loudly and says, “no one’s that romantic,” and jay leans closer, whispering, “maybe they just haven’t met the right person.” it makes your heart stumble in a way you pretend not to notice.

other days are quieter. sometimes it’s just you and jay, wandering through the video store with no real plan. the new total recall cover stares at you from the wall, and you both end up picking movies you probably won’t even watch. old horror tapes and weird indie comedies he swears are “actually kind of genius.” you walk out with two rentals and a pack of licorice, arguing about which one has the worst tagline.

you stop at the diner after, like you always do, ordering milkshakes and sitting in the same booth by the window. the waitress knows your order now, calls you “kids” even though you’re both technically grown. jay draws shapes into the condensation on his glass and talks about packing, about how he’s trying not to overthink it, how everything feels real now. you listen. you nod. you want to tell him you’ll miss him, but you don’t.

some nights, he picks you up just after dinner, without a plan. you drive around with the windows down, hair blowing into your face, music too loud — “vision of love” by mariah carey plays on the radio at least twice a week. he taps the steering wheel, humming along. sometimes you drive past the high school. sometimes you don’t go anywhere at all, just park by the edge of the woods or the empty baseball field, talking about nothing and everything until the sky turns dark and the stars start to show up one by one.

there’s a meteor shower in late july. your whole group gathers at the old soccer field with blankets and snacks and bug spray that doesn’t work. you lie next to jay, shoulders touching, and he keeps pointing out stars like he knows what he’s talking about. someone swears they saw a ufo (probably jake). someone else throws a marshmallow at them (probably sunoo). you laugh so hard you nearly cry, and when jay leans close to say something, you forget what it was because you’re too aware of how close his face is to yours.

one afternoon, in early august, you’re sitting on the back porch of his house, drinking warm lemonade and flipping through an old rolling stone magazine. there’s a photo of sinead o’connor on the cover, and a piece about how her song “nothing compares 2 u” is topping the charts. jay’s sprawled out beside you, messing with a cassette that keeps getting eaten by his walkman. the air is thick with summer, and the cicadas haven’t stopped buzzing since noon.

“i don’t think i’ve ever had a summer like this,” he says, eyes on the sky.

“what do you mean?”

he shrugs. “it just feels different. like i’m trying to remember everything while it’s still happening.”

you look at him for a second, then out at the yard. “you will,” you say. “you’re gonna remember all of it.”

he turns his head toward you, half-smiling. “even the part where i burned my arm trying to light the grill?”

“especially that part.”

you both laugh, and then you fall into silence again. a good one. the kind you don’t need to fill.

it doesn’t feel like time is running out — not yet. but sometimes you catch him looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something. and sometimes you look back.

the days keep slipping past. people start talking about back-to-school sales. the leaves don’t change yet, but the nights feel cooler. here, the biggest news is that the fair’s coming to town next weekend. someone says they’re bringing a new ride this year. someone else bets it’ll break down halfway through. you’re not sure if you care, but you still make plans to go.

because it’s still summer. and you’re still here. and so is he.

the plan comes together fast. sunghoon brings it up during a late-night drive, saying something about his family’s place by the lake. just for the weekend. just to get away before everything changes. at first, it’s a maybe. and then it’s real.

by the time friday comes around, the cars are packed with duffel bags and cheap snacks, someone brings a boom box with a whole stack of mixtapes, and sunghoon is shouting about everyone bringing their own towels “unless you want to smell like boat mildew.”

you ride up in jungwon’s car, squeezed in the backseat with jay, your knees knocking every time he shifts. about halfway through the drive, he pulls out his walkman and slides one side of his headphones off, holding it out toward you without saying anything. you take it, slipping the foam-covered speaker over one ear, the cable stretched loosely between you. you both lean against your windows, the same song playing quietly into opposite sides — “come back to me” by janet jackson, soft and slow, the kind of track that feels like warm air and something just out of reach.

the house is bigger than you expected. the trees wrap around the place in all directions, tall and green and full, and the only sound is water hitting the shore and the crunch of gravel under tires. everyone spills out of the cars at once, bags hitting the ground, someone already yelling about who gets which room. inside, it’s cozy. 

you end up sharing a room with sunoo and chaewon. heeseung takes the couch, claiming it's "closest to the snacks," and riki somehow ends up sleeping in a sleeping bag under the kitchen table on purpose. jay and jungwon share the room across the hall. the walls are thin. you hear them laughing through them the first night.

the weekend unfolds in pieces. saturday morning starts with cereal out of paper bowls and someone burning toast. everyone’s in various states of disarray, hair a mess, hoodies thrown over pajamas, socks half-on. you and jay sit on the floor near the sliding doors, plates balanced on your knees, talking about nothing while the rest of the group bickers over who left the milk out.

in the afternoon, you all head down to the lake. the water’s cold at first, but not enough to stop anyone. you jump in together, shouting and laughing, the sun sharp above you. someone finds an old inflatable tube and takes turns getting pushed around on it. jay helps you climb onto it, steadying you with both hands, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. “you got it?” he asks, and you nod, even though your heart’s racing from more than just the water.

later, while everyone else plays volleyball or naps in the sun, you and jay wander off down the shoreline. it’s quieter there, rocks under your feet and the water brushing up against the edge in soft waves. you talk about stupid things — a song he can’t get out of his head, your favorite cereal as a kid, how sunghoon’s feet are suspiciously loud when he walks. every once in a while your hands bump. he doesn’t move away. neither do you.

in the evenings, the group crowds around the living room. movies play on a tiny tv with crackly sound. the only lights come from the strings of fairy lights someone hung across the windows and the dim glow of the kitchen behind you. you sit next to jay, sometimes close enough that your knees touch, sometimes leaning just far enough that your shoulders brush. it’s subtle, but steady. like a rhythm you’ve both learned without realizing.

sunday morning is slow. the kind of slow that makes you want to freeze time. breakfast is quiet, everyone a little softer, a little sleepier. you find jay on the back deck with a mug of something warm, his feet up on the railing, staring out at the lake like it’s telling him something.

you sit next to him without saying anything. he hands you the mug without looking, and you take a sip. it’s too sweet, but good. the kind of good that only comes from something someone else made for you.

“wish we had another day,” he says eventually.

you nod, pulling your knees to your chest. “me too.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says, “this summer went fast.”

you don’t say anything, just rest your head lightly against his shoulder. he shifts just enough to let it stay there. no one says it out loud, but you all feel it, that this is the last time you’ll all be like this. the last time before dorm rooms and new cities and long-distance calls and whatever comes next.

that night, someone builds a fire in the pit out back. everyone sits around it in a loose circle, smoke curling into the night sky, music playing low from the boom box. the stars are clear, the lake still, the air cool enough that you need a hoodie. 

you and jay share one. he shrugs it off halfway through the night and drapes it around your shoulders, hands brushing your arms as he does. you want to say thank you. you want to say more. but you just sit there, leaning into him, the firelight catching the edges of his face, the warmth of his body pressed steady against yours.

no one brings up that you’re all leaving soon. but you feel it in every laugh, every shared look, every time someone lingers just a little longer before walking away.

everyone’s scattered, jake’s trying to restart the fire pit, jungwon and riki are elbow-deep in a card game that’s been going on for an hour, sunghoon’s in the kitchen burning something that’s supposed to be popcorn. there’s laughter echoing through the house, a mixtape playing low from the boom box left near the sliding door. a soft track from phil collins fills the space — “do you remember” — not loud, not even really noticed, just there.

you find jay standing at the edge of the deck, looking out at the water. his hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and his hands rest in his pockets like he’s trying to stay grounded.

“hey,” you say quietly, walking over.

he turns, a half-smile on his face. “hey.”

you stop beside him. “want to get out of here for a minute?”

he doesn’t ask where. just nods. “yeah.”

you don’t go far, just follow a little path that wraps around the trees, leading to a small clearing with a tilted wooden bench and an open patch of sky above. it’s quieter here. the music, the voices, the laughter. all of it fades behind you.

you both sit on the ground instead of the bench, the grass cool beneath you. the stars are already out, scattered and steady, blinking softly like they’ve been waiting for someone to look up. for a while, neither of you says anything.

then jay leans back on his palms and says, “you think anyone really knows how many stars are up there?”

you snort. “don’t tell me you’re gonna start counting.”

he grins. “nah. just thinking about how small everything feels when you look up.”

“yeah,” you say. “but kind of in a good way.”

he glances at you. “you’re good at that.”

“at what?”

“saying stuff that makes things feel okay.”

you shrug. “you make it easy.”

he doesn’t respond right away, just looks at you for a second longer than usual. then he lies back in the grass, arms behind his head, eyes on the sky. you follow, lying beside him, shoulders just close enough to touch. you’re quiet again. you can feel your heart beating a little faster now, not from nerves exactly, but from the weight of the moment. it’s not heavy. it’s just full.

“can i tell you something?” he asks after a long stretch of silence, his voice quieter now, like the night asked him to soften.

you nod without thinking, even though he’s not looking at you. “of course.”

he shifts beside you, fingers brushing the grass, then stills again. “i think… part of me was scared to come on this trip.”

you turn your head, surprised. “why?”

jay exhales through his nose, not a laugh but not quite a sigh. “because i knew it’d feel like this.”

you blink, unsure what he means, your chest already tightening. “like what?”

he pauses. “like the end of something. and the start of something else. and i don’t really know what to do with this either.”

you sit up slightly, propping yourself on one hand to look at him more clearly. he doesn’t flinch from your gaze. the moonlight hits the side of his face, soft and silver, catching in the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. “what’s the this you’re talking about?” you ask, even though you think you already know.

he turns toward you too, mirroring your posture, his eyes searching yours in the dark. “you.”

your breath catches before you can stop it. it’s not the word itself — it’s how he says it. quiet. careful. like he’s been holding it in for a while and finally let it slip out.

you open your mouth to respond, but the words tangle. there’s nothing neat to say. just this feeling that’s been building, moment by moment, all summer.

you don’t realize how close you are until he reaches for your hand, gently, like a question. your fingers meet his halfway, sliding together slowly. his palm is warm against yours, steady. and you think: this is it. this is what you’ve been circling around for weeks, maybe longer.

neither of you says anything. even though your heart is beating so loud you’re sure he can hear it, everything else around you is still. the trees, the sky, the hush of the lake behind the trees.

you shift closer, knees brushing, his breath close enough that you can feel it on your skin. he doesn’t move, just watches you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you feel like you’ve never been more seen. his voice is barely above a whisper. “i’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

you don’t ask what. you already know. so you nod, slow and certain. “me too.”

you lean in at the same time, hesitant at first, like the moment might slip if you move too quickly. your nose brushes his, then his forehead leans gently against yours, and you both pause there, breathing the same air, eyes falling shut.

when you kiss, it’s not rushed. it doesn’t try to prove anything.

his lips meet yours like he’s taking his time, like he wants to make sure you feel it. not just the kiss, but everything behind it — every late night drive, every quiet look, every almost-touch. it’s warm, patient. his hand moves to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. you kiss him back, slowly, like you’re learning how to do it together. your fingers curl slightly in his shirt. the kiss deepens just a little, enough to make your stomach flip, but still soft, still careful.

when you part, your faces stay close, noses touching, his forehead pressing gently into yours. your eyes open slowly, and so do his.

he smiles, not wide, not nervous. just real. “okay,” he says, like it’s the only word he can manage.

you let out a soft laugh, your breath still shaky. “okay.”

he leans in again, like he can't help it — or maybe like he doesn't want to. his mouth finds yours a second time, a little slower now, but more certain. like the first kiss answered a question, and this one is what comes after.

your hand moves to his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his hairline. he exhales softly into the kiss, like he's been holding his breath for too long. you tilt your head, just enough, and everything around you slips away. it’s just him. just this. you kiss him again and again, soft but needing it more now. and in the space between those kisses, your thoughts start to scatter.

you think about how you’re going back to college in two weeks. how this summer doesn’t get to last forever. how he’s your brother’s best friend, who would probably lose his mind if he knew about this, who’s trusted jay with more than anyone else.

you think about the way jay looked in that hoodie on the porch earlier, the way he reaches for your hand like it’s instinct, the way he always glances at you like he’s making sure you’re still with him. you think about the distance coming, the time zones, the unfamiliar dorms and roommates and classes, and how everything is about to split open into something new. and how scary that is.

but none of it feels bigger than this. 

none of it feels more important than the way he’s kissing you right now, like he means it. like he’s been meaning it for a while. like this moment belongs to you, not the future. 

you press a little closer, your hand gripping the front of his shirt, like holding onto him might freeze time. like maybe, if you stay right here, none of the hard parts will catch up yet. you kiss him like it’s the only thing that matters, because right now, it is.

and somewhere in the quiet, you can feel it from him too. not in words. not in anything he says. but in the way his fingers stay gently on your jaw, the way his breath stumbles a little every time your lips meet. in how his hand settles at the small of your back, pulling you in like he’s afraid of letting go too soon.

this isn’t just a summer crush. not for you. not for him.

and for once, you don’t try to name it. you don’t try to figure out what comes next. you just kiss him again. and he kisses you back.

the morning after feels quieter.

you wake up to the sound of zippers and muffled voices, the rustle of plastic bags and someone shuffling through the fridge. the sun is already pouring in through the windows, soft and golden, catching dust in the air like snow. the couch cushions are out of place, blankets half-folded, someone’s shoes by the door, another person brushing their teeth in a hurry. 

you sit up slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes, your hoodie still smelling like smoke and lake water. there’s that brief moment, the one before your brain fully wakes up, where you forget what day it is, what comes next. but then it settles in, slowly and all at once: the trip is over. it’s time to go.

jay is already awake, crouched by his backpack in the hallway, rolling up a pair of socks like it matters. his hair is a mess. he’s wearing a t-shirt you’ve seen a hundred times and socks that don’t match. he glances up when he sees you, gives you a tired half-smile. not wide. just soft.

you both don’t say much. maybe there’s nothing to say yet. maybe saying anything would make it feel too real.

the car ride home is crowded. jungwon’s driving, sunoo’s in the passenger seat. the backseat is a puzzle of bags and limbs and too much heat, and you and jay are tucked into the middle of it, pressed together by necessity. you settle in, the windows cracked just enough to let in the air. you let your head rest against jay’s shoulder slowly, trying to make it seem casual, like it’s just more comfortable that way. he doesn’t move, just shifts a little so you can fit there better. his arm brushes yours, and he taps his thumb against his knee in a steady rhythm. you close your eyes, but you don’t sleep.

you’re holding back tears and you don’t even know why exactly — maybe it’s the quiet, or the closeness, or the feeling that something is slipping away. you press your face a little more into the fabric of his sleeve, pretending the sun through the window is what’s making your eyes sting. 

you think about how in two weeks you’ll be gone again. how everything’s about to stretch out — cities, time zones, semesters. you think about how this summer felt like something rare. like it shouldn’t have happened, and yet it did. and now it’s ending, and you don’t know what comes next. you don’t know when comes next.

you feel his hand rest lightly on your knee under the bags. you don’t open your eyes. you just let yourself pretend, for a few more miles, that none of it’s changing yet.

when the car pulls up in front of jay’s house, it’s abrupt, too sudden, like the day skipped ahead without permission. jungwon puts it in park and leans his head back dramatically. “finally,” he mutters. sunoo groans, stretching his arms above his head. jay moves first, shifting beside you, gathering his stuff slowly. he doesn’t say anything right away. you sit up, already feeling the cold where his body isn’t next to yours anymore.

he opens the door and climbs out, throwing his bag over his shoulder. then he turns back toward you, standing there for a second longer than necessary, like maybe he thought this would be easier. you climb out after him.

jungwon is fiddling with the radio, sunoo is yelling something about needing to pee, and the world keeps moving behind you, but jay is still. he looks at you like he’s trying to find the right thing to say and coming up empty.

he shifts his bag on his shoulder, then takes a small step closer. “so...” he starts, then trails off.

you nod. “yeah.”

he hesitates. then reaches out and pulls you in.

the hug is tight. longer than expected. his arms wrap around your back, his chin rests lightly on your shoulder. you let your eyes close. your hands grip the back of his shirt, holding on like maybe that will stop the clock.

you feel him breathe in. then out. slow and steady. like he doesn’t want to let go either. when he pulls back, he still doesn’t let go of your hand.

“let’s see each other before… we leave,” he says. his voice is quiet.

you nod, squeezing his fingers. “yeah.”

he lets go first. you step back toward the car. jay doesn’t turn until you’re almost inside. you catch one last glance of him through the open window as jungwon pulls away, hands in his pockets, hair in his eyes, standing in front of his house like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now after all that happened.

you lean your head against the window and close your eyes. you feel the bracelet on your wrist.

and you decided to visit jay that week. the sun was already dipping low when you got off your bike. the sky had turned that soft orange-pink, the kind that makes everything feel like it’s slowing down. the basement door was around the side of the house, half-hidden behind some overgrown bushes. you pushed through them, found the handle, and pulled it open. the air was cooler as you stepped down the narrow wooden stairs, careful with each step. you’d never been down here before. not once.

his room looked exactly like him. the walls were dark wood, lined with posters — the cure, bon jovi, AC/DC, the smiths — and a few polaroids tacked up with tape. his bed was unmade, blankets rumpled and half-falling off the side. one guitar case was open on the floor, the others hung neatly on the wall, each one looking like it had a story. there were cassette tapes in uneven stacks on the desk, a walkman with tangled headphones beside them, and clothes half-folded in the open suitcase on the bed.

jay was kneeling beside it, fitting a hoodie into a tight corner of the bag. he glanced over his shoulder when he heard you, his smile soft. “hey,” he said.

“hey,” you answered, stepping further in, letting the door click shut behind you.

you stood for a second, just taking it in. this space you’d never seen, that felt like it had always been waiting. you leaned your shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, watching him. “so this is where you disappear to,” you said.

he chuckled, still folding something. “yep. it’s basically a cave.”

“it’s nice,” you said quietly. “feels like you.”

he looked up at that, met your eyes for a second, then nodded once, like that meant something to him.

you didn’t really help with the packing. mostly just watched him move around, picking things up, setting them down, deciding what made the cut and what didn’t. there was something peaceful about it. the quiet rhythm of his hands, the soft music playing low from the tape deck, the occasional creak of the floor above.

“you nervous?” you asked, after a while.

he paused, then sat back. “a little,” he admitted. “i mean… yeah. i’ve never really been away from here. not like this.”

you nodded slowly. “i remember that feeling. the first time i left.”

“did it get easier?” he asked, eyes still on the bag.

“not right away,” you said. “but yeah. eventually.”

he looked up at you again, studying you like he was trying to memorize something. “you’re gonna be far,” he said. “but i’m gonna be farther.”

you tried to smile, but it felt like it caught somewhere in your chest. “i know.”

he stood, dusted his hands on his jeans, and walked over to the wall. reached up, gently took down the acoustic guitar. he turned it over in his hands like it was something fragile, something important. then he sat down on the floor and looked at you.

“can i play something for you?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice for a second.

his fingers found the strings like they always knew the way. he adjusted the strap, then looked down, brows pulled slightly together in focus. and then he started playing, slow, familiar. the first few notes hit you like a wave. “just like heaven”. you don’t say anything. you don’t have to. it was always your song — even if neither of you ever said it out loud. the one you danced to at prom. the one you kept slipping into his mixtapes, over and over again, like a quiet kind of truth.

you felt your throat tighten, your eyes sting. but you didn’t look away. he played through the intro like he’d done it a thousand times, and maybe he had, but now it sounded different. quieter. like it was just for you. the room felt smaller somehow, or maybe just closer. his voice was low, a little unsure at first, but steady.

"show me, show me, show me how you do that trick..."

his eyes flicked to yours for a second, then back down to the strings. he didn’t overdo it. didn’t try to be impressive. just played it like it meant something. like the song could hold everything neither of you had said out loud yet. you sat down slowly on the floor, right by his side, looking at him while he played.

when the last note faded, he didn’t say anything right away. neither did you. then he looked at you again, and this time he smiled, small, but full of something bigger. “that song always reminds me of you,” he said. 

your voice was quiet. “i think i’ll hear it and think of this.”

he nodded once. “good.”

you leaned in, fingers brushing lightly against his knee. he put the guitar aside and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a second. the moment was soft. still. like the whole world had paused long enough to let you both catch your breath.

“i don’t want to go yet,” he whispered.

“i know,” you said. “i don’t want you to go either.”

but he was going. and you were too. and the time in between would stretch and pull and test everything you weren’t ready to name yet.

he kissed you then, slow, familiar, like it was a promise. not a goodbye.

and you kissed him back like maybe it could be both.

still, he was leaving. and you were too.

and on the day jungwon and jay left for college, the house felt too quiet. even before the sun had climbed all the way up, the morning was thick with that strange stillness that only came with goodbyes. doors opened and shut softly. drawers clicked closed. voices stayed low, like everyone was trying not to disturb something.

you helped jungwon with his last-minute packing, folding the same hoodie twice because you didn’t know what else to do with your hands. he kept making dumb jokes like he wasn’t about to leave for months, like it wasn’t the first time either of you would be on your own in a real way. your parents hovered nearby, taking turns checking his bags, giving the kind of advice that sounds rehearsed, like they’d been practicing it in their heads for days.

jay showed up a little before nine. he knocked once and let himself in, like always. he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept much, like maybe this was harder for him than he wanted to admit. jungwon lit up when he saw him, and for a second, it was just like any other morning. jay helped carry bags to the car, made fun of how jungwon packed, teased him about almost forgetting his bag of underwear. they bickered all the way down the front steps.

your mom cried when jungwon hugged her. your dad clapped him on the back, too hard, and told him to call every sunday. when it was your turn, he didn’t say anything. just pulled you into a hug and held on for a long time. you didn’t say anything either. there wasn’t much to say. you were proud. you were scared. he was still your little brother, even if he was taller than you now.

jay was the last one to say goodbye. jungwon looked at him like he wasn’t sure what to do, like they hadn’t talked about this part. jay didn’t make a joke this time. he just stepped forward and hugged him. tight. both arms. like it meant something. and maybe it did.

when the car pulled out of the driveway, you watched until it turned the corner and disappeared. your mom went back inside. your dad followed. jay stayed. he stood a few steps from the porch, his car parked at the curb.

you didn’t say anything. just walked over and stood beside him, close enough that your arms brushed. neither of you looked at the other.

“so,” he said eventually, voice low. “that’s it, huh?”

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “yeah.” a pause. the cicadas were screaming in the trees. somewhere down the block, a sprinkler turned on. “you leaving today?” you asked.

he nodded. “wanted to catch jungwon before I did.” he paused. “and you.”

the words were simple, but something about them made your chest ache. “i go tomorrow,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

jay looked over at you then. his eyes were soft in the morning light, tired around the edges like he hadn’t slept much. maybe you hadn’t either. he smiled a little, almost sad. “come here.”

you followed him to the sidewalk, where his car sat humming faintly, engine already warm. he opened the passenger door and leaned in for a second before straightening up again, something small in his hand. a package, square and neat, wrapped in old newspaper and tied with a thin piece of string.

“what’s this?” you asked.

“something for you,” he said. “for when it feels too quiet. or too loud. or just… anything.” he offered it to you gently. “there’s a letter inside. don’t open it until i’m gone.”

you looked down at the package, then up at him. “you didn’t have to—”

“i wanted to.” 

you didn’t know what to say. the knot in your chest twisted tighter. jay shifted, one hand in his pocket. “i was gonna write this part down too,” he said. “but figured maybe i should just say it.”

your heart picked up. he was looking at you again. steady this time.

“i like you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “i’ve liked you for a while. and i didn’t want to leave without telling you.” your breath caught. “i know it doesn’t change anything,” he added. “i’m going far. it’s not like we can just call each other all the time, or drive over. i don’t even know when i’ll be back. but i needed you to know, anyway.”

you stepped forward before you could think. “jay…”

“you don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly, almost nervous now. “i’m not asking for anything. i just—this summer meant something to me. and i hope it did to you too.”

it did. more than you could say. you reached up, one hand brushing against his jaw. “can i kiss you goodbye?”

he smiled, soft and small, and nodded once.

the kiss wasn’t rushed. it didn’t feel like a goodbye, even though it was. it felt like everything that had built up over that summer — the lake trip, the music, the stars, the slow shift from maybe to yes. he held your face gently, fingers curling behind your neck. you kissed him like you wanted to memorize it.

when you pulled away, you didn’t step back.

his forehead pressed against yours. his breath was warm against your cheek.

“guess i see you around, y/n,” he said, voice rough at the edges, like he’d swallowed something too big and hadn’t quite gotten it down.

you didn’t answer right away. you were still looking at him, like maybe if you stared hard enough, if you memorized every freckle, every line, every soft and quiet thing about him, it wouldn’t hurt as much. but it did. it hurt in that hollow way, like something was being peeled from your chest and packed away in the trunk of his car.

your throat felt tight when you finally spoke. “yeah,” you whispered. “see you.”

but it wasn’t casual, not the way you’d said those words a thousand times before, not tossed over your shoulder after a movie night, not shouted across the lawn when he left after dinner. it was the kind of see you that didn’t have a when. or a where. it was hope and ache tangled into two syllables.

he looked at you for a long moment, like he didn’t want to move either. the sun was hitting the edge of his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, and your heart ached at how familiar he looked, and how fast he was becoming a memory.

you didn’t mean to cry. the first tear slipped out before you could stop it, trailing down your cheek, catching in the corner of your mouth. then another. you didn’t make a sound. just stood there, holding that little newspaper-wrapped box like it might keep you steady.

jay stepped forward. gently. carefully. he brushed the tear away with his thumb, his hand cupping your jaw so lightly it almost didn’t feel real. “hey,” he said, barely audible. “don’t cry.”

you tried to laugh, but it came out broken. “i’m trying.”

he shook his head, and you could see the effort it took him to keep his own eyes dry. “i wish i didn’t have to go today.”

you nodded. “i wish you didn’t either.”

he sighed, and it felt like something was collapsing inside both of you. “i’m gonna try to write. as much as i can. i know it’s slow and dumb and it’ll probably take a week just to get to you, but—”

“i’d like that,” you said quickly. 

he smiled at that. “and… if i can figure it out, maybe i could visit. maybe after midterms or something. if i save up.”

“you don’t have to promise,” you said, though your heart leapt anyway.

“i want to,” he said. “i don’t know what this is, but it matters to me. you matter to me.”

your eyes welled again, and this time he didn’t stop the tears. just let them come. held your hand like it was something precious. something he didn’t want to let go of.

“i should go,” he said eventually, so quiet it barely touched the air.

you nodded, but didn’t let go. not yet.

he leaned in, kissed your forehead, then your lips, soft, lingering. the kind of kiss that stayed with you long after it was over. when he pulled back, he touched your cheek one last time, then forced himself to step away.

you watched him open the door. slide into the driver’s seat. the car engine rumbled to life, low and steady.

he looked at you once more before pulling away. just a glance. but it held everything.

you stood there until the car disappeared down the block, the silence rushing in to fill the space he left behind. the cicadas were still buzzing. the heat was rising off the pavement. life kept going. you looked down at the package in your hands, the string digging a little deeper into your palm now. you didn’t open it. not yet.

you just stood there. and missed him already.

that night, you barely slept. the house was too quiet. your room looked too neat. jay’s gift stayed on your desk, untouched, waiting. you’d packed around it. like it was fragile. like it needed its own space. the next morning, the train station smelled like old coffee and newspaper ink.

now, the package sat on your lap as the train pulled away from the platform, and your parents grew smaller and smaller through the window until they disappeared entirely.

you didn’t cry. not then. you waited until the train curved around the hill, the town falling behind you, and then, when there was no one left to wave to, no one watching, you untied the string.

the newspaper fell away with a soft rustle. inside, a cassette tape, carefully labeled in his handwriting: for when you miss home. and beneath it, a folded piece of paper. creased, a little smudged, like he’d been holding onto it too long before giving it to you.

you opened the letter slowly.

“y/n,

i’ve never been great with words unless i’m joking around, and even then i’m kind of an idiot. but i didn’t want to leave without trying.

this summer meant something to me. you meant something to me.

i think it still doesn’t feel real. that i’m sitting on my bedroom floor right now writing this with the window open and knowing it’s the last time i’ll do this with you just down the block.

i’m not expecting anything. not really. i just didn’t want you to think any of this was a fluke. or just summer heat or timing or nostalgia or whatever. it wasn’t. i’ve liked you for a long time. i just didn’t know how to say it until now.

if this letter gets to you before the homesickness does, good. if not, then maybe it’ll at least feel like someone’s there with you for a minute.

i made the tape in my room last week. i kept thinking about that drive to the lake, how we listened to music and didn’t talk for miles. some songs that sound like how i feel when i’m with you.

i’ll write if you want me to. and maybe i’ll find a way to visit. but if not, if all this ever is is a good memory, thank you for being it.

i’ll miss you more than i can say.

— jay”

you fold the letter back up slowly, pressing the paper flat with your fingers like it might hold its shape better that way. your chest aches in that quiet, heavy way that doesn’t rise all at once, just settles there. low. constant. you hold the cassette in your hand, thumb brushing over the label. 

you rewind it. click. the tape whirs gently, and you close your eyes for a second while it rewinds, your forehead resting against the cool glass of the train window.

when the tape starts again, it opens with “pictures of you” by the cure, every word bleeding into the next like he meant for it to feel like memory. you press your headphones closer, the foam scratchy against your ears, the sound just loud enough to drown out the rest of the train.

the sky outside your window shifts while the songs pass. pink bleeding into orange, then purple, then black. you don’t notice when the train stops at smaller stations. you don’t move when other passengers get up, switch seats, pull out books. you just stay there, with the music, the letter in your bag, and the weight in your chest.

the semester starts quietly. new faces, cold hallways, shared bathrooms that never seem clean. your roommate plays ace of base too loud and always leaves her towel on your chair. you stay busy, mostly. classes, the library, the quiet corners of campus where no one talks. 

the first letter comes ten days in. his handwriting is still a little messy, like he wrote it fast, like he couldn't wait. he tells you about getting lost on his first day, about his roommate who only eats instant noodles, about how he thought of you when he saw a lake behind one of the buildings. the last line says:

i miss you like it’s a sport. i’m training for the olympics.

you laugh out loud. you write him back that night. you tell him about your weird professor, about the vending machine that only gives dr pepper, about how the cafeteria chicken always tastes like cardboard. you say:

i miss you too. i think about that night in the lake more than i probably should.

and it begins. letters back and forth, every week, sometimes more. his envelopes start showing up with little doodles in the corners. he draws your name in bubble letters, sticks tiny pressed flowers inside, once even includes a guitar pick “just in case you forget my favorite color is green.”

you tape some of the letters to your wall. you sleep with one under your pillow. when the days feel long, you reread them like prayers.

he writes about the cold, about the way the wind whistles through the cracks in his dorm window. you write about late nights in the common room, your hands always cold, your heart always a little heavy. sometimes the letters are funny, sometimes soft. sometimes they sound like promises neither of you can quite say out loud.

as november creeps in, the air gets sharper. the letters get longer.

sometimes i look for you in the crowd, even though i know you’re not here. i don’t know what that means. i just miss you, a lot.

then, one wednesday afternoon, the dorm phone rings. you almost don’t answer. but something in your chest pulls you toward it.

“hello?”

static hums, and then his voice, distant and slightly warped by the old payphone line:

“hey. it’s me.”

you freeze. the dorm fades away. someone laughs down the hall, but it’s muffled now. “jay?”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “yeah. god, your voice. i missed it. you sound exactly like i remembered, but—warmer somehow.”

you sit down on the floor with your back against the wall, knees pulled up. “you’re calling from the payphone?”

“outside the student union. my fingers are turning blue, probably. but it was worth it.”

you smile into the receiver, thumb resting against the cord like it’s his hand. “you’re crazy.”

“for you, yeah. a little.” there’s a pause, comfortable and quiet. just the sound of the wind through the line, a car passing in the background, your heartbeat in your ears. “i wish i was there,” he says.

“i wish you were too.”

“i’ve been thinking about christmas,” he adds, voice a little smaller now. “about home. and... i don’t think i can make it.”

your stomach drops. “what do you mean?”

“money’s tight. really tight. i thought i could pick up extra shifts at the dining hall, but they already filled the schedule. i asked my mom if she could help, but she’s barely getting by. i’ve been doing the math over and over—bus, train, anything. i can’t swing it. not this year.”

you lean your head back against the wall, eyes stinging. “i was counting down the days to see you.”

he sighs, like he’s trying to keep something in. “i hate that this is what growing up means. working two shifts and still not getting to be where your heart wants to be.” you’re quiet for a moment, and then he adds, “i wish i could call you every day, i wish i had a cordless phone and no long distance fees and a million quarters in my pocket.”

you laugh, even though it breaks a little at the end. “i wish you were here right now.”

“you think if we both wish it hard enough, we’ll end up on the same train platform by accident?”

“sounds like a movie.”

“sounds like us,” he says. “if we were a little luckier.” the wind through the line is sharper now. he shivers audibly. “i should go before i lose feeling in my toes.”

“can you call again?”

“i’ll save up quarters. skip lunch if i have to.”

“don’t skip lunch.”

“okay, i’ll just skip half of lunch,” he says. “i miss you.”

“i miss you more.”

“that’s not possible.”

“prove it.”

he laughs again, soft and tired and full of something like love. “someday soon. not this christmas, maybe. but someday. i promise.”

you press the phone tighter to your ear like that might make it last longer. “okay. i’ll wait.”

“don’t wait too still. keep living. i want stories when we talk again.”

“you’ll get stories. all of them. i’ll write you tonight.”

“i’ll be waiting.”

the line crackles. you imagine him standing there, snow on his shoulders, one hand buried in his coat, the other holding the receiver like a lifeline.

“bye, jay.”

“bye, love.”

the line goes dead.

you sit there for a while, the dial tone humming in your ear, and then finally, finally, you hang up.

and then christmas comes like it always does. you take the long train ride back home with your walkman pressed to your ears and your bag heavy. the town looks smaller than you remember. maybe it always does since your first semester away. the streets feel frozen in time, lit by weak streetlights and lined with familiar shops. it’s strange—everything is the same, and nothing is.

but this year, you’re not the main event. jungwon comes back two days after you. it’s his first time home since he started college. your mom can barely keep it together when he walks in the door with his overstuffed duffel bag and a sleepy smile. she hugs him so tightly he winces. your dad ruffles his hair, your aunt comes by with a casserole. it’s like the prodigal son has returned, and honestly, you don’t mind. it’s good to see him. it’s good to see them see him.

he looks older. not just taller, though he is. not just the haircut, or the faint stubble he clearly hasn’t decided what to do with yet. it’s in the way he carries himself. looser. more sure. the kind of ease that comes from living somewhere new and surviving it.

you end up on the roof a few nights later, like old times. he finds the ladder first. calls to you from outside your window like you’re kids again. the stars are faint but steady. the air sharp in your lungs. you bring blankets and two mugs of whatever was warm in the kitchen.

you sit side by side, legs stretched out, silence easy between you.

“so?” you ask eventually, nudging him. “how’s it really been?”

he doesn’t answer right away. then: “it’s good. really good, actually.”

you glance over. “yeah?”

“yeah. the campus is beautiful. i got lucky with my dorm, too—my roommate’s cool. not, like, best-friend cool, but we get along. classes are hard, but... in a fun way? it’s weird, i kind of like the pressure.”

“nerd.”

he nudges you back. “i joined this music club,” he says. “nothing serious, just people who like playing stuff together. i’ve been writing again. and there’s this group that goes out on thursdays to open mic nights... i don’t always go, but when i do, it feels... i don’t know. freeing.”

you smile. “i’m glad, wonnie.”

“me too,” he says, and his voice is soft. “i missed this, though. missed home.”

“you seemed so... settled.”

“i think i am,” he says. “but it doesn’t mean i don’t think about this place. about you guys.”

the quiet stretches between you again. you sip your drink. the wind moves through the trees. then, after a pause, he speaks again—gentle, careful. “can i ask you something?”

you look over. he’s not looking at you. “yeah?”

“you and jay.”

you freeze a little. “what about us?”

“i don’t know. it’s just... you never really said anything. and neither did he. but i’m not dumb.” his voice is soft, not accusing. just curious. 

you stare at your hands, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket. “it wasn’t supposed to be a thing,” you say eventually. “it just kind of... happened. after that summer. we kept writing. and then we kept feeling things. and now it’s this... half-real, half-imagined thing that lives between semesters.”

“but it’s real to you?”

“yeah,” you whisper. “it is.”

he doesn’t say anything right away. then: “he never told me.”

“i think he didn’t know how.”

“or maybe he didn’t want to make it more complicated.”

“maybe.” you look over at him. he’s watching the sky. “are you mad?”

he shakes his head. “no. just surprised. and... maybe a little jealous?”

you blink. “of jay?”

“i'm your brother after all.” he chuckled, you followed along after a while.

“he couldn’t come home this christmas.”

“i figured. he didn’t answer when i asked.”

you glance at jungwon. “you guys often write each other?”

“yeah,” he says. “not super often. but he sends me these long letters when he can.”

you smile at the image. “does he ever talk about me?”

he hesitates for a moment, then nods. “not directly. not like, in big declarations or whatever. but you’re always there. in between the lines. like... he’ll say something about music he’s been listening to, and it’s a song you used to love. or mention some movie and how ‘y/n would’ve hated it.’ that kind of thing.”

you feel something tighten behind your ribs. “so he never said anything?”

“no,” jungwon says, quiet. “but i could tell. i mean, i’m not dumb. i knew something was going on. i just didn’t know what, exactly.” he leans back on his hands, looks up at the stars. “but then i started thinking,” jungwon goes on. “if he was gonna care about someone like that, i’m glad it’s you.”

your eyes sting a little. you smile at that. “do you miss him?”

“of course,” he says, then looks at you. “but i think you do more.” you don’t say anything. he doesn't press. after a while, the wind picks up. your fingers are cold, your mugs are empty. jungwon glances sideways at you. “we should go in before mom wakes up and accuses us of catching pneumonia.”

you snort. “she’s probably already awake.”

“probably.”

he gets up first, offers you a hand. you take it. when you both climb back in through the window, the house is still quiet. warm. familiar. but something in your chest feels a little different. like the ache is still there, but softer. held.

the holidays pass in the quiet rhythm of home. 

you help wrap gifts at the kitchen table with leftover paper from last year—half of them with the name “jungwon” in curly, looping letters. he's the center of the season this time. it’s his first time back since starting college, and your parents cling to him like they’re making up for lost time. your mom tears up over his favorite soup. your dad takes pictures with the chunky kodak camera he barely remembers how to use.

you don’t mind. not really. it's good to see him like this—full of stories, confident in ways he wasn’t before. he talks about dorm parties, about sleeping through 8 a.m. lectures, about running into a professor at a bar once and pretending not to notice. he even joined a rec basketball team. you listen, smiling, even when your chest aches a little with the difference.

new year’s eve arrives with less celebration than usual. your parents are asleep by eleven. jungwon watches back to the future part iii on VHS in the living room. you sit with him on the floor, both of you wrapped in old quilts, sipping ginger ale from mismatched mugs. when midnight hits, you both yell “happy new year” more out of obligation than excitement. there are no fireworks, just distant shouts from a few blocks away. 

you think of jay. wonder if he’s somewhere with people, or alone. wonder if he thought of calling. wonder if he stopped himself.

you go back to campus in early january.

the train is colder this time. more grey. you keep your headphones in and stare at the frost on the window. roxy music, the cure… the soundtrack of trying not to feel too much.

when you get back to your dorm, your roommate’s side is already full of unpacked clothes and christmas candy. your side is neater, more sparse. you pin up a few new photos. unpack slowly. tuck your homesickness into corners and drawers.

classes start again. second year feels heavier than the first. the professors are stricter, less patient. you drink more coffee. underline more passages. your handwriting gets messier.

jay’s letters still come, but they’re different now. shorter. the envelopes are still addressed with care, your name underlined twice like always. in one letter, he writes about a band he’s joined—some guys in his dorm who needed a rhythm guitarist. he says they play mostly pixies and stone roses covers, sometimes in the campus bar, sometimes in someone’s garage. he says it’s loud and messy and it makes him feel like he can breathe again.

he doesn’t mention missing christmas. he doesn’t say anything about not calling. he signs off with a song lyric, like he always does. this time: “heaven knows i’m miserable now.” you smile anyway.

as the months pass, the letters come slower. once a week becomes twice a month. then sometimes just one, slipped into your mailbox late and slightly rain-stained. but they’re still his. still full of little details—what he’s reading, the weird dreams he had, the girl in his english class who always talks about astrology.

february comes. then march. and suddenly the snow is melting again. your hair is longer. you’ve started carrying a walkman everywhere. your favorite café replaced the jukebox with a cheap stereo that mostly plays madonna and paul simon. the world is moving forward, spinning fast, pulling you along with it.

but some days, when the sun hits just right, and you hear a guitar riff through a half-open dorm window, you think of him. of that fall. of letters. of train rides. of the silence that still holds you both, gently. and you wait. because you know—somewhere—he’s waiting, too.

it’s a saturday afternoon in april, and spring has finally, finally started to show its face.

you’re sitting beneath the cherry tree near the east edge of campus, the one that blooms a little earlier than the others, the one that looks like it’s holding secrets in every petal. sunlight slips through the branches in soft waves, dancing across the open pages of your book. there’s a coffee cup balanced carefully in the grass beside you, the sleeve still warm.

you’ve been there for over an hour. the world feels far away. it’s the kind of quiet that’s not empty, but full of wind in the leaves, of the occasional rustle of a student passing behind you, of the soft, steady hum of a saturday moving forward without urgency.

you turn a page, and then someone sits down beside you. you don’t look up right away. the book’s getting good again. but then you notice the shift in weight. the familiar way your skin prickles. the scent of something: clean laundry, faint cologne, and something you haven’t smelled in months but recognize instantly.

you turn. and it’s him. jay.

he’s right there, in front of you. close enough to touch. you don’t think. you don’t even say anything. you just launch yourself at him.

your book flies into the grass. your coffee nearly spills. your arms wrap around him tight, your face buried in his neck before your brain can even catch up. he laughs, breathless, a little startled but not pulling away. his arms close around you, firm and warm and shaking just a little.

“holy shit,” you whisper, your voice muffled in his hoodie. “holy shit, you’re here.”

“yeah,” he says, holding you tighter. “i’m here.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, still holding his shoulders like you’re making sure he’s real. his hair’s longer, shaggier than you remember. his face is a little thinner. his eyes are tired but bright. “how—what—” you start, then blink hard. “how did you know i’d be here?”

he smiles, soft, almost shy. “one of your letters,” he says. “you mentioned this tree. said you always came here saturday afternoons to read. so... i did the math.”

your heart does something strange in your chest. like falling and flying at the same time. “you remembered that?”

“of course i remembered that.”

you turn toward him fully, knees folding underneath you. “what—” your voice cracks, so you try again. “what are you doing here?”

he tilts his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i wanted to surprise you.”

your mouth opens and closes once. “you did.”

he laughs gently, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i figured.”

you take him in more slowly now, in full color. the soft mess of his hair, pushed back like he’s run his fingers through it a dozen times today. the curve of his mouth, familiar and brand new all at once. the hoodie you’ve seen in polaroids, now in front of you. the pin on his strap — the smiths, still. his shoelaces are untied.

“so you just... showed up?” you ask.

“not just.” he glances down at the grass. “i’ve had this planned for a few weeks. it’s spring break at my school.”

you blink. “you’re spending your break here?”

“yeah.”

“with me?”

he lifts a shoulder, casual in the way he never really is when it comes to you. “yeah. if you want me to be.”

your heart stumbles. “why didn’t you go home?”

“my parents came to visit me last month. brought homemade food, checked if i was sleeping enough. we did the whole thing.” he pauses. “so this time... i wanted to come see you. you were the priority.”

your throat goes tight. painfully tight. you stare at him. “that’s—”

“cheesy?”

“kind of.”

he grins. “but true.”

you blink fast, trying to keep your voice from wobbling. “i can’t believe you’re here.”

he nudges you with his shoulder, gently, and for a moment, everything around you seems to fade. the campus sounds, the other students walking by, the breeze rustling through the cherry blossoms, they all blur into the background. it’s just the two of you, sitting here in a moment that feels impossibly perfect.

“well. i am,” he says again, this time his voice lower, quieter. he’s watching you now, really watching you, like he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this light, the way you sound when you speak so softly, the way your eyes flicker with something unspoken. your heart thuds in your chest, and you swallow. the world feels like it’s holding its breath too, waiting for something. waiting for us, you think, and before you can stop it, the words spill out in a whisper:

“i’ve missed you so much.”

he looks at you for a moment, something in his eyes shifting. then, without warning, he’s leaning in, closing the space between you. his hand, warm and gentle, finds its way to your cheek, and your breath hitches at the contact. his touch is familiar and new, like coming home but also like discovering something thrilling and unknown all at once.

you don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel him so close, his breath mingling with yours, his lips almost brushing your skin. you can feel the thrum of your pulse in your throat, the way the air feels thick between you, charged with everything unspoken, everything you’ve been holding on to for so long. 

his lips, when they finally meet yours, are soft and hesitant at first, like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll pull away or if you’ll let him stay. and when you don’t—when you lean into him, your hands trembling as they rest against his chest, your lips responding with a quiet urgency—it’s like something clicks into place, something that had been waiting all along, just beneath the surface. his kiss deepens, letting you both catch up to the months that have slipped by, all the letters and all the silences. his fingers tangle gently in your hair, tugging you closer, and you lose yourself in the feeling of him—his warmth, his presence, his everything. it’s like coming home, but it’s also like a brand new beginning.

when you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, you don’t open your eyes right away. you stay there, just for a moment, feeling the soft brush of his nose against yours, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. there’s a peacefulness to it now, something that wasn’t there before, something that feels right in the way the world has fallen away.

for a few minutes, neither of you says anything. the silence between you is comfortable, filled with everything that’s unsaid but understood. and then, just when you think you can’t feel any more overwhelmed by the weight of it all, he pulls back a little, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

“you’re... real,” he murmurs, as if it’s just occurred to him. “this whole thing... you’re really here.”

you smile, a little breathless, still floating in the aftershock of the kiss. “i could say the same about you.”

he shakes his head softly, his eyes full of wonder. “no. i mean... i really missed you. i’ve been... so stupid not to just come here sooner.”

“it’s okay,” you say, gently. “you’re here now. that’s all that matters.”

he smiles, a little sheepish, and you can’t help but lean in for another kiss, slow this time, just a soft press of lips as if to say everything you haven’t yet. he kisses you back just as gently, and for a moment, you feel like you’ve finally found the place where you both belong, tucked away under the cherry blossoms, where time feels endless and the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

that week unfolds like a secret you get to keep.

spring break in 1991 feels like borrowed light—just warm enough for jackets to hang open, just cool enough for coffee to still feel necessary. the campus empties a little more each day, the sidewalks quieter, the dorms thinner with sound, and you and jay exist inside it like the only ones left.

you meet him every morning at the little café just off campus. he always gets the same thing: black coffee, extra strong, and a cinnamon roll if they haven’t sold out by ten. you try something new each day, let him steal bites, press your knees together under the table when no one’s looking. he watches you talk with his chin propped on his palm, like you’re something out of a song he’s only now learning the words to.

you walk everywhere. to the used bookstore with the creaky wood floors and the cat that sleeps in the poetry section. to the park with the duck pond, where you both pretend not to care that your hands brush more than once. to the laundromat even, where you sit on top of the machines with a bag of shared chips, watching the clothes tumble, talking about nothing and everything.

one afternoon, you take him to the record store a few blocks away. the bell above the door jingles when you enter. he goes quiet in that way he does when he’s really happy, thumbing through crates like he’s handling treasure. you wander into the second-hand tapes, until you feel his hand slip into yours.

“you’re wearing it,” he says.

you look down. the braided thread bracelet he made you is snug around your wrist, a little frayed from time.

“of course,” you say, like it’s obvious.

he smiles, and it’s soft in a way you almost never see. “i didn’t think you still would.”

you roll your eyes. “you underestimate me.”

“no,” he says. “i think i just miss a lot of you.”

you find a dusty smiths vinyl in the back corner. he insists on buying it, even though you argue it’s too expensive for a college student who already works two jobs. he tells you you’re worth overpriced music and more.

you listen to it later in your room, the both of you stretched out on your bed, sharing a single pillow. you press your foreheads together and try not to think about how fast the week is going. you trace the freckles on his arms like constellations and wonder how long you’ll get to keep this version of him—warm, present, real.

some nights you stay out late, sitting under the cherry tree, shoulders pressed close in the quiet dark. other nights, you fall asleep in the common room watching movies from the campus video library, wrapped in the same scratchy blanket, popcorn spilled everywhere.

you don’t talk about what you are, not exactly. but he always finds your hand first. he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. he kisses your forehead like a promise.

and every day, you feel it more: this thing between you, still unnamed, but steady. something building. something real.

one night, you lie on the floor of your dorm room, your legs tangled, his head resting on your chest. you read aloud from your book until your voice gets soft and slow. when you pause, he murmurs, “don’t stop,” like he’s afraid silence will mean goodbye. you read until you can’t keep your eyes open, and when you wake up the next morning, his hand is still in yours.

the day before he’s supposed to leave, you take him to the park. you take him deeper in, where the trees open into a wide clearing and the lake stretches out like glass, catching pieces of the sky. you brought a blanket in your tote bag, and you spread it over the grass with shaking hands, not from nerves, but from how full your chest feels just having him beside you again.

he whistles low when he sees the view. “you’ve been keeping this place a secret from me?”

you smile, sitting cross-legged on the blanket. “figured i needed to impress you with something.”

he grins as he drops down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “mission accomplished.”

you both fall quiet, watching the sun glint on the water, the way the wind ripples across it like someone brushing their hand over silk. 

“you remember,” he says, eyes on the lake, “the first time we kissed?”

you look at him. he’s got that look on his face—the one he gets when he’s remembering something that still stings a little. “of course i do.”

he laughs softly, and there’s color rising in his cheeks. “god, i was such a mess that day. i think i was sweating through my shirt.”

“you were,” you say, biting back a grin. “you looked like you were gonna faint.”

“i almost did.”

you lean your head on his shoulder. “you still kissed me, though.”

“yeah,” he says, quieter now. “best decision i ever made.”

for a while, you just sit like that, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the wind in the trees and the distant sounds of kids playing somewhere far off. 

“i wanted to tell you something,” he says eventually, shifting slightly so he can see you better. “about the band.” you straighten a little, curious. “we’re gonna start playing more. not just on campus, but local shows. house parties, bars, that kind of thing. one of the member’s cousin knows a guy who books gigs.”

“jay,” you say, your voice light but sincere, “that’s amazing.”

he shrugs like it’s nothing, but his smile gives him away. “we’re getting paid too. not a ton, but enough to cover meals, gas, maybe even some rent if we play enough.”

“i’m proud of you,” you say, and you mean it. “i always knew you’d do something with that music.”

he turns to you again, his eyes soft. “we’re playing in two weekends. it’s a friday night set, off-campus, but not far. if you came... i’d really like that.”

“i’ll try,” you say. “really. i will.”

“you’d probably hate the crowd,” he says. “everyone’s a little drunk and way too into themselves.”

“i don’t care about the crowd,” you say. “i’d be there for you.”

he smiles again, but this time it fades a little faster, like something heavier is sitting behind it.

“i’ve been thinking,” he says, slower now. “about us.” 

you nod. you’ve been thinking about it too. every day since he got here. every letter, every night you read them under your sheets like prayers. “i don’t want to hold you back,” he says. “i mean it. i don’t ever want you to feel like you have to wait around for me.”

your chest tightens, but you don’t look away. “i never felt like i had to,” you say. “i wanted to.”

he exhales, eyes flicking to the ground. “it’s hard, being far. i hate not knowing when i’ll see you next, if your letters are gonna come this week, if you’re okay.”

“it is hard,” you say. “but not harder than not having you in my life.”

that gets him.

he looks up at you, and his eyes are full, like he’s carrying the weight of something he’s been holding back for too long. but they’re steady too. there’s no hesitation in them. no fear. just the quiet conviction of someone who has finally found the right words and the right moment to say them.

“i love you,” he says.

not softly. not tucked behind nervous laughter or hidden in a passing joke. he says it plainly, like it’s always been true. like it’s not a question or a gamble, but a fact of who he is.

you go still. not because you didn’t want to hear it, but because you did. you’d been dreaming about hearing it. you’d written it in letters you never sent. whispered it to your pillow on nights the silence felt too loud. but now that it’s real, that it’s here between you, it takes your breath away.

your heart is beating too hard. your chest feels tight in the best and worst way. it’s like you’re floating and anchored all at once.

“i love you too,” you say.

the words fall out soft, but certain. no tremble. no second-guessing. it feels like unlocking something that’s been waiting inside you for months. and he smiles. not his usual grin. this one is slower, quieter. full of something tender and wrecked and entirely sincere. he lets out a shaky breath, like hearing it back made something loosen in his chest.

he reaches for your hand, threads his fingers through yours, and holds on like he’s scared you might disappear.

“i didn’t know if i should say it,” he admits, voice low. “i didn’t want to make this harder.”

you shake your head, blinking fast again. “you didn’t.”

he watches you, eyes glinting in the light fading over the lake. “i know we don’t have answers yet. i know we’re not in the same place. but i love you, and i don’t want to pretend i don’t. not anymore.”

you nod, and your throat feels too tight for a second to speak. but then you do. “thank you for saying it.”

he presses his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes. the wind brushes over your cheeks. “i want to do this right,” he whispers. “i want to keep showing up. even when it’s messy. even when we’re apart. i’ll write, i’ll call—whatever it takes. i just want you to know that i’m yours.”

you feel like crying again, but it’s the good kind. the overwhelming, grateful kind. “you already are,” you whisper back.

he kisses you then. slow and certain, like he’s been waiting to show you just how much he meant every word. you kiss him back with everything you have. every letter you never sent. every weekend you spent missing him. and for a little while, it feels like you’re in the exact right place, with the exact right person, and the rest can wait.

because now you know. and now he knows. and for now, that’s everything.

the sky is gray when you wake up. not stormy, just still. the apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the radiator. you make coffee without asking, and toast because it's simple. neither of you says much while you move around the kitchen. it's not awkward. it's just early, and this kind of morning carries its own language. when you finally sit down across from him, he offers a small smile and reaches for your hand across the table. his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he's grounding himself there. you want to ask him to stay, just one more day, but you know how it works. time doesn't pause just because you want it to.

“thank you,” he says, voice low. “for everything. for this week.”

you nod, not trusting yourself to say much more. “me too.”

you finish breakfast slowly, letting the minutes stretch. when it’s time to go, you both move a little slower than usual. jackets, shoes, keys—everything done with quiet care. on the walk to the train station, the streets are calm. a few shops are just opening. jay looks at all of it like he’s trying to take a piece of the city with him.

at the station, the platform is mostly empty. his train isn’t there yet. he sets his bag down and turns to you, both hands in his pockets, like he’s unsure of what to do with them. you take one of them in yours. “i’ll write,” he says quietly, steady.

you nod, trying not to let it show on your face, how much you want him to keep that promise. “you better,” you say, your voice soft but certain.

he smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes in a way that makes your chest tighten. there’s something steady in him, something quiet and real, like he’s trying to memorize your face without making it obvious. then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug. his arms fold around your back, warm and familiar, and you press your face into the space between his shoulder and his neck. you close your eyes. breathe in. it still smells like his soap and the coffee you shared earlier and something that’s just him.

it isn’t a desperate hug. it’s not rushed or falling apart. it’s slow, like neither of you wants to risk breaking whatever this is. he doesn’t hold you too tightly, and you don’t cling, maybe because you both know that if you do, it might unravel you. instead, you just stand there, holding each other like you’re saying something that can’t be said out loud.

when he finally pulls back, he looks at you for a second longer. his eyes move over your face like he’s trying to remember it exactly—every freckle, every line, every part that makes you, you. then he leans in and kisses your cheek, warm and slow, and you think that might be enough. but then he hesitates, just a beat, and his eyes flick to yours, asking without words. and you answer by closing the distance.

he kisses you, soft and steady. not rushed, not messy, just something quiet and sure. it feels like something you’ve been holding in for too long, and now that it’s here, neither of you pulls away too fast. you hold his jacket in your hands and try not to think about how long it might be before you get to do this again. his hands settle at your waist, his thumbs brushing the hem of your sweater. for a few seconds, the station disappears.

when the kiss breaks, your foreheads stay pressed together. both of you quiet. both of you trying to hold the moment still.

the train pulls into the station with a low sound, wheels scraping gently against the track. you both glance at it, then at each other again. he gives your hand one last squeeze before picking up his bag. the straps are worn, one of the buckles is broken, and you think about how far that bag has already traveled. 

“you should go,” you say, finally, your voice low. he nods, but he doesn’t move yet. just gives you one last look, and it holds more than words could.

“take care of yourself, okay?” he says. you nod. “and write to me. even if i’m slow sometimes.”

“i always do,” you say.

this time, you do say goodbye. both of you.

“bye, jay.”

“bye, love,” he says, just as soft.

jay walks toward the train with slow steps, one hand gripping the strap of his bag, the other shoved in his pocket like he’s not sure what to do with it. you stay where you are, not trusting yourself to move. your fingers are clenched around the edge of your sweater, the morning air crisp and dry around you, the sound of the platform soft and distant.

he doesn’t look back right away. just keeps going until he reaches the open door, and then he pauses, just for a second, and turns. your eyes meet. he doesn’t smile this time, doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough. it holds everything neither of you could say, everything you might’ve said if there were more time.

he steps onto the train. you watch him through the window as he walks down the aisle and finds a seat near the middle. he sets his bag down carefully, then turns to face you again. he presses his hand to the glass, palm open. you do the same. for a second, it feels like you're right there with him.

the train jolts once, then starts to move. slow at first. you walk alongside it for a few steps, matching its pace, not ready to let go. he watches you the whole time. he lifts his hand in a small wave. you don’t wave back, but you hold his gaze until he’s out of sight.

the platform feels too quiet after. the tracks stretch out in front of you, empty now. there’s a chill in the air, but you don’t feel it yet.

you stand there for a while, not really thinking, just feeling the space where he used to be. something in you knows this isn’t like the other goodbyes you’ve had before. it’s heavier. it settles deep.

that was the spring of 1991. and that was the last time you saw jay park in years.

author's note: first of all IM SO SORRY for leaving y’all hanging at the end like that 😭 but if people end up loving this story, i promise i’ll write and post part two. pinky swear.

this fic means a lot to me. i’ve always wanted to write something set in the late 80s / early 90s and finally getting to do it with jay as the main character felt really special. btw this is my first long jay fic ever, so i really hope the jay utteds out there enjoy it 🫶

also, in case it wasn’t obvious, just like heaven by the cure is my favorite song of all time :)

thank you so much for reading!!!! <3

UPDATE: part 2 is out now, read here <3

my masterlist <3

perma enha taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @jayparked

[rosemaryhoney27]

Gotham's Sunshine child part 5

“The Day the Sun Went Dark”

It started with the eclipse.

A rare, total one, the kind that turned Gotham’s already dim skies into something unnatural. Shadows sharpened. Streetlights flickered. A hush settled over the city like it was holding its breath.

And Joker— Well, Joker looked at the sky and saw an opportunity.

Bruce was already on edge.

So were the others. Tim had pulled up emergency protocols. Oracle flagged Joker chatter on the darknet—gibberish mixed with phrases like “paint the moon black” and “snuff out the spark.”

Jason said what they were all thinking:

“…He’s going after Danny.”

Joker had learned just enough to be dangerous. Rumors of a boy the city adored. A kid who glowed with goodness and had every crime ring too afraid or too grateful to touch. A child who wasn’t just protected by Gotham’s underworld—but by its shadows.

So naturally, Joker decided to make it a joke.

A sick one.

He waited until the eclipse was total. Until Danny was walking back from a Narrows clinic, having just dropped off a box of donated socks. No backup. No witnesses.

Just him.

And the dark.

The Bat-Family wasn’t fast enough.

Not this time.

They were minutes late.

Danny was gone.

When he woke up, the world smelled like copper and chemicals. The floor beneath him was cold. Chains rattled. Lightbulbs buzzed.

“Wakey wakey, Little Light,” Joker sing-songed from the edge of a makeshift operating table, fingers twitching with barely restrained glee. “Do you know who you are?”

Danny looked up, groggy and blinking.

Then still.

Then—

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Joker leaned in. “Tell me, then. Because everyone else seems to think you’re special. Sunshine Child, right? Gotham’s golden boy? Well, guess what—sunshine doesn’t exist without shadows.”

Danny didn’t flinch.

Didn’t panic.

Didn’t scream.

He just sat there.

Silent.

Still.

And then— something shifted.

It was slow.

The air dropped ten degrees. The buzzing lightbulbs crackled. Shadows grew longer, deeper—like they were watching. Waiting.

And Danny’s shoulders slumped.

When he finally looked up at Joker, the glow in his eyes was not sunlight.

It was ice.

“You made a mistake,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

Joker laughed. “Ooooh, scary. Did I break the sun?”

Danny’s next words were cold enough to silence the room:

“No. You eclipsed it.”

Outside, in the city, it started to snow.

In August.

Frost crawled up windows. Electrical grids shorted. Spectral energy readings spiked so hard that Constantine choked on his tea three cities over and muttered, “Oh, bollocks.”

The Bat-Family was mid-search when Barbara gasped.

“Guys,” she said through the comms. “He’s going ghost.”

Inside the warehouse, Danny’s chains shattered like glass.

The boy who had smiled at muggers, shared soup with thieves, and taught math to gang kids—

Floated.

His eyes glowed with eldritch green light.

The temperature dropped with every word.

“You hurt Gotham’s people. You used my name. You tried to twist it.”

Joker backed away. For the first time in years—he was confused. Not afraid. Confused.

“Wh—what are you?”

Danny didn’t grin.

Didn’t monologue.

He just unleashed.

The explosion of spectral energy tore through the building. Screams filled the air—not just Joker’s, but the echoes of every soul he’d ever scarred.

By the time the Bat-Fam arrived, the warehouse looked haunted.

Frozen graffiti on the walls.

Chains hanging midair.

Joker? Curled in a fetal position, babbling nonsense, his smile gone.

And Danny?

He stood in the center of it all.

Floating. Glowing. Crying.

“…I didn’t want to,” he whispered.

Bruce caught him as he collapsed.

It took three days for Danny to wake up again.

He expected panic. Anger. Rejection.

Instead, he opened his eyes to find Jason sitting at his bedside, polishing a crowbar and humming.

“Yo.”

Danny blinked. “…Am I in trouble?”

Jason scoffed. “Kid, you scared Joker into therapy. I think we owe you a medal.”

Later, Bruce came in. Quiet. Calm.

“Danny,” he said, “you didn’t lose control. You protected yourself. And this city.”

Danny’s voice was barely a murmur. “But the eclipse—what I felt—I didn’t even know I could do that.”

Bruce rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not just our Sunshine,” he said. “You’re our shield.”

Gotham whispered, after that day.

That the boy who once smiled through everything had a storm inside him.

But they didn’t fear it.

They respected it.

Because when the sun went dark—

Danny Fenton shone brighter.

[billiereid]

Jealousy: Haikyuu! x Reader

Warnings: Rated X. This content is intended for readers ages 18 years or older. Minors, do not interact.

Featuring: Tetsuro Kuroo. Kenma Kozume. Kotaro Bokuto. Keiji Akaashi. Fem!Reader.

Contains: Posessive behavior. Jealousy. Fingering. Oral sex (F receiving). P in V sex. Edging. Praise. Exhibitionism. Public sex.

Summary: The boys all know that you love them. Your relationship is special and important, and you've never given them any reason to distrust you. But even still, everyone has insecurities. Everyone gets jealous sometimes. Here's how they react when that jealousy starts to flare up over you.

Author's Note: This is written post-timeskip. All characters are written to be adults.

Tetsuro Kuroo

Kuroo is one possessive motherfucker. At least, compared to the rest of the people on this list. 

He’s happy to always let you have your space, your friends, anything you need.

But the moment he feels like another guy might end up in first place?

Absolutely the fuck not.

There was no reason for Kuroo to worry. He knew it. You knew it. But the moment one of your coworkers started giving you a ride home, he decided things were getting a little too friendly. 

And he would never demand 100% of your time, your attention. That just wasn’t the kind of guy Kuroo was, and it wasn’t realistic anyway. You were a person. You deserved to have your friends, your family, your space, your fun. 

But you were his. And he was going to make sure it was drilled into your head before the night was over. 

“Please, Tetsu–” you all but whined. You didn’t know how long you’d been underneath him at this point. Your entire body was flushed with pleasure. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even come up with words. You had gotten so close at least a dozen times. A dozen edges that felt like a hundred. 

All because of his hands.

Kuroo had his fingers buried inside you now. He’d had them on your clit just minutes ago, though after edging three times it certainly felt like hours. Now, he had your two favorites stuffed inside you, pressing against all your inner buttons and making your head spin. 

“Aww, baby’s being so patient, aren’t you?” Tetsuro purred on his knees in front of you, his free hand pinning your hips to the bed with a bruising grip. “What do you think, princess? If I let you come right now, ‘re you gonna make a mess all over me?”

You knew what he wanted, knew that he wanted you to squirt. But you had only ever done it once for him, and it was a long time ago, when you were both a little too tipsy to care about having to change the sheets afterward. But now? Now, you weren’t sure if you could. 

“You’re still thinking too much, babygirl,” Kuroo said, his voice low and nurturing despite the filthy squelching sounds that his fingers were making inside your ruined pussy. “Eyes on me, princess.” It was a command disguised as a gentle coaxing. Your eyes, glazed over with pleasure and the effort to hold back your orgasm, finally met Tetsuro’s. “There’s my pretty girl,” he purred. 

The imaginary cord inside of you was wound so tight over and over, and you could tell it was about to snap, permission or no. 

“Whose are you, sweet girl?” Kuroo asked. He needed to hear you say it–to make you say it.

Your eyes widened a little bit as you realized, he really might not let you come. “Tets–”

“I said, whose are you?” he repeated. When you still couldn’t seem to find the words, his eyes darkened in that dominant way that only his could manage. “Answer, or I’ll edge you again.”

The edges of panic crept into your mind. You couldn’t handle being edged again. You were already so sensitive. “Yours! Yours, Tetsuro, I’m yours,” you chanted frantically, hoping that this time he’e actually let you come. 

“That’s fucking right,” Kuroo praised. “Now, come. And make a mess all over this fucking bed.”

Kenma Kozume

Honestly, Kenma’s not usually a jealous person. 

He knows you love him, and you’ve never given him a reason not to trust you.

Just like anyone else, though, there are little insecurities. 

And rather than getting possessive or angry, he just finds himself reminding you of all the reasons you keep him around.

It should’ve been such a simple interaction, really. 

You’d left your wallet on the train when you were on your way home. Someone had found it and had been kind enough to meet up with you in a coffee shop and return it. Kenma had even agreed to go with you, even though there wasn’t much he could’ve done in the way of protecting you. He had seen the entire interaction happen. There was nothing suspicious. You hadn’t even touched the man who came to return your wallet, hadn’t seemed to flirt or even bat your eyes in his direction. 

But he was tall. Extremely tall. Not that it normally mattered. But he also might’ve been handsome to some people, Kenma guessed, and his voice kind of sounded like warm butter when he spoke. And he was so kind, and your smile was so pretty when you looked up at him. But your smile was always pretty, especially when you were looking at Kenma. And it didn’t matter. 

But it did. 

Kenma wasn’t even really aware of what he was doing. But he spent the rest of the day doing whatever you wanted, his entire focus on you. He took you for lunch, then ice cream. He took you to your favorite little used bookstore, and he even stopped for a coffee on the way home.

And now, as the sun was setting outside your shared apartment, he was kneeling on the floor in front of your couch with his lips attached between your thighs. Kenma suckled sweetly on your clit, fingers kneading the squishy plush of your hips. His tongue dipped inside to taste your wetness before his lips returned to your clit. You’re his, you’re his, you’re so his. 

He wasn’t really sure if he was convincing you or himself.

Kenma fully moaned against your pussy as he tasted you, completely enraptured by the sight of your back arching in response to the pleasure he was giving you.. His tongue always made you dizzy. Your hands carded through his hair, continuously brushing it out of his face for him as he devoured you.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, your voice barely above a whisper. The desire practically rolled off of you in waves. The buildup was completely delicious, making time seem to slow down around you. 

“So good… So perfect…” you told Kenma, looking down at him between your thighs. Your voice was husky, dripping with your need, and the words poured out of your mouth before your brain could even think to stop them. Not that you would’ve stopped him anyway. Kenma was perfect, and you were going to let him know that. 

Kenma whimpered under your praise, his tongue flickering over your clit in that way he knows you love so much. Your back arched again–fuck, you were pretty when you did that. 

“Baby… please, don’t stop…” you begged, your voice little more than a breathy moan as you got closer to that high you needed so badly. 

But he pulled his lips away. Your head fell back against the sofa cushions, and you let out an extended whine. “Not yet,” Kenma said, his breathing heavy and his voice raspy. You watched him let his pants and boxers fall to the floor, his dick hard and aching like you’d never seen before. 

You whimpered again at the sight. “Kenma,” you whined, “I was so close.”

“I said, not yet,” Kenma said again. His cock slid through your folds, coating himself in your liquid arousal. “This pussy is mine. And I’ll do what I want with it.”

Kotaro Bokuto

When Bokuto gets jealous, he just gets unbelievably sad. 

He’s not usually a possessive guy.

But he just loves having all of your attention. 

So sometimes, when you’ve had your attention on another guy, he just needs to be reminded that you love him, too.

Was he fucking pouting? 

You’d been out with your boyfriend all day, seemingly having a good time. And then you struck up an extended conversation with the barista at your local coffee shop, someone you’d become very friendly with because of your frequent visits. He’s a little too cute for Bokuto’s comfort. 

Really, he wasn’t trying to be short with you. It was just a few comments that came out harsher than he intended. Some indifference here, some feigned boredom there. It was a recipe for disaster, you thought. And you couldn’t figure out why. You’d been having a perfectly normal day together. Actually, it was one of the better days, because there was no practice, no travel. Just the two of you, going out grocery shopping.

It wasn’t until after you got home that you realized what exactly was going on. When you were watching TV, Bokuto laid his head in your lap, his arms clinging to your waist, his face buried into your stomach. You laced your fingers into his hair and called him cute, and you saw the tiny, proud smile that he tried to hide by nestling further into your belly.

That was how you ended up here. 

You straddled Kotaro’s lap, his cock buried inside you to the hilt. He was sitting on the bed, his back propped up against the headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good,” you said, starting to move your hips in your need to relieve the pressure low in your belly. “You fit me so perfectly.”

Bokuto’s hands gripped your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh on your hips. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you rode him, your pace slow and deliberate, as if making some sort of point. But fuck you were so gorgeous, your tits bouncing ever so slightly as you rode. Your hands perched on his shoulders to keep your balance. Your eyebrows pinched together. Your lip was caught between your teeth. Tiny little whimpers were escaping your lungs. Everything about you was so beautiful and gorgeous, and you were undeniably his and–

Oh, he thought. 

But the thought didn’t stop him, didn’t make him falter for even a second. His hips started rising to meet yours with every thrust, forcing you to ride him faster. “That’s it,” Kotaro said through his teeth, one of his strong hands sliding up your side and gripping your breast. “That’s it. Keep goin’, yeah? Keep fuckin’ yourself on my cock.”

Bokuto’s lewd ramblings made you dizzy as his dick hit just the right spot inside you and kept hitting it. You let out absolutely the most sinful moan as you got closer to the high you wanted, the one you needed him to give you. “Fuck, don’t stop… Need more,” you moaned, leaning your forehead against his. 

“I’m not stopping. You close?,” Bokuto says, still flexing his hips to fuck up into you, forcing his own pace over the two of you. You nod in answer. “Yeah, that’s it. Come for me. That’s my girl.”

Keiji Akaashi

Akaashi is an overthinker. 

So while he isn’t necessarily jealous or possessive, he definitely does overthink things a lot.

And he isn’t afraid to call you out when he thinks you’re being a little too friendly with someone else.

Not that he thinks you would ever leave him. He’s just going to remind you why.

Thinking back on it, you could see why Akaashi did what he did. 

You’d been out to dinner. Not just any dinner. Your anniversary dinner. He had made a reservation. You’d gotten dressed up. He was ready to wine and dine you all evening, to spoil you all night the way you deserved.

And then he showed up.

Some guy you’d gone on a couple of dates with before Keiji was even in the picture happened to see you from across the room. And the idiot had the audacity to come speak to you like Akaashi wasn’t even there. 

And he wasn’t angry at you. God, no. Akaashi let you handle things your way. You were short in your responses, and when you finally introduced Keiji as your boyfriend and mentioned it was your anniversary, the guy finally left the two of you alone for the night. 

It didn’t stop him from overthinking the entire evening though. 

If things had been the other way around, if one of his exes had shown up on your anniversary date, he would’ve told her she was ruining his date. He would’ve said she needed to learn to read the room. He would’ve kissed you right in front of her for good measure. 

He supposed that wasn’t what would’ve actually happened. And he supposed you probably just didn’t want to make a scene in the middle of the restaurant. So he wasn’t really angry with you. God, he was never angry with you, especially once you flashed him that pretty smile…

After dinner, he brought you out to the parking lot, supposedly to drive you home. But he smirked and guided you into the backseat, where he pulled you onto his lap and kissed you like you were the only oxygen in the entire world.

It wasn’t long until you were a tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth. Akaashi had pulled your dress and bra down, your pebbled nipple caught in his mouth. He had pulled his cock out of his pants and shoved it inside you, pushing your panties aside and thrusting into you in one fell swoop. 

God, you were pretty like this. You were pretty always, Keiji couldn’t deny that. But your face was heated from the pleasure. Your dress was hiked up around your waist. One of your tits was hanging out of your dress. And fuck you felt so good wrapped around him, your hands perched on his shoulders as you awkwardly rode him in the back seat of his car. 

“Keiji…” you whined, the tone of your voice betraying just how good it felt to have him inside you. “I’m… so… close…”

Akaashi only hummed his approval against your nipple. He wouldn’t dare stop now. Not when you were right on the cusp of coming on him in the middle of this parking garage. Fuck, you were so hot. He kept rolling his hips to meet yours as you rode him, his tongue delicately swirling around your nipple. 

What you didn’t see was Akaashi locking eyes with the man who interrupted your date earlier. Your eyes were screwed shut and your head was thrown back in as you reached your peak. So your ex knew it was you, but you never got a chance to see him. 

As the guy walked away, Akaashi let go of your nipple and replaced his mouth with his hand, his thumb circling your peak. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s my girl.”