#everything is changing and staying the same at the same time

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[ninisdollie]

summer bummer - jake sim 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

“In which reader and Jake see each other only in the summer, finding themselves between tangled sheets and filthy words. But this year, it’s not just sex anymore.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

fem! reader x jake, friends with benefits! to lovers, fingering, dirty talking, unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m rec), riding, multiple positions, spitting, porn with a little emotional plot idk.

word count: 7.0k

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

The field by the lake hadn’t changed, same driftwood benches, same cooler of cheap beer half-buried in the dirt, same old Bluetooth speaker trying its best to fight against the crackle of the fire. A few faces had grown older, a few new ones floated in from the city for the summer, but the rhythm was the same.

You always traveled back to your hometown for vacation, where you could forget about your city girl live, where most of your childhood friends still lived, where you spent the days tanning under the burning sun and drinking margaritas.

You were perched on a log near the flames, cold drink in hand, sweat beginning to bead at the nape of your neck despite the breeze off the water, despite the thin fabric of your short flower dress. Your friends were around you, Jay had brought his guitar like always, Heeseung was already tipsy, throwing rocks into the lake and yelling about something stupid. It was light, fun and meaningless. But you couldn’t stop checking the curve of the dirt road, waiting.

He was coming tonight, you knew it. Jake Sim.

It was never official. Not a relationship or a fling. It was almost like a summer tradition, like fireworks and iced tea and peeling sunburnt skin. You came back every year, and so did he. Like gravity, something written in body. No goodbyes, no promises, just heat and hands and stolen nights that left you wrecked until fall. You’d known him for years at this point, same boy who almost drowned in your parent’s pool at twelve, same boy who kissed you in truth or dare, same boy who knew your body much better than yourself.

The thing is, you barely spoke the rest of the year. A couple likes on Instagram. A birthday text, maybe. But no late-night calls, no long conversations. It was easier that way. If you talked too much, it would start to feel real. If it felt real, you’d both ruin it.

But still, you knew what it meant when you saw his name light up your phone two weeks before summer.

Jake Sim: you coming back this year?

Your fingers trembled over the keyboard.

Me: of course, always.

Because it didn’t matter how much time passed. The second your eyes met again, everything came flooding back, the way he kissed you like he was starving, the roughness of his voice when he begged to stay inside just a little longer, the way your bodies fit like puzzle pieces designed by the sun itself.

You weren’t in love. But it was close enough to hurt when you had to go back to your city every year.

So you both kept a silent deal. You didn’t ask who he fucked in the winter. He didn’t ask if you missed him in the spring. You only cared about the here and now, the sticky, sacred months of July and August. You only cared about sweat-slicked skin and beach towels and his hand gripping your throat like it was the only way he knew how to say I missed you.

Your stomach twisted when you heard it.

Tires crunching over gravel, laughter, car doors slamming.

You didn’t even have to turn to know because you felt it.

He was here.

It had been eleven months, two weeks, and six days since he last fucked you against the wall of your aunt’s bathroom at the end-of-summer party. You’d cried after. Not because of him, but because leaving always felt like peeling your skin off and flying back to a world where Jake didn’t exist.

But now he walked in like he owned the night, as always, that soft and chill aura like he didn’t care about anything in the world. Sun-kissed and cocky, rings on his fingers, black tshirt clung to his chest like it was begging for your attention. Ni-ki was beside him, already tossing a grin toward the group by the cooler, but Jake?

Jake looked straight at you.

The air left your lungs like a punch. You hated that it still did this to you, turned your insides to syrup and your thighs to heat. One look, that’s all it took. You didn’t smile, or wave. Just sipped your drink and looked back like it didn’t matter, letting the breeze wave your hair against your face.

“Finally decided to show up.” Heeseung dabbed him up, but his eyes were still locked on your face.

He stopped a few feet away, slow steps bringing him just close enough to let your body register him, his smell, his shadow, the ghost of his hands already on your skin. His voice was casual when he finally spoke.

“City girl had the time to come this year” he said, the exact same thing he said last summer. The same damn line.

Your lips curved around your drink, glossy and shining under the warm light of the fire.

“I always come, Jake.”

He smiled like he wanted to say something filthy about that. Like he remembered every single time. Then his eyes trailed down your body, slow and intentional because of course he wanted you to notice. You squirmed a bit, flipping your hair over your shoulder.

The fire was crackling between you two. Ni-ki called his name, someone handed you another beer, which you rejected with a smile, Sunghoon yelled something about “going crazy this summer”, but it all blurred. The music was loud, but your heart was louder.

“You look good,” Jake added, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

You smiled softly, tilting your head, took in the curve of his arms, his thick lips, the gold chain glinting at his collarbone, the heat in his eyes.

“I always look good” you whispered back.

He chuckled, stepping back, walking away like he hadn’t just lit every nerve in your body on fire.

But you knew how this would end.

Because he was here looking at you like he hadn’t had a decent orgasm since the last time you moaned his name.

After a few hours, the fire started burning low. People had thinned out, some stumbling back to their parents’ houses, others crawling into tents by the lake or paired off under trees in the dark. The music had died to background static. Your drink was warm and half-full, forgotten in your hand. The air was still thick with smoke, beer, and heat that clung to your skin even after sundown.

You’d been sitting on the edge of a blanket, legs stretched out, staring into the dying embers and the star-full sky, when Ni-ki wandered over, car keys dangling from his finger, hair a bit messy.

“You need a ride?” he asked, voice lazy, smile crooked. “I’m sober, Jake’s coming to.”

You hesitated for only a second before you saw Jake trailing behind him.

One glance from him was enough. That slight tilt of his head, that litlle smile on his lips, the way his eyes dipped down to your mouth just for one second before biting his lips. He didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the side of the car, one hand in his pocket, eyes still on you.

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. “Thanks, Ki”

Inside, Ni-ki’s father’s truck smelled like weed and cologne and dried lake water. The windows were halfway down, the music low and thumping with bass. You were pressed against the cool leather, the hem of your dress creeping up your thighs with every shift. Jake climbed in right beside you, not even pretending to leave space, it wasn’t even necessary for him to sit besides you, and his thigh brushed yours, firm and warm.

Neither of you said anything.

Ni-ki started the car and chatted from the front, his voice a cheerful hum against the dark. Something about the girls by the cooler. Someone puking behind the dock. You nodded, made a sound of agreement, but every nerve in your body was tuned to Jake. His arm was stretched lazily across the back of the seat, fingertips just grazing your shoulder, his touch already setting your skin on fire. He smelled like smoke and sweat perfume and him. Familiar and dangerous.

“Is school going well?” he asked under his breath, close enough that his mouth nearly touched your cheek.

You turned toward the window.

“Yeah, it’s been nice. You?”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled again and let his hand drop, light and casual, until the side of it was resting against your bare thigh. It wasn’t even obvious. Ni-ki didn’t notice, too busy driving and still talking, and Jake didn’t move. His fingers didn’t trail, just a slight pressure. But it was enough to remind you of every time he’d had you spread out in the back of a car like this before, drunk off each other, reckless and flushed.

The road dipped, and the jostle made his palm shift higher on your leg.

You bit your lip.

“Cute dress,” he murmured. “Little short, though.”

You pulse started to rush, and it was suddenly so hot inside the car. Then his fingers crept under the hem of your dress, brushing the inside of your thigh, higher and higher, until you felt your whole body clench.

“—right? So I told Heeseung not to piss his girlfriend off—” Ni-ki kept talking in the front seat, totally oblivious, laughing at his own story.

Meanwhile Jake’s fingers brushed against the thin cotton of your panties, and exhaled through his nose.

“You wore these for me?” he whispered, dragging one finger slowly over the damp seam, right where you were already pulsing for him. “Or did I get you this wet just now?”

You swallowed hard. Your head hit the back of the seat.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t wait to taste you this summer”

You squeezed your legs shut instinctively, but he just pushed his hand between them, forcing them apart again. His fingers slid beneath the fabric, hot and greedy and slow, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. His middle finger circled your clit, gentle but focused, rhythm cruelly steady. Your hips twitched. You tried to keep your face blank, heart racing as Ni-ki kept talking about girlfriend drama and god knows what else. Jake leaned back in the seat like nothing was happening, laughing and his friend’s jokes, keeping the conversation, like he wasn’t making your thighs shake under the cover of your dress.

And all you could do was clutch the edge of your seat and pray your breathing didn’t give you away.

“Hey, Y/N” Ni-ki said. “You think your parents will let us throw the pool party this year?”

You could barely hear him, you couldn’t even answer. So you just hummed, but it came out more like a moan, and Jake chuckled besides you because he had two fingers inside you now, slow and shallow, more teasing than satisfying.Every twist of his hand dragged against your sweet spot and pulled a silent scream from your throat.

His lips brushed your ear again.

“You’re so tight, baby. You miss me?” he asked like he wasn’t knuckle-deep inside you, like this was all small talk.

You nodded once, shaky and pathetic, and he smiled.

Ni-ki pulled up in front of your parent’s place, headlights sweeping over the front porch.

“You want us to walk you up?” he offered, turning in his seat.

You jolted, heart hammering.

Jake’s fingers slipped out of you just in time, slow and slick, leaving your panties soaked. He brought his hand to his mouth casually, like he was stretching, and sucked the tips of his fingers clean while staring you dead in the eyes.

“Nah,” Jake said smoothly, voice casual. “She’s good.”

“Y-Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for the ride, Ki.”

But you weren’t. You were literally shaking.

You stepped out of the car on trembling legs, your thighs wet, your panties ruined, and Jake’s grin burned into your memory.

Your parent’s didn’t allow you to host the pool party this year, since the damages of last summer were still ghosting in the house. So Sunoo, being the good friend that he was, offered his pool.

The party was already in full swing by the time you showed up, loud music, wet footprints all over the tile, floats bobbing in the pool, and a cooler full of drinks that had long since lost their ice. The heat was sweltering. The sky was cloudless. And everything felt like it was pulsing with that hazy energy.

You found your friends by the pool, and smiled at them. You slipped off your sandals, dropped your towel on a sun chair, and waded straight into the pool, cool water wrapping around your body like a sigh.

Jake was there too.

He was across the pool, shirtless in red swim trunks, tan skin glistening wet, a beer bottle tipped to his lips as he leaned back against the edge with that lazy, devastating smirk. His hair was damp, curls pushed back, and he had that look in his eye. The one he only wore when you were in the room.

You hadn’t spoken since the night in the truck. Just a few glances, a look across the lake. He was busy this summer too, you knew that, his father needed help in his job, so you weren’t seeing him that often. But you still felt him every second since.

And now, he was watching you float through the water like he already had you pressed up against the pool wall, hand between your thighs, making you come so hard you’d choke on his name.

You kept your face blank, kept swimming. But your heart was going wild.

Everyone else was drunk and loud. Sunghoon was doing cannonballs, Jungwon was begging someone to make more margaritas, Ni-ki was DJing from the patio like his life depended on it, but your whole world narrowed every time Jake’s eyes dragged over your chest, your stomach, the way your bikini clung to your hips.

At one point, you reached for your drink from the edge and felt his presence behind you before you even heard his voice.

“You trying to kill me in that bikini?” Jake murmured, chest brushing your back in the water. His voice was low and close, mouth inches from your shoulder. “Or is this just for attention?”

You didn’t turn around.

“We both know i don’t need to ask for your attention.”

He chuckled, dark and quiet.

“You know i love when you get cocky.”

You don’t even remember who touched who first.

One second, Jake was behind you in the pool, his breath grazing your neck like a threat, and the next, your fingers brushed his underwate, just enough to say now. You didn’t look back, it wasn’t necessary because he followed.

You climbed out slowly, water cascading down your legs, your bikini clinging to your curves like a secret. Jake was only a step behind, eyes locked on the drip of water trailing down your spine. No one noticed, or maybe they did and didn’t care. This was how it always happened. One second, you were mingling, the next, you were gone.

Inside the house, the music got muffled by walls and closed doors. You walked past the kitchen, past the hallway, past the laundry room, and Jake’s hand caught yours. Pulled and turned. He shoved open the bathroom door and you stumbled inside, your back hitting the wall, cold tile kissing wet skin.

Then, his mouth was on yours.

He tasted like alcohol and fresh fruit and he kissed you like a man unhinged. His hot mouth devouring you, breathless and not giving but taking. Tongue deep, wet and sloppy, teeth sharp, pulling your lower lip and sucking it, no space between you. The kiss wasn’t sweet. It was months of repression, of thinking about this exact moment, of remembering how tight you were around him, how loud you got when he hit just the right spot.

Your back hit the wall with a thud, and his hands were everywhere, palming your ass through your bikini bottoms, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, sliding up your spine to twist in your wet hair and tug your head back, like he was scared you’d disappear again. You felt his hard length beneath the damp fabric of his shorts, grinding into you like he couldn’t hold himself back.

Jake pulled back just long enough to look at you.

“You look fucking unreal right now,” he breathed, eyes blown. “I’ve been losing my mind all fucking year thinking about this pussy.”

His voice was hot and low and filthy, his hand sliding down your stomach, slipping under your soaked bikini bottoms without hesitation.

“You missed me?” he murmured, middle finger dragging through your slit. “Huh, baby? You missed this cock?”

You moaned, too breathless to lie. Head spinning, eyes hazy and brain already shut down.

He grinned like he already knew.

“Of course you did. This pussy was made for me.”

He shoved your bottoms down, let them fall wet to the floor. Then, he dropped to his knees like it was instinct. You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on you. Tongue hot, fast, messy and desperate. Jake moaned into your cunt like he’d been starving all year. You moaned into your hand and let your head fall against the wall as his tongue licked a wide, greedy stripe up your slit, then circled your clit, sloppy, shameless and relentless. His fingers dug into your thighs in case you’d pull away and he ate you out like this was his last meal.

“God,” he groaned, voice muffled against your heat. “always so fucking sweet.”

You rocked your hips forward into his face, already breathless from how deep he was buried between your thighs. Your pussy dripping on him, pulsing and hot. His hair was damp from the pool, and now from sweat, his working like he was worshiping you.

Your fingers laced through his curls, pulling.

“Jake—oh my God.”

He didn’t stop. Just growled into you and pulled you closer, spreading you wider, tongue fucking into you as if he couldn’t decide whether to tease or devour. Then, his thumb slid up, wet from your slick, pressing soft tight circles against your clit as his tongue fucked in deeper.

You gasped, back arching.

“Jake, please—”

“You gonna come on my mouth?” he asked, almost sweetly. “You gonna make a mess on my face, baby?”

He was smiling against your sex, completely obsessed, like your shaking thighs and broken voice were exactly what he wanted to ruin. Like he wouldn’t be satisfied until you fell apart right here in the bathroom with his tongue buried inside you and your moans echoing off the tile.

You whimpered, trying to hold yourself up, but your knees were already buckling.

“Please, Jake—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I won’t,” he muttered against your clit, voice low and wrecked. “Not until you’re dripping down my chin.”

Then he sucked again. Hard, wet and loud. Totally obscene and shameless, his tongue flicking fast, his thumb grinding into your clit in tight circles, dragging your orgasm out of you like he was starving for it. You gasped, hips jolting forward as heat crashed through your spine and exploded in your belly.

Jake groaned into you, tongue lapping up every bit of your mess like it was his job. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place, making sure you felt every second of it, felt how messy you were, how wrecked, how much he loved it.

You came hard.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your toes curled, your hands scrabbling for the sink behind you as pleasure split you in half, hot and dizzying. Your whole body trembled, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your pussy pulsed around nothing, empty but aching, soaking his mouth and chin.

Jake only pulled back when your legs gave out.

He caught you, barely, arms around your waist, eyes heavy and glazed as he looked up at you, his face glistening with your slick, lips red and shiny, hair messy from your hands in it.

“So fucking good” he said, voice ruined.

Then he kissed you again, messy, open, licking into your mouth like he wanted you to taste yourself on him. In one movement, he shoved down his trunks and grabbed your thigh, hiking it up against the wall.

“You ready?” he said, lining himself up and thrusting in all at once, bottoming out. You gasped. “Gonna fuck you just how you like it.”

He was thick and deep and so fucking hard, stretching you open like your body had been waiting for him all year. His length throbbed through your soaked walls, still senstive but still wanting more. You cried out, back arching as Jake buried himself to the hilt, brutal thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice low and ruined in your ear. “You’re so tight around me. Like this pussy’s been waiting all year, just for my cock.”

You clenched around him at the words, helpless, already overwhelmed. Your nails dug into his biceps as he held you pinned between his chest and the cold edge of the bathroom counter, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread wide open. He moved deep, dragging strokes that made you choke on your breath. His cock hit that spot inside you perfectly, rubbing against your slick, sensitive walls, making you tremble with every push.

Your head fell back, lips parted, completely at his mercy.

“God—fuck, I missed this,” he groaned, hips snapping faster. “Missed how you squeeze me. Missed these pretty fucking sounds. You make me insane.”

He grabbed your hips, slamming you down onto him harder, faster, skin slapping against skin as the bathroom filled with the sounds of filthy, frantic sex, wet, breathless, obsessed. The air inside was so hot, the mirror foggy, your body wet not only with water but with sweat and spit, every inch inside of you burning for him.

You wrapped your legs around him, holding on tight, body jerking with every thrust.

“Jake—oh my god—yes—fuck me, please—”

“I am, baby,” he growled, pounding into you. “Fucking you like you need.”

He kissed you, teeth and tongue and bruising need, before pulling back to spit the next words right against your mouth:

“That’s right. This pussy’s mine when you’re here. Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin.”

A loud groan left his mouth, losing rhythm for a second, driving into you harder now, ruthless, like he wanted to fuck you so deep you’d still feel him tomorrow, his thrusts pounding into your soaked pussy, his body smacking against yours in loud, wet sounds that echoed off the walls. You moaned loud at that, barely holding back from coming again.

“I’m gonna fuck you all summer,” he hissed in your ear, fucking you harder. “Every night. Every morning. You understand?”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen, aching clit, rubbing tight circles that helped the pressure on your stomach start to build with so much force.

“You wanna cry on my cock again like you did last year?” he taunted, thumb dragging up to your clit as he pounded into you harder. “Huh? Gonna make a mess for me like a good fucking girl?”

Your body didn’t hold back anymore. You came again, gasping, clenching around him so tight he cursed into your neck, hips jerking as he came with you with a thick moan, hot, deep, full. He spilled inside you so familiar and warm and good, and you whimpered at the feeling. God, you missed it so much.

You collapsed into him, slick and shaking, still pinned to the wall as he caught his breath, mouth dragging across your collarbone like he couldn’t stop touching you.

“God,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “I’m not letting you go a single night without this dick.”

Jake then pulled out slowly, the loss making you whimper again, and his eyes lost between your legs watching how you dripped him down your thighs, he bit his lip at the view. Then kissed you again, fast but hot, helping you put on your bikini bottoms again, still a bit dazed from the strong orgasm.

“You never do, anyways.”

He chuckled softly, putting his shorts on and hissing at the sensitivity on his cock, then placed a kiss on your forehead, winking an eye.

“Summer’s just getting started, baby.”

The days passed with not much happening. Parties, nights by the lake, fishing, movie nights in someone’s old basement. Almost every night ending the same way, everyone either passed out or going home.

Except you.

And Jake.

It always started with a look. That same look. Then a brush of his hand at your hip while you were helping clean up. Then a muttered, “Come with me,” while the others weren’t looking.

And ended with the two of you tangled in the backseat of his father’s car, windows halfway fogged, leather seats squeaking under the shift of your weight. You straddling him, panties shoved to the side, Jake’s hands gripping your waist tight as you rocked your soaked pussy over the thick, heavy length of his cock. Him fully inside you, buried deep, sweat dripping from his hairline as he hissed through his teeth. The night quiet except for the sound of your skins slapping together.

“Fuck, baby—” his voice was hoarse, raw. “You feel so fucking good. Always so tight for me.”

His nasty words always making you come even harder around his length.

“I’ve been thinking about this since you left,” he whispered, grabbing your ass and helping you move faster, harder. “Jacking off in my room like a fucking loser, imagining you bouncing on my cock just like this. Every fucking night.”

“Every summer,” he whispered. “You’ll always be mine.”

Other times were lazy sundays in his room, after a wild night, makeup still on your face, mascara smuged, but he always told you you looked beautiful that way. The sheets clinging to your bodies thanks to the sweat and the heat, Jake leaning his back against the bedframe, legs parted and you between them.

Still lazy, but hungry.

His cock already hard. Thick, flushed, glistening at the tip like it had been waiting for your mouth since the second he pulled you into the house.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed when you kissed the head, feeling him throb in your hand “You trying to ruin me, baby?”

You smiled, slow and wicked, as you licked a fat stripe up his shaft.

“I thought I already did.”

Jake’s head dropped back against the pillow, his hips twitching when you spat on his length, tongue swirled around the tip again, tasting the salty precum. You took your time, pressing kisses all over, teasing him, dragging your mouth down to his balls, licking and sucking until he was breathing through clenched teeth, abs tensing with every shift of your tongue.

“Shit—fuck” he gasped when you finally wrapped your lips around the head and sank down.

You moaned around him in response, and Jake swore, one hand flying into your hair.

“God, baby—your mouth is so fucking perfect.”

You bobbed your head slow, letting your tongue slide along the underside of his cock, eyes locked on his face the whole time. You loved watching him fall apart, how his brows pulled together, how his lips parted in these breathless, broken moans. His whole body went tight under you, muscles flexing, thighs trembling with every stroke.

“You’re gonna make me come already,” he panted, voice shaking. “You’re so fuckin’ nasty, just—shit—look at you.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, breath hot against his cock.

“Then come,” you whispered, stroking him slow, tongue flicking at the tip. “I want it. In my mouth. On my face. Wherever the fuck you want.”

Jake groaned.

“God, I almost forgot how filthy you are,” he muttered, hips lifting, fucking into your fist as your lips wrapped around him again.

But when you both were drunk, it was even more messy.

Laughing too loud, bumping into the hallway walls on the way upstairs, hands already all over each other before the door even closed.

Jake’s breath hot in your ear, mouth on your neck, his fingers tangled in the hem of your dress as you shoved at his chest, stumbling backwards into the room.

“I fucking want you,” he slurred, lips grazing your jaw, voice ragged. “I want you so bad it’s fucking sick.”

“You always want me,” you whispered, giggling breathlessly as he kicked the door shut and you both tripped into the mattress like lunatics. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned you down into the bed, kissing you hard, messy, open-mouthed, teeth clashing, tongues tangling.

“I am obsessed with you,” he muttered against your mouth. “I think about you all year. Think about your moans, your thighs, your fucking cunt—”

“Jake—”

“I jerk off to the sound of your voice,” he hissed, already yanking your dress up over your hips. “To the memory of you riding me. You fuckin’ haunt me.”

You gasped when he tugged your panties down fast and rough, mouth hot on your throat. He didn’t even wait to undress himself properly, just unzipped, shoved his pants low, pushed your legs open and spat on your pussy like he couldn’t take it one second longer.

“You’re so wet,” he groaned. “Fuck, baby—this pussy missed me, didn’t it?”

He shoved into you in one brutal thrust, no teasing, no warning, just full length, all of him, thick and throbbing, slamming into your soaked heat like he was making up for lost time. And you screamed, legs wrapping around him as he rutted into you without rhythm, just hunger and need.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he panted. “You feel fucking insane. I’m gonna lose my fucking mind—”

His hands were under your ass, lifting you into every thrust, bed creaking under the pressure. His forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his temple.

“I’m gonna fuck you stupid,” he whispered. “Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own fucking name.”

“You already do,” you moaned, nails dragging down his back.

Jake slammed deeper, taking every inch of your insides, pussy walls clenching around himc swallowing him like you were made for him, the room spinning not just from the alcohol but from the heat.

“You want it rough tonight, huh? Want me drunk and desperate, just using this pretty pussy ‘til I can’t even move?”

“Yes—fuck”

“You’re mine,” he spat, gripping your face, thumb sliding into your mouth. “Say it.”

“I’m yours—” you whined around his thumb, eyes rolling back.

He cursed, pulled out halfway, then slammed in again so hard you gasped.

“Say it louder.”

“I’m fucking yours!”

The air was thick with sweat, your bodies slick and tangled, the whole room smelling like sex and tequila and the kind of hunger you don’t come back from.

It was routine, it was habit. It was everything you could ask for. Because Jake didn’t just fuck you, he worshipped your body. Every thrust said mine. Every kiss felt dangerous. Every time he came inside you, it felt less like sex and more like surrender. He knew you so well, knew exactly what to say, where to touch, which speed to use. No other man had ever satisfied you the way he did.

And lately, he looked at you like you were a secret. Like you meant something. His touches were softer, his kisses more tender. He laid on your back and trailed his fingetips in slow circles and hummed songs in your ear.

But it scared you. You knew things with Jake wouldn’t be easy. He lived here, he belonged here, away, moving through calm days and quiet nights. You were different.

You were a city girl, you went to college, went to parties, woke up hangover on your friend’s penthouses.

It would never work. And never seeing him again, that really scared you.

So you kept your feelings tucked behind your tongue, hidden in the back of your throat behind every moan. You kissed him hard and pulled his hair and begged for more, but you never said please don’t fall for me.

Because sometimes, you thought maybe he already had.

And sometimes you thought maybe you had too.

Those thoughts were still consuming you days later, one morning in Jake’s bed.

You could hear the birds outside. The fan humming above. His slow, steady breath against your collarbone. Jake was still tangled around you, warm and heavy, like he’d melted into your skin overnight. His leg between yours. His arm around your waist. His hand—God, his hand—resting just under your breast, like it belonged there.

You wanted to stay there forever. In that golden, sleepy silence. Where nothing had to be said. Where everything could still be just sex and tequila and tradition. Where the feelings hadn’t spilled out yet.

But then he spoke.

“I don’t think I can do this again another year,” he said softly, voice hoarse with sleep.

You blinked slowly. Your body stiffened, but only just.

“What?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“This. Us. Fucking for a month and then going back to acting like we don’t know each other the rest of the year.”

You lifted your head, your heart already thudding in your chest. Jake was looking at you. Hair messy, lips still kiss-bitten, eyes swollen with everything he hadn’t said until now.

“I know we said this was casual,” he continued. “I know that’s what you want. But it’s not casual for me anymore.”

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“I don’t want to wait eleven months to touch you again. I don’t want to only be yours in July. I want to wake up like this every day. I want to know what it feels like to take you out, not just sneak around.”

“Jake…”

“I want to know what it feels like to love you without pretending it’s just about sex.”

That word.

Love.

You sat up, pulling the sheet to your chest even though he’d seen every inch of you a thousand times. Even though he had your come drying on his stomach, your moans still in his mouth.

“Don’t say that, Jake” you said, voice suddenly cold.

“Why not?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Because this wasn’t supposed to be that. That’s not what we do.”

Jake sat up too, confused, bare chest rising and falling as he tried to read your face.

“You can say everything to me when my cock’s inside you,” he said, eyes narrowing. “But the second I say I want more, you run?”

“I’m not running.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been running since last summer. And the one before that.”

You stood from the bed, searching for your underwear like it was some kind of armor. The same scary thoughts in your head, the reality of it all hitting you.

“It’s not going to work, Jake. I told you since the beggining”

“No, you told me you didn’t want more.” He leaned forward, voice tighter now. “And I believed you. Until you started kissing me like I was the only thing keeping you breathing. Until you started holding me after like it meant something.”

You paused. Still facing the wall. Too afraid to look back.

“It’s safer this way,” you said quietly.

He laughed, bitter and humourless.

“Safer for you, maybe. But I’m the one who’s been waiting all year like a fucking idiot, hoping this time would be different.”

You turned to him finally, heart in your throat.

“I never asked you to wait.”

“No,” he said. “But you made it impossible not to.”

There was silence for a moment. And then Jake stood too. Naked, wrecked, still beautiful in the morning light. His eyes softer now. But sad. So fucking sad.

“I would’ve given you everything,” he said. “I still would.”

You didn’t answer.

You just grabbed your dress, your phone, and walked out of the room with tears in your eyes and his name like a stone in your throat.

The city felt bigger than usual.

You stood in the middle of your room in a t-shirt that wasn’t yours—his, oversized and worn-in, somehow ended up in your suitcase, probably from the night you threw up in his lap—sleeves pushed up to your elbows. It smelled faintly of saltwater and sweat and the faded remnants of Jake’s cologne, like a scent memory you were scared would disappear the second you washed it.

Your suitcase was still half-open on the floor. You hadn’t unpacked.

Outside, the city roared like it always did, sirens in the distance, someone yelling two blocks away, a motorcycle growling past, but all you could think about was the way the crickets used to sing by the lake. How the air back there tasted like bonfire and beer and warm skin. How the quiet meant something when it was wrapped around Jake’s voice and his breath on your neck in the dark.

You padded barefoot to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water with shaking hands, but your stomach felt like it was folding in on itself.

Everything was fine.

But then you opened your phone.

And scrolled.

And there he was.

Jake, half-naked on the dock, laughing with Ni-ki, holding a beer, dripping wet from the lake. Jake, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on your bare thigh, sunglasses low on his nose, smirking like he owned the world. Jake, leaning over you in the backseat after Sunoo’s pool party, whispering filth into your mouth while everyone else was drunk and distracted.

Your heart twisted, sharp and slow and sick.

You hadn’t seen him since that morning. Since you ripped yourself out of his sheets and out of his arms and walked away with your pride held like a shield across your chest.

He didn’t come to Sunghoon’s goodbye party, he didn’t come to the last movie night in Jungwon’s basement.

He didn’t text. He didn’t call. He didn’t even look at your story.

And you didn’t reach out.

And now, in the dim hush of your apartment, with the AC buzzing and your body wrapped in his old shirt, the weight of it crushed you.

You slid to the floor, back against the bedframe, phone in your lap, eyes burning.

Because you wanted to be the girl who could let go. The girl who could take the pleasure, take the heat, take the memory, and walk away untouched.

But this time you weren’t her.

This time, you wanted more.

You wanted mornings. You wanted winter. You wanted him.

But you were too scared to say it.

So now you sat in the silence you chose, surrounded by his ghost, with nothing left but a hundred memories that all smelled like sex and regret.

You hadn’t turned on the lights, letting the soft blue glow of the television flicker across the room, even though you weren’t really watching anything. Just letting sound fill the silence.

And then… A knock.

You blinked. Stilled. For a second, you thought maybe you imagined it.

Then it came again.

Three gentle raps against your apartment door.

Your heart flipped. Your chest tightened. You stood slowly, like moving too fast would make it disappear. And when you opened the door…

Jake was there.

In the hallway, under the soft yellow glow of the broken light overhead, hair messy, hoodie half-zipped, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something worse, like maybe he hadn’t slept in days. Like maybe he’d replayed that morning in his head a hundred times, and it still broke him every time.

“Hi,” he said softly.

You stopped breathing.

He looked… wrecked.

And beautiful. Standing in front of you like he had no idea what he was supposed to say now that he’d actually come.

“I didn’t know if you’d open the door,” he admitted, voice quiet.

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the door like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I almost didn’t.”

Jake let out a soft breath. Nodded. Then looked up at you, eyes shining a little too much.

“I had to see you, i booked the cheapest ticket” he said. “I couldn’t just let it end like that.”

You said nothing. Just looked at him, bare, faced and trembling, still holding the doorknob like it was a weapon.

He took a tiny step forward.

“I fucked up. I should’ve let you have your space. I should’ve waited. But I couldn’t. I’ve been losing my fucking mind thinking about you.”

“Jake…”

“No,” he said gently. “Let me say it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice thick now. Full with honesty and feelings.

“I meant everything I said. I meant it when I told you I wanted more. I meant it when I said I couldn’t keep doing this once-a-year bullshit. Because it’s not just summer to me anymore. It’s not just sex. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Your chest ached. He looked straight at you, no shields, no teasing smile, just a boy standing at the edge of something terrifying, begging you to take a step toward him.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, barely a whisper. “I think I’ve been in love with you my whole life, since the first time i fucked you. And I’ve just been waiting for you to catch up.”

You blinked fast, heart beating so loud it hurt.

“I didn’t know how to… I thought if I said it out loud it would ruin everything.”

He nodded.

“So did I.”

“But it didn’t,” you said, voice trembling. “It ruined everything not saying it.”

Jake gave the softest smile. Sad, but hopeful. Like he still wasn’t sure if you were going to slam the door or fall into his arms.

So you reached for him. You grabbed the front of his hoodie, pulled him inside, shut the door behind him. And when your mouth crashed into his, hot, desperate, full of all the things you hadn’t said, Jake knew.

You were his.

Not just in summer or just in bed.

Just completely his.

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (9) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael now live parallel lives—close in distance but distant as strangers. After a school field trip to the zoo, you get injured and are rushed to the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, straight to Michaels ER.

Word: 4971

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull), Bleeding from the ear, and Vomiting

Authors Note: Hello! Thank you for all the love on the last part. Lol I love seeing your guys comments and reactions. They crack me upppp. Couple more parts and this fic with come to a end🥲. Depending on season 2 maybe I'll write a spin off/Continuation of some sort 🤨??? or maybe I'll leave a good thing be. Idk this is all up in the air and just ideas. If I did continue it won't be until next year YIKES. Long way from now. But if you guys want it i'll prob do it lol very much a people pleaser 😭 also determined to finsihed eyes on me lol okay anyway. enjoy!!! - ryn

3 Months Later

Since that day—that morning where it ended—you and Michael had kept your distance. It wasn’t easy. Living across the hall meant you still saw each other constantly. You crossed paths in the elevator, passed in the lobby, caught glimpses through cracked doors. But it was different now. Cautious. Careful. The warmth was gone.

It was like reverting back to how things were in the beginning—only worse. Not acquaintances. Less than that. Strangers.

There were no more lingering glances, no more easy conversations or shared errands. No more moments where he helped you without being asked, like he just knew. Now it was all stiff nods and the occasional muttered “hey” or “hi,” as if everything between never happened or existed.

Your lives—once a single, tangled line—had split. Still running close, still crossing the same thresholds, but no longer connected. Now they moved in parallel. Close enough to feel, never close enough to touch.

You missed him. Not just being around him—but him. The version only you knew. The one who stayed late, who looked out for you, who let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

Now, it was like he barely looked your way. Just quick hellos, if that. And even those felt heavy.

Still, every time you saw him, you wondered if he missed you too.

And maybe—just maybe—you knew he missed you too.

But neither of you said a word.

Michael had been the first person to remind you what it felt like to be truly cared for. Losing that connection hurt deeply. But even without him, you were learning how to stand on your own. You are in a better place

After years stuck in a toxic, neglectful relationship with Aiden, you finally chose yourself. No more waiting to be seen or heard. You were rebuilding, piece by piece—stronger, quieter, more certain.

It was something Michael said the last time you saw him that stayed with you. His voice was calm but firm: “You need to figure yourself out. Really figure it out. What you want, what you feel… why you push people away when they treat you the way you deserve. Because if you don’t, you’re just going to keep hurting the people who care about you.”

Those words gave you the push you needed to walk away.

After breaking up with Aiden, the silence was deafening at first. No shouting, no blame, no empty promises—just quiet. And for once, that quiet felt like space you could breathe in, not suffocate.

You weren’t completely free yet. There were days when memories clawed at you, when loneliness crept in like a shadow. But with each morning you woke up without him, you felt a little stronger. A little more whole.

And Michael? Seeing him after everything—it wasn’t easy. There was a tension, a distance between you that hadn’t been there before. You still felt guilty for how things ended with him. But beneath it all, you knew one thing: his words had helped you find yourself again. Even if your connection had changed, that truth remained.

—

This morning, you had left your apartments at the same time, walking side by side in silence. No words. No eye contact. Just the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway—too close, too quiet.

He let you step into the elevator first, then slipped into his usual corner—like always. The space between you felt heavier than it should’ve in such a small box.

And every time you rode the elevator with him now, your mind drifted back to that morning. The one where everything shifted. The one where he had looked at you like he couldn’t wait another second. Where his hands trembled on your skin and nothing else existed. That morning where—for a moment—you both stopped pretending.

Now, you only pretended. Pretended not to miss it. Pretended not to look at him out of the corner of your eye. Pretended he wasn’t right there, close enough to touch, but choosing not to.

Then, suddenly—you don’t know why—you turned your head and glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, a small, uncertain smile on your lips.

Michael stood there, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, AirPods in. He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Normally, he’d say hello—or at least acknowledge you—but today wasn’t one of those days.

Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

But he had.

Because the truth was, he missed you. Every time he saw you, felt your presence so close yet unreachable, it tore at something inside him.

But talking—to break the silence—meant opening a door he wasn’t sure he could close. It meant risking everything he’d been trying to hold together.

The silence in that elevator was suffocating.

The doors slid open.

You stepped out first, heart pounding, words caught in your throat. By the time the two of you made it through the lobby and out to the street, you found yourself saying, “Have a good day.”

Still, he ignored you.

Without a word, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.

—--

It had been a good day.

There was a field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, and the fifth graders had been buzzing with excitement since they got off the bus. They darted from exhibit to exhibit in loose clusters, calling out animal facts they half-remembered from class, pointing at the gorillas, giggling at the flamingos, and dramatically gagging when they passed smelly enclosures. 

You smiled through the chaos, constantly scanning the crowd, reminding them to walk—not run—while answering a steady stream of “Can we go there next?” and “Do we have to stay with our buddy?”

By the time the group began gathering near the exit to prepare for departure, the kids were hot, tired, and still somehow full of energy—trading animal facts, snacks, and complaints about the long walk back to the bus.

You turned to check on one of your students—and your foot caught on a backpack left sprawled across the pavement.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself.

You went down hard.

Your head hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Everything went black for a moment.

You passed out for a few minutes before slowly waking up. When your eyes opened, your other 5th grade teachers and your students gathered around you, worried. 

A sharp pain pulsed through your head. When you touched the side of your face, your fingers came away wet—your ear was bleeding.

You tried to sit up, but your body felt heavy and unsteady. Panic flickered in your chest.

“Are you okay, Miss?” a student asked, voice trembling.

You forced a small, shaky smile. “I’ll be okay,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure.

One of the teachers noticed the blood coming from your ear when you touched it. They knew something was wrong—you needed to get to the hospital.

You tried to protest, insisting you were fine, but the other teachers wouldn’t hear it. Their concern was firm—they knew you needed medical attention. They called an ambulance, and took care of your kids as you headed to the hospital.

“Okay, we’re headed to PTMC,” the driver said to his partner in the back with you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. No. You didn’t want to go there. Michael worked there.

“What? N-no, can’t you take me to Allegheny?” you asked, your voice shaking as you glanced up at the paramedic trying to stem the bleeding from your ear.

“Miss, PTMC is closer. Allegheny is too far,” the paramedic replied, his tone calm but unyielding.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit you hard. Before you could stop it, you threw up—your body reacting to the pain and shock.

The paramedics quickly handed you a bag, their expressions gentle but focused. Your head throbbed fiercely, and the thought of seeing Michael at PTMC made the room feel even more overwhelming.

You swallowed hard, gripping the stretcher tightly as the ambulance doors shut and the vehicle started moving. Outside, the world blurred past the windows, but inside, your mind spun with pain, fear, and an ache far deeper than the injury itself.

—-

It was busy in the ER today—loud, chaotic, the usual blur of motion and noise. Monitors beeped steadily in the background, gurneys rolled down hallways, voices called out orders and vitals in clipped tones. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the sharper tang of adrenaline and urgency.

Michael worked hard and efficiently, his hands steady and his voice calm as he checked charts, issued instructions, and answered questions. Every task was precise and practiced. But despite his focused exterior, his heart wasn’t fully in it today. Beneath the surface, his mind drifted elsewhere.

For some reason, you were heavy on his mind—ever since he saw you that morning in the elevator. Though he went about his work with his usual efficiency, every time he glanced up or caught a quiet moment, his thoughts slipped back to you. That brief encounter stirred something beneath his calm exterior, making it harder than usual to focus.

Even as he moved through the chaos of the ER, you lingered in the corners of his mind—a quiet weight he couldn’t shake. Each task felt automatic, mechanical, like he was running on autopilot 

At the nurses’ station, Dana glanced toward Michael as he passed by, pausing briefly. His eyes scanned the triage monitor for a moment before he continued on his rounds.

“What’s his vibe today?” Dana asked, peering over the top of her glasses as she flipped through a stack of charts.

Jack didn’t look up from the computer. “Full-on rain cloud.”

Dana let out a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Jack finally glanced up. “Yeah. Barely talking. Just doing his rounds like a ghost.”

Dana frowned slightly. She hadn’t had a real catch-up with Robby in a while.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything beyond patient loads and charts in weeks,” she murmured.

Jack leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. He’s been keeping things tight. You can tell he’s holding something in… and it’s not just stress.”

Dana sighed, looking up from the computer. “It’s been—what? Three months since they stopped talking?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, watching Michael enter an exam room. “He’s doing okay. Better than a few months ago, for sure. But I think today’s one of those days where he’s really missing her.”

Jack added quietly, “It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He’s always been good at hiding what’s really going on.”

Dana didn’t respond right away, distracted by the faint sound of sirens growing louder in the distance.

“Looks like a bus just pulled up,” she said, glancing toward the ambulance bay.

Jack turned, following her line of sight. Through the glass doors, he spotted the rig backing in, its lights still flashing. The paramedics moved quickly, unloading a gurney from the back, getting ready to wheel someone inside.

“I got it,” he said, already moving toward the doors.

“Alright, what do we got?” 

Jack reached the stretcher as the paramedic began briefing him. 

“Mid-20s female, teacher on a zoo field trip. She tripped over a backpack and hit her head on the pavement. She lost consciousness briefly after the fall. There’s blood coming from her ear. She vomited on the way here and reported dizziness and nausea and is currently somewhat disoriented.”

“Exam Room 13’s open!” Dana called out as she overheard part of the paramedics’ briefing.

The gurney rolled past the nurses’ station in a blur of motion—wheels rattling, footsteps fast. Dana glanced up from her charts and files to get a quick look at the incoming patient… and froze.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickering across her face as she stood up straighter, instinctively stepping out onto the floor. Her heart skipped. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

It was you.

You looked pale, out of it—a plastic bag clutched in your hand, vomit on your shirt, and a smear of dried blood trailing from your ear. But it was unmistakably you.

The same woman she’d seen, playing around with Michael in aisle 9 of the grocery store fighting over cookies. 

Jack was already directing the paramedics to Exam Room 13, calling for trauma supplies as he moved alongside the gurney.

Dana stood abruptly, eyes darting around the ER. Looking for Michael.

Shit. Where’s Robby? Which wing did he go? She thought.

“Jack!” she called, rushing after him. She fell into step beside him as they wheeled you. 

“What?” he asked, not slowing.

“It’s her!” she hissed, voice low but urgent.

“Who?”

“The friend-neighbor-almost-something-—her,” Dana said, eyes wide. “Robby’s girl.”

Dana watched as Jack’s head whipped to face her. His expression shifts—from confusion to clarity, then to something dangerously close to dread.

Jack stopped short, turning just in time to see the gurney disappear into Exam Room 13. His expression changed instantly.

He looks at Dana again “That was her? Are you sure?” 

“Yes!”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“What do we do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “We need to tell him.”

Dana’s brows knit. “Are you sure? After everything… you know how torn up he was…well still is” she trailed off, uncertain. “I mean, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “He still cares about her, still feels things for her. You know he does.”

Dana hesitated, lips pressed into a line.

“He’s not over her, Dana. Not even close. No matter how messy the fallout was, he’d want to know. And if he finds out she was here and we kept it from him…”

“He’d never forgive us,” Dana finished, already nodding.

Jack’s jaw was tight. “Exactly.”

“Look I’ll take care of her, find him as soon as you can and tell him. Okay?” 

“Alright” they quickly went off in different directions. 

—

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead felt like too much—too bright, too sharp—cutting through the fog in your skull. Your stomach churned again, sour and unsettled. You’d already thrown up in the ambulance, the evidence smeared across your shirt, and the nausea still clung to you, heavy and unrelenting. It was like your body couldn’t decide if it was in pain or panic.

The nurse—Princess, according to her badge—helped you onto the exam table from the gurney, guiding you gently as you sat down.

“Let’s get you settled,” she said calmly.

You nodded, though the movement made your head throb and your stomach turn.

Princess moved with calm precision, wrapping a cuff around your arm to check your blood pressure and attaching monitors to track your vitals. She was already prepping the IV, her hands steady, practiced.

“Pressure’s a little low,” she murmured, mostly to herself, then offered you a small, reassuring smile.

You closed your eyes as the needle slid into your arm, trying to focus on her calm voice instead of the pounding in your head.

She grabbed a damp cloth and gently began wiping the vomit from your shirt, doing the best she could to clean you up while keeping you comfortable.

“You’re doing okay,” she said softly. “Just stay with me.”

Princess noticed the shift in your expression—the way your face paled. Without a word, she grabbed a plastic basin and placed it gently in your lap.

“Just in case,” she said softly.

A moment later, the door opened and a man stepped in, wearing navy scrubs and a calm, focused expression.

“I’m Dr. Jack Abbot,” he said as he approached. “I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Jack

The name stood out. Michael’s friend—he’d mentioned him a couple of times. Quick stories, casual references. You never met him, but the name stuck.

Now here he was, standing in front of you. And suddenly, it all felt just a little more real.

To Jack, you were more than just another patient. You were her—the neighbor, the teacher, the one Michael couldn’t stop thinking about. The one who shattered him.

He was torn. Part of him wanted to resent you. Another part couldn’t help but feel sorry—for both you and Michael. It hurt watching Michael suffer in silence, burying his feelings under layers of composure. But there was sadness for you too—because Jack knew you were still clinging to something broken. A relationship that should’ve ended long ago.

But none of that mattered now. He needed to take care of you—not only because it was his job, but for Michael. 

You and Jack locked eyes. Neither of you spoke, but something passed between you—an unspoken recognition. You both knew each other through Michael, even if you’d never met before. And in that silence, there was a quiet acknowledgment of everything that wasn’t being said.

“Let’s get you checked out,” he said gently.

“Can you tell me what happened?” He pulled on a pair of gloves and waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts.

“I tripped over a student’s backpack. I fell… hit my head on the side,” you said, your voice a little shaky.

Princess, at the computer nearby, typed quickly, capturing every detail.

“You passed out? For how long?”

“I don’t know. No more than 5 minutes?”

“And you feel nauseous?” Jack takes notice of the dried blood from your ear. 

“Yes” He brought his hands up, feeling your head, and then he felt it. A squishy part on the side of your head. 

Shit. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed as he gently pressed around the swollen area, careful not to cause more pain. His mind raced—without a CT scan, he knew the injury was serious. How severe, though, remained uncertain.

“Okay, stay still for me,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get a CT scan to find out exactly what we’re dealing with.” He says to the Princess, but also to you.

You nodded, swallowing hard, the dizziness and nausea pressing harder with every breath.

Princess looked up from her computer. “I’m alerting neurology and radiology now.”

Jack forced a steady breath, trying to stay composed though inside, worry tightened its grip.

Your stomach lurched, and you vomited into the plastic basin Princess had handed you earlier. Jack stepped back slightly, giving you room but keeping his eyes locked on you, watching for any sign of worsening condition.

Princess moved quickly to help, she handed you a clean towel and quietly assured you as you wiped your face.

Princess stepped over, grabbing a pair of gloves and a warm saline wipe.

You flinched as she dabbed gently at the dried blood near your ear, trying not to let it sting. 

“Sorry,” Princess murmured, careful and quiet.

Jack watched closely but because the signs were impossible to ignore. The dried blood near your ear, the squishy spot on the scalp, the nausea and dizziness—they all pointed to something serious. Possibly a skull fracture.

Until the scan came back, there wasn’t much he could confirm. But in his gut, he already knew this wasn’t minor.

He reached for a chart from the counter, flipping it open and beginning to write. His pen scratched quickly across the paper, but he kept looking up every few seconds—checking your breathing, your pallor, the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Princess adjusted the bed slightly, propping it up so you could sit comfortably. She hands you a new plastic basin. She takes the used wipes and throws it in the trash along with her gloves and goes to wash her hands. 

You glanced at him, searching. “Did… did Michael send you?”

Princess moved to gather the extra materials they hadn’t used, placing them neatly on the supply rack. Her movements were quiet, efficient, but her attention never strayed far. She listens closely. 

Jack shook his head. “No. Robby doesn’t know you’re here… at least not yet.”

At that, Princess froze for just a moment. She didn’t know the full story, but it was clear you and Michael were connected. Her eyes flicked to Jack, widening slightly. A silent exchange passed between them—brief, but unmistakable.

Jack sighed inwardly. He knew exactly what she was thinking—the bet she and several other staff had made a few weeks ago at the bar about Michael having a girlfriend. Now was not the time.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, silently warning: Don’t even think about it. He shook his head slightly.

You hadn’t noticed the exchange. Your eyes closed, feeling dizzy, your head throbbing. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “That’s the last thing I want.”

Princess gave an innocent, almost playful raise of her eyebrows, but beneath it was something calculating. She grabbed a chart out of Jack's hands and scurried out of the room, leaving a faint echo of footsteps behind her.

Jack remained still, watching her retreat. His jaw tightened, mouth pressed into a hard line. In the ER, whispers traveled faster than code blue alarms—money and rumors would be swirling in less than a few minutes. 

Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief second. He’ll deal with it later he tells himslef.

Jack leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you—pale, clearly worn down.

You swallowed hard, the dizziness still buzzing faintly at the edges of your mind.

“I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

“He’ll know,” Jack said quietly, his voice flat with certainty. “He’ll come rushing in here once he finds out—I guarantee it.”

“He likes you—a lot, cares for you deeply” he said, matter-of-fact, like it was the plainest truth in the world. “I’ve seen him talk about people before—patients, colleagues, even exes. But never like this.”

Your eyes flicked open. Jack wasn’t looking at you anymore.

You didn’t interrupt. His words caught you off guard—soft but heavy.

“With you… it’s different,” Jack said. “He’s not the guy who makes big declarations. But his actions? Loud as hell.”

He stepped closer, eyes searching yours—not confrontational, just honest.

“That day—after everything fell apart—he barely said a word.”

Jack’s voice dropped. “He didn’t say much. But I’ve known him long enough to read between the lines. Michael’s the silent type. Shove it down, suffer alone. That’s always been his way. He doesn’t fall easily. And he sure as hell doesn’t bounce back quickly.”

And didn’t you know it—you ruined what you two had. You looked down at your hands.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said.

Jack finally met your eyes. There wasn’t anger—just a tired kind of clarity. “Maybe not. But it still happened.”

There was no heat in his voice. No judgment. Just the truth.

“He’ll handle it. He always does.”

He backed toward the door.

“My instinct is to tell you to continue stay away from him... keep the distance. To protect him.”

A beat.

“But even with all that… there’s a part of me that still hopes it works out between you two.”

He held your gaze.

“If there’s even a small chance you feel the same—don’t waste it.”

Then, firm again, “But don’t show up in his orbit unless you’re sure.”

“I’ll be back to get you for the CT scan. If you need anything, press the call button.”

And with that, he was gone.

—

Dana had spent the last several minutes searching—looking for Michael. The constant rush of the ER had kept her moving nonstop, priorities shifting by the second as new cases rolled in. Between the noise, the pages, and the demands of back-to-back emergencies, she hadn’t had a spare moment—until now. Finally able to look, she peeked into each exam room as she passed, also scanning for Michael.

Finally, she spotted him. 

Standing in the doorway, she called out, “Dr. Robby?”

Michael was looking up from the chart he was filling out while Victoria Javadi, the med student currently shadowing him, checked the patient under his supervision.

“Can… I talk to you outside?”

Michael glanced at her, then back at Javadi.

“Hold it down here. I’ll be right back,” he said, giving her a nod before stepping out into the ER floor with Dana.

“What’s up?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest.

Dana swallowed. “Robby, she’s here. Exam Room 13.”

“Who’s here?” His brow furrowed, clearly not understanding.

“She’s here,” Dana said again, slower this time, her eyes locking onto him.

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

You’re here.

“W–what?” he said, hard and sharp, disbelief cutting through his voice.

“The bus pulled in a while ago-"

“How long ago?!” His voice rose, sharp.

“Half an hour—she hit her head. Took a fall during the field trip—”

Michael’s heart skipped, then kicked into overdrive. He didn’t wait for the rest.

He turned on his heel and bolted, weaving through the ER, past gurneys, staff, and startled patients.

He barely registered people calling his name.

Didn’t care about the chart he’d left behind, the patient waiting for him at 7 with Victoria, or the conversation he’d been having seconds ago.

All he could hear was Dana’s voice echoing in his head.

She hit her head.

His hands were already trembling. Thoughts circled like vultures—loud, fast, frantic. He didn’t know how bad it was. Was it minor? Maybe. But probably not—Not if the ambulance brought her in.

And then another thought struck—hard and bitter.

He’d ignored you this morning.

You’d smiled at him. Said, “Good morning.” Told him to have a good day.

And he hadn’t said anything back.

He’d brushed past you like you didn’t matter. And now—now this.

His chest felt tight. His feet moved faster.

Room 13. Room 13. Room 13.

Nothing else mattered. Not now.

Because you were here.

And you were hurt.

 He rounded the corner too fast, nearly slipped—caught himself—nearly crashing into Jack as he stepped out of Exam Room 13.

“WOAH!” Jack exclaimed, throwing an arm out to steady them both.

“Robby—”

“I gotta get to her—I” Michael said breathlessly, trying to push past him.

Jack grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. “Stop, she’s gone.”

Robby froze. His heart plummeted, eyes going wide as the blood drained from his face. He couldn’t breathe—he just stood there, stunned, like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

Jack’s eyes widened as he realized. “Oh—shit—no! Gone as in, not in the room! I took her to her CT scan!”

Michael’s breath shuddered out of him. He stumbled back a step, dragging a hand down his face.

“FUCK, Abbot!” he snapped, voice hoarse. “Next time, maybe lead with that!!!”

Jack winced, “Yeah. Okay. Fair. Sorry!” He says quickly.

Michael looked like he was about to break. Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his elbow and pulled him inside your exam room, closing the door behind them.

Jack softened. “You want to sit for a second?”

Michael shook his head, jaw tight. “No. Just… give me a minute.”

His chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He turned away from Jack and leaned heavily against the wall, one hand braced flat against it while the other gripped his thigh. For a long moment, he stayed like that—bent slightly at the waist, eyes squeezed shut—trying to catch his breath and slow his racing heart.

Then, with a trembling hand, he reached under his scrub top and T-shirt and pulled out the gold Star of David necklace he always wore—small, worn, and mostly hidden. He rubbed it between his fingers, clutching it tight in his calloused palm like a lifeline.

With his eyes still closed, he drew in a shaky breath, as if trying to summon strength from somewhere deep inside—something steady, unyielding.

Jack said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just watched, quiet and still, letting Michael have the space to come back to himself.

Michael straightened slowly, collecting himself.

“She’s okay?” Michael finally forced out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s conscious. Talking. But I’m pretty sure she has a skull fracture—I just don’t know how severe yet. We’re gonna have ro wait on the CT to tell us more.”

Michael’s face went pale. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Jack softened his tone. “Listen, Robby… I know this sucks. It’s scary, but you’re not alone here. We’re doing everything we can, as fast as we can. She’s tough, and she’s got the best care possible.”

He paused, then added, “It’s us. This team, this hospital—we make it work. You know that. You’ve been part of holding it together more times than I can count.”

Michael’s jaw twitched, but his eyes flicked up—just for a second—as Jack continued.

“She’s in good hands. Our hands.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” But there was no real conviction in his voice. 

Jack glanced at Michael, his expression firm but not unkind.

“There’s nothing you can do right now, Robby,” he said quietly. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but it’s the truth.”

Michael’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw still tight, hands flexing at his sides.

Jack’s voice softened. “And as much as I hate to say it… you’ve got to pull it together and do your job. For now. Until she comes back from CT. We’ll know more soon.”

Michael closed his eyes for a beat, breathing through the heaviness in his chest. Then he nodded—barely.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Jack glanced around. “It’s busy today. You know how it is—we’ve got to stay on top of everything, keep things moving.”

Michael knew Jack was right. As much as it tore at him, there was nothing more he could do right now.

So he did the only thing he could—he took a deep breath, straightened his spine, and began to shift the panic into focus. Into control.

He would see you when you came back from CT. Until then, he’d do his job. Just like he always had.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy @steviebbboi @alliegc28 @catmomstyles3 @ardentistella @madprincessinabox @circumspectre @the-one-with-the-grey-color @thatchickwiththecamera @violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin @galmorizethechaos @capj-1437 @airgoddess @nah2991 @interestellarprincess @laurensfilm @peachjellyy @aj3684 @sorryimstupidrn @escapingjune

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: Auto shop teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: You’re just trying to pass your final elective. He’s the instructor who doesn’t say much—but sees everything.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Slow burn. Tension. Rough hands. Fully clothed grinding. Praise kink. Light degradation (mocking). Desperation. Size kink. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. Creampie. CAR SMUUUUT

Word count: 7.8k

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You don’t mean to be late.

You were up before sunrise. Had your coffee. Even got to campus early enough to scroll on your phone in the parking lot for a minute, thinking you had it handled. But then you wandered straight into industrial hell—half a dozen identical doors, metal walls, concrete floors, zero signs. You passed the same auto bay twice before it hit you: you were completely turned around.

By the time you find the right garage, your heart’s pounding, breath hot and tight inside your hoodie, and your palms are sweating like you’re about to take an exam instead of change a tire.

Not exactly how you pictured starting your final semester.

After years of grinding through labs and clinicals and late-night study sessions, all that’s left is one elective. Just one. You waited too long to register and ended up with whatever had space—Intro to Automotive Systems. Your advisor called it “hands-on” and “practical,” which you’re now realizing was code for grimy, loud, and probably full of dudes who think power steering is a personality.

Still. You didn’t think it’d feel like a trap.

The second you shoulder open the garage door, everything stops.

Voices. Movement. Even the air seems to still, thick with heat and oil and whatever tension you just dragged in with you. The room’s huge and bright, all fluorescent lights and slick concrete, a silver car lifted on the central platform like it’s waiting for judgment.

A half-circle of students is already gathered near it. Every single one turns to look at you.

But your eyes don’t land on them.

They land on him.

He’s standing at the center. Arms crossed. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—tan skin, thick wrists, a smear of grease at the edge of one hand. No clipboard. No smile. Just a hard jaw, a scowl deep enough to cut through steel, and a pair of eyes that say you’re late, you’re a problem, and he’s already tired of your shit.

Welcome to class.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you—long enough to make your stomach twist. Like he’s daring you to speak. Like he’s already counting the seconds you’ve wasted.

Then finally, he says—voice low, rough, like it’s been dragged through sandpaper:

“You show up at my door late again… don’t bother walkin’ in.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t trying to make a scene. You weren’t trying to be that student. But your voice still comes out quieter than you mean it to—reflexive, not confident.

“I’m sorry. I got turned around. There weren’t any signs—“

“This was your one and only chance,” he cuts in, fast. Flat. “Don’t waste it.”

No shouting. No venom. Just final. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be repeated.

And just like that, he turns away. Dismisses you like the conversation never even happened.

“We’re starting with fool orientation,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Gloves stay on. Phones stay away. If you’re lookin’ to coast through this course, I suggest you drop now. Saves me the trouble later.”

Someone in the back snorts. A quiet laugh. Probably meant to take the edge off.

It doesn’t help.

Your face is hot. Neck flushed. Embarrassment crawling just under your skin—but it’s not just that. Not entirely.

You slide your bag off your shoulder and take your place at the edge of the group, jaw tight, lungs pulling in air like it might settle something inside you.

He didn’t just reprimand you.

He sized you up. Labeled you.

And even with his back turned, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades—like he’s still watching.

Like he doesn’t trust you not to crack.

***

Joel moves through the instructions like he’s done it a thousand times.

Voice low. Direct. Nothing extra.

He points out the lift controls. Walks the group through the eyewash station. Taps the emergency stop switch like it’s muscle memory. No jokes. No icebreakers. Just business.

You follow along the best you can—pen moving before you even think about what you’re writing. But there’s still that knot in your chest, that lingering flush from earlier. It tightens every time he glances your way. Even briefly.

You shouldn’t care. You know that.

But something about the way he moves—calm, solid, purposeful—paired with that voice, all grit and weight like it’s been lived in for years… it’s hard not to notice.

Especially when he steps back from the lift and says, “Alright. Time to get your hands dirty.”

The energy in the room shifts. A few students straighten up.

“You’re each gonna need a basic set of tools to start,” he says, reaching toward a dented red box on a rusted metal cart. He taps the lid once, like he’s knocking on it for effect. “Socket wrench. Flathead and Phillips screwdrivers. Pliers. Oil filter wrench. Torque wrench, if there’s any left. Don’t just grab whatever’s shiny—check for damage.”

He pauses, scanning the group. His gaze drags across you for half a second—barely long enough to hold—but you feel it anyway.

“They’re all labeled. Organized. Color-coded by station. Figure it out.”

Then he leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’ve got five minutes.”

The group scatters, peeling off toward the bins at the back of the shop. Rows of toolboxes sit cracked open on a long shelf beneath a hanging board covered in outlines—wrench sets, ratchets, socket keys. Some of the students move fast, already talking brands, comparing grips like they’ve done this before. Confident. Loud.

You hang back.

Not because you’re avoiding it. You just… don’t know where to start.

The names on the board blur a little, and while you could probably ID a wrench in a lineup, nothing here is labeled clearly. You scan the outlines, searching for something familiar, but it all blends together—metal stacked on metal. Socket sizes. Jaw shapes. Handle styles.

You crouch beside one of the bins and pick up a tool at random. It’s heavy, rubber grip, open-jawed. You try to match it to one of the silhouettes on the board, hoping you don’t look as lost as you feel.

Behind you, someone laughs.

It’s sharp. Mean.

You hear it before you even register where it came from. A guy three bins down—gelled hair, backwards hat tucked under his goggles, already elbowing his buddy like you’re the joke of the day.

“Jesus. She doesn’t even know what a socket wrench looks like.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

You clench the tool tighter and start to put it back, already reaching for something else—anything else—when another voice cuts across the room.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice doesn’t rise.

It doesn’t have to.

Everything stops. Every head turns.

He pushes off the wall, slow and steady, boots echoing over the concrete as he walks toward the kid who laughed. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something colder now. Tighter.

“Didn’t hear you volunteer to teach the class,” he says.

The guy straightens fast. “No, I—I was just—”

“Then shut your mouth. Pack your shit. Get out.”

“What?”

“You don’t laugh at anyone in my shop,” Joel says. “Don’t care if it’s their first day or their fiftieth. This is an intro class for a reason.”

Silence. Heavy and dead still.

The guy doesn’t move at first. Then he mutters something under his breath and storms out. His friend stays rooted to the floor.

Joel doesn’t watch him leave. He just turns slightly, eyes landing on you again.

You’re still crouched beside the bin. One hand braced against the edge, the other curled too tight around the tool in your grip. Your cheeks burn. Jaw locked. Shame mixes with heat and something else you don’t have a name for—something sharp and twisted that settles low in your gut.

Joel steps closer.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t crouch beside you. Just looks down and nods toward your hand.

“That’s a spark plug socket. You’ll need it later, but not right now.”

You glance up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. But not kind. Just… knowing.

“No. But if I don’t show you what’s what, I’ll end up watchin’ you use the wrong damn tool and blow your wrist out tryin’ to muscle it.”

You open your hand and let the socket rest in your palm.

Joel leans in—not close, but close enough that you catch the scent of him. Oil. Leather. Sweat layered under something sharp and clean. Like he doesn’t wear cologne, but still smells like something solid. Something lived-in.

He plucks the socket from your hand and trades it for another tool. It’s heavier. Shorter.

“This is your standard socket wrench. You’ll use it more than anything else in here. Start with quarter-inch heads—they’ll be in the red tray. Grab a set. Then flathead, Phillips, pliers. The rest you’ll learn as we go.”

You nod. Your fingers wrap around the wrench.

His voice softens. Barely.

“Don’t let anyone in here make you feel like you don’t belong. You showed up. That’s more than I can say for half of ‘em.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Joel straightens and turns without another word. The moment breaks as fast as it formed. He’s already moving across the floor again, barking something about PPE violations at the next station over.

But your hands still feel warm.

And the weight of the wrench?

Still nothing compared to the way he lingered.

***

The energy shifts again once Joel finishes the walkthrough.

He nods toward the back corner of the shop where a row of stripped-down sedans sits idle on concrete risers. Rusted tires. Mismatched panels. None of them road-ready—just teaching frames salvaged from junkyards and outfitted for beginners. Oversized bolts. Pre-loosened lug nuts. The kind of setup that won’t break your wrist if you screw it up.

“All right,” Joel says, grabbing a clipboard from the wall behind him. “Pick a bay. You’re gonna remove and reinstall a front tire. Nothing fancy. Just enough to prove you can ID your tools and not bleed all over my floor.”

A few students laugh. You don’t.

“Torque wrench. Breaker bar. Jack. Safety stand,” he continues, voice steady. “I catch anyone jackin’ without a stand or forgettin’ to re-torque—grade drops to zero. Don’t care how long you think you’ve been doing this.”

You catch the echo of his words from earlier.

This is an intro class for a reason.

You take an open bay near the tool shelf. Still not entirely sure what half the items on your checklist do, but you recognize most by sight now. Wrench. Jack. Gloves. The basics. You collect them quietly, stacking them into your arms one at a time. Even remember the safety stand, tucked under a cart near the wall.

The others pair up fast. Groups of two or three, some already laughing like this is just another lab credit. One girl from the front of the group drags her friend to a far bay and avoids looking at Joel completely.

You think about teaming up too—just to play it safe—but then decide against it.

It feels better to figure it out on your own.

The tire’s already mounted when you approach. You kneel beside it, gloves pulled snug, tools laid out beside you in a clean, methodical line. The torque wrench is heavy in your hand but balanced. You check it. Adjust.

Then you start.

Cap off. Lug nuts next.

You brace your knee against the sidewall and lean into the breaker bar. The resistance is sharp—metal groaning as it holds—but then it breaks loose with a loud click. The first nut comes free. You let out a breath. Keep going. Remember his instructions. Cross-pattern. Counter-clockwise. Don’t unscrew them all at once or the wheel shifts.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him walk up.

But you feel him.

That same prickle at the back of your neck. Like gravity’s shifted just slightly. Like the air changed.

You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s five feet behind you. Arms crossed.

Watching.

He doesn’t speak. You turn back to your work.

Second nut. Third. You move the bar to the upper right lug and brace again—but the angle’s wrong. Socket slips. Your elbow jerks, balance tipping.

He’s already there.

“You’re losing your angle,” he says. Voice low. Close.

You don’t look up. “I noticed.”

“Breaker bar’s too high. You’re not getting enough leverage like that.” A pause. “You left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then flip sides. You’re working against yourself.”

You shift without answering. Try not to let it show—that his presence is getting under your skin. That it feels like something.

You reset. The bar clicks again, clean this time. The next bolt pops free.

Joel’s voice softens. Not much. Just enough to feel it.

“Not bad.”

You don’t thank him. Just nod once. Move on.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays there. Silent. Watching.

Long enough that the heat creeps up your spine again. The tension presses into your ribs. Not embarrassment. Not nerves. Something else.

Something heavier.

Then—quietly—he says, “Careful with the jack.”

And walks away.

You sit back on your heels, hands braced on your thighs. Your pulse is faster than it should be. You tell yourself it’s just the task. The tools. The pressure.

But the truth sits somewhere else.

Low. Hot.

In the way he said it.

***

Most of the class clears out by the hour mark.

A few students finish early and leave without waiting for Joel’s dismissal. Others hang back just long enough to log their tool returns before slipping out, voices echoing down the hallway outside the shop.

You pack slower than the rest. Not on purpose. You’re not trying to stand out. You just… aren’t done.

The tire’s off. That part you managed. But getting it back on—lining it up, tightening it right, hitting the torque—none of it feels solid yet. There was an uneven pull the first time. A shift. The way the wheel tilted before it caught. If this were a real car, a real road, you wouldn’t trust it to hold.

So you run through the steps again. Slower. More focused. You check the pattern, check the pressure. Try to feel the torque instead of guessing at it.

It’s only after a long stretch of silence that you realize you’re not alone.

You glance over your shoulder.

Joel’s still at the tool bench. Arms braced on the edge, gaze fixed on you beneath furrowed brows. The rest of the shop is empty. Quiet. Just you, him, and the soft clink of metal on metal as you tighten the last bolt.

“You planning on stayin’ all night?” he asks. Voice low. Not sharp.

You straighten, wiping your gloved hands on your thighs.

“I didn’t think I got it right,” you say. “So I wanted to try again.”

He watches you for a beat, then pushes off the bench and starts toward you. His steps are steady, deliberate. Boots scuff softly across the floor. His eyes flick to the tire, then down to the tools beside you.

“This won’t count for extra credit,” he says when he stops. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“It’s not,” you reply. “I just want to understand it. That’s all.”

Your voice stays even. You don’t look away.

Joel’s gaze narrows—not annoyed, not skeptical. Just thoughtful. Like he’s measuring something quieter than your form. Something in you.

He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t correct your grip. Doesn’t hover.

He just steps back. Folds his arms. Watches.

You move through the steps again. Lifting. Aligning. Bracing your knee where it should be. This time, the breaker bar holds. The bolts glide on smoother. The torque clicks clean beneath your hands.

When you’re done, you ease back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your glove.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then—he nods. Once. Solid.

“Good job,” he says. “You got it.”

You breathe in slow. Try not to let it show how deep the words hit.

He starts to turn. Pauses halfway.

“Be ready for next class,” he says. “It’s not gettin’ easier from here.”

“I’ll be ready,” you answer.

He nods again. Then heads for the front, where the office light flickers on as he disappears through the doorway.

You stay behind, alone in the quiet clatter of cooling metal. The scent of oil still clings to your sleeves.

You don’t know why it matters so much that he saw you try.

But it does.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

It’s been three weeks since your first day in Joel Miller’s automotive class.

The nerves you walked in with—late, flustered, still figuring out where the hell you were going—have settled. You know your tools now. You understand the systems. You’ve taken apart and reassembled a brake caliper more times than you can count, and you’re no longer shy about getting elbow-deep in grease if it means understanding what you’re doing.

Joel hasn’t praised you much. Not directly.

But he doesn’t hover anymore. Not like he did in those first few days—correcting your grip, adjusting your stance, warning you like one wrong move would blow the place sky-high.

Now, he just… watches.

Quiet. Steady. From the far end of the shop, or from the corner of your station, arms folded, eyes always tracking. Sometimes you stay late after class—finishing up a task, reviewing something that didn’t sit right—and he never tells you to go. Never says stay, either.

He just keeps the door unlocked.

Stays nearby.

Steps in when it matters.

Today is one of those days.

The classroom is buzzing as he breaks the students into small work groups, assigning everyone a different section of a half-disassembled Toyota Corolla. You end up on the driver’s side, cross-legged on the concrete, halfway through replacing a stripped bolt near the caliper bracket. Your sleeves are rolled. Your gloves are streaked with grime. The socket wrench is wedged in place, angled just right.

You’re focused. Dialed in. Until a voice cuts in behind you.

“Hey,” someone says. “You’re tightening that backwards.”

You glance up, blinking sweat from your brow.

It’s him again—Kyle, maybe Kaden—one of the loud ones who always talks more than he works. He crouches beside you, close enough for his knee to knock against your arm, and gestures toward your wrench with a smirk like he’s doing you a favor.

“That’s a reverse-thread bolt,” he says. “You’ll strip the shit out of it going clockwise like that.”

You pause.

“No, I won’t,” you say flatly.

He snorts. Leans in further. “Swear to God, I saw this same build last semester. It’s reverse-threaded. Look, let me just—”

His hand starts to move toward your wrench.

You don’t get the chance to stop him.

Because someone else already does.

“Maybe have her show you instead.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean across the room—low, sharp, just loud enough to slice through everything else.

You both freeze.

Joel’s walking toward you now, eyes locked on the guy still crouched beside you. His expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse.

Blank. Tight. Cold in a way that makes your skin prickle and the air around you feel thinner.

“You’re completely fuckin’ wrong,” Joel says when he stops in front of the car. “That bolt’s standard-thread. Factory part. If you spent half as much time listening as you do runnin’ your mouth, you’d know that.”

Kaden blinks up at him. “I was just trying to—”

“Get back to your station.”

Joel doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

The kid stammers, mutters something under his breath, and backs off fast—disappearing around the rear of the car without another word.

You’re still sat. Still holding the wrench.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. Just glances down at the bolt, then nods once. “You had it right. Keep going.”

So you do.

He doesn’t stay after that. Just walks off, muttering something to another group near the back of the shop like nothing happened.

But every time you glance up from your work, you feel it—that quiet weight of his attention hanging at the edge of your periphery. Not constant.

Just enough.

Like there’s something he’s not saying.

Like whatever’s passing between you is starting to get too heavy to ignore.

***

The store’s colder than you expected.

Fluorescents hum overhead, casting a pale glare across rows of boxed tools, coiled cables, and plastic bins stuffed with brake fluid and air filters. It smells like rubber and engine oil and the kind of dust that never quite leaves.

The whole place feels half-forgotten but always moving—like the only people who come in already know exactly what they need.

You don’t.

You’ve been standing in front of the same pegboard display for six full minutes, squinting at torque head sets and trying to remember the difference between deep sockets and standard ones. You thought this would be quick. Something simple to practice with over the weekend.

Now your brain’s foggy. The labels don’t make sense. And your hoodie’s starting to feel too warm.

You shift your weight. Reach for a three-piece extension bar set and mutter under your breath, “I think this is right…”

“It’s not.”

The voice comes from your left—low, dry, and unmistakable.

Your heart skips.

You turn your head slowly, already knowing exactly who you’ll find.

Joel.

Two feet away. Wearing a faded Carhartt over a black thermal, jeans worn soft at the seams, grease still smudged on the top of his hands. His hair’s damp at the temples—like he just stepped out of the shower or wiped sweat off under a hood. Either way, he looks different here. Same scowl. Same narrowed eyes. But without the classroom lights or the safety goggles, he feels heavier. Realer.

He glances at the tool in your hand. Lifts a brow.

“You’re not runnin’ a breaker bar through an extension like that. Too much play. It’ll slip.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice stays flat. “Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

Your mouth falls open, half-offended—until you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not annoyed.

He’s watching you. The same way he does in class. Like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t finished yet.

You exhale through your nose. Try to stay calm. “I just wanted something to practice with.”

“Yeah?” Joel plucks the extension bar from your hand and places it back on the hook, then tilts his head toward a different aisle. “C’mere.”

You follow.

Of course you do.

Down a narrow row of socket sets and ratchet kits, your heart hammering like you’ve done something wrong.

He stops halfway, pulls a small boxed set off the shelf—shallow sockets, quarter-inch, neatly arranged—and hands it to you.

“This is what you want. Lighter. Easier to handle for what we’re doing. Good for practice. Won’t trash the heads.”

You take it, careful. Your fingers brush his knuckles.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I was guessing.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s not deciding what to say—he’s deciding if he’s going to say it.

“You remembered the torque pattern last week,” he says. “Handled that caliper clean.”

You blink.

That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him since day one.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods once, then glances toward the front of the store. “Your car still out there?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel’s already moving—headed toward the glass storefront. He stops by the floor jack display, squints through the grimy window, then tilts his head slightly.

“You need new brake pads,” he says. “Left rear’s draggin’.”

You stare. “You got that from looking at my car?”

He shrugs. “Rear wheel’s darker. Dust build-up. You can hear it stick if you roll slow.”

You glance back toward the window, unsure whether to be impressed or… unnerved. “Okay, that’s either witchcraft or you’ve been staring way too hard.”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“I know what I’m lookin’ at.”

You shift the box in your hands. The air between you thickens—weight gathering behind the silence. You didn’t expect anything from running into him here. But now your palms are warm. Your pulse is high. And apparently, your car’s seconds from self-destructing.

Joel watches you another moment.

“You want me to take care of it?” he asks. Voice quieter now. “Brakes aren’t hard. I’ve got parts at the shop. Be faster than waiting ‘til next week.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’d… do that?”

He nods. “Won’t take long.”

There’s no pressure in his voice. No suggestion of anything else. But still—it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s not just offering help. Like he’s offering something else.

You don’t say yes.

You just follow him out the door in a hurry after paying for the tool set.

***

The shop is nearly dark when you pull in.

Joel backs into the bay like it’s second nature. The motion triggers the overheads—rows of fluorescents humming to life in staggered sequence, casting pale light across the wide concrete floor and the wall of tools you’ve only seen during class hours.

It feels different like this.

Quieter.

Cooler.

The usual sounds—keys, footsteps, the clink of steel—feel sharper in the silence. More intimate.

You park beside him and cut the engine.

Joel doesn’t say much. He walks around to your side and nods once—silent instruction to pop the trunk. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff but not cold. Focused. The same tone he uses in class, but stripped of distance.

He works fast. No fanfare. The jack rolls under the rear of your car like it knows the way. The tire’s off within minutes. You stand nearby, the socket set cradled in your arms, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex beneath the cuff of his jacket. The way his breath fogs faintly in the chilled air. The way he moves—efficient, practiced, solid.

He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just moves with the same quiet, brute certainty he always does.

The silence should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

You lean against the wall near the open bay, watching him until he lowers the car back to the ground and wipes his hands on a rag from his pocket.

“That’ll hold,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You nod, swallowing the thank-you caught in your throat. It doesn’t feel like the moment for it.

Joel nods toward the car. “Show me the rattle you mentioned. In the dash.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. It happens when I turn the fan on.”

He circles around to the drivers side and opens the door, nodding for you to follow. You slide into the passenger’s seat. The heater kicks on, followed by a low, mechanical groan beneath the dash.

Joel listens for a beat, brow furrowed. “Loose mount. Bracket’s vibrating. Not dangerous—just noisy.”

He leans in further, fingers brushing over the vent. Then he opens the glove box and gives it a gentle tug.

He’s close now.

Too close.

The heat blowing from the vents fogs the windows slightly. The space between you shrinks with it. You can smell him—oil, leather, clean sweat—and feel his presence in a way that makes your pulse spike, even without him touching you.

He reaches across you, fingers brushing the radio dial.

And that’s when the song starts.

Something low. Old. The kind of classic rock he wouldn’t have expected from you, slow and drawled and aching. A gravel-thick voice murmuring about losing sleep over someone he never should’ve wanted.

Joel doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull his hand back.

He stares at the dash like he’s still listening, but you don’t think he hears a word of the song.

Then, quietly—almost like he regrets saying it the second it’s out—he speaks.

“If that guy touches you again,” he says, voice low, “I’ll pull him from the class.”

You inhale. Sharp. Not loud—but enough for him to hear it.

Your voice comes out soft. Not challenging. Not playful. Just one word:

“Why?”

Joel’s jaw flexes. His eyes drop.

He doesn’t answer.

He shifts like he might sit back. Like he might leave. Like the conversation’s already too close to something neither of you has dared to say.

So you move first.

You lean in slowly—no hesitation, no plan—and kiss him.

At first, he doesn’t react. His lips are warm. Slightly chapped. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t pull back.

He just breathes.

Then he exhales.

And it breaks.

His hand lifts—finds the back of your neck—his mouth opening against yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this. His kiss is rough. Unguarded. Not practiced or precise, just real. Tongue sliding against yours, thumb stroking your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

It tastes like coffee and breathless restraint.

When he pulls back—barely—his voice is hoarse.

“Get in the backseat.”

You don’t speak. You don’t ask.

You just move.

One second, you’re kissing him—mouths crushed together like the air between you doesn’t matter—and the next, you’re both reaching blindly for the back door. Hands fumbling. Hearts pounding. Breath lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.

You slide into the backseat first. Joel follows not a second later.

It’s dark. Warm. The kind of close, sealed-in air that smells like sweat and leather. He’s already reaching for you, grabbing your hips, pulling you across the seat until you’re straddling him. His palms are firm, fingertips pressing into your skin through your jeans like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you—prove to himself you’re actually here.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stares, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of it. “You sure?” He asks, voice low and rough.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Without another thought, he’s kissing you again, harder this time—hot and messy, lips open, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to taste every breath you take. His hands move fast, dragging your hoodie up, then your shirt, then slipping underneath your bra to squeeze, to feel.

You can’t help but gasp at the cool air hitting your heated skin.

He grins at that, and watches as you moan when his fingers find your nipple, when he rolls it between callused fingertips just enough to make you arch. His mouth drags across your jaw to your throat, humming deep from within his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Your hands find his hair, curling deep in the roots and pulling slightly. His mouth falls open as he looks up at you, letting his head rest against the headrest.

You grind against him—slow and deliberate—feeling the thick length of him pressed against your cunt through both layers of denim. Now it’s your turn to grin, “you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” You whisper, teasing, breathless. “All those nights after class, watching me?”

His hands flex on your hips, “don’t start.”

“Tell me.” You demand, letting your hips roll against his again, and Joel nearly falls apart right there.

“Every damn day.” He grunts, his palm running up the expanse of your bare back.

He entangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back with enough force to bite—just a bit, and doesn’t stop until you’re staring at the ceiling of the car. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast. Then another. Then higher—until his mouth is warm over your nipple, lips soft, tongue flicking just barely.

You grip the back of the drivers side headrest, gasping at the sudden heat, then the cool air from his lips as he purses a breath across your chest. You’re aching, throbbing, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too focused on your chest—licking slow, open-mouthed circles around your nipple before sucking it between his lips. The free hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place as you writhe above him.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “You’re teasing.”

He hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles through your ribs.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for weeks,” he mutters, his lips moving to the shell of your ear, a soft whisper, “you’ll survive.”

He drops his head then and switches sides, mouth closing over your other nipple, sucking harder now. His tongue drags across the tip while his other hand slides up to roll the one he just left—pinching lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Sensitive,” he says, like he’s cataloging it. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Joel—please.” You whimper, letting your free hand fall to his shoulder, nails biting into his skin.

“You beg real pretty, you know that?”

He kisses your chest again—softer this time—then finally slides his hands down to your waist.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your breath is still shallow, your body trembling just from the feel of his mouth. His tongue. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chest. It’s too much and not enough and your jeans feel like they’re trapping you now—tight against your hips, soaked through, clinging to your skin.

Joel’s still staring up at you, flushed and focused, pupils blown wide with restraint that’s clearly cracking.

“Take these off,” you whisper, rocking forward slightly, grinding your soaked cunt right along the thick line of him through his jeans. “I want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes once, and then he moves.

His hands are suddenly at your waist, working the button of your jeans with quick, rough fingers. You lift your hips for him, thighs shaking slightly from the way he’s breathing—slow and tight, like he’s trying not to lose control.

The zipper lowers, teeth dragging open with a soft rasp, and he peels the denim down your hips, dragging your panties with it in one go.

“Lift,” he mutters, tapping your ass with a smirk.

You do. And then they’re off—shoved down your thighs, tugged around your ankles, and kicked somewhere into the shadows of the floor. The rush of cool air against your soaked pussy makes you gasp.

Joel groans when he sees you—head tipped back, throat bobbing with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already dripping.”

He drags his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow and firm, thumb grazing your cunt just once before settling his hands back on your hips. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Just looks.

“Now yours,” you say, fingers already reaching between your bodies.

Joel lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-grunt—as you tug at the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down over the aching bulge beneath. He lifts his hips as you work them off, the denim catching on his thighs before he shoves them the rest of the way down himself with a growl of frustration.

“Been wantin’ this,” he mutters. “Thinkin’ about you climbin’ on top of me like this. Every fuckin’ night.”

His cock springs free—hard, thick, already flushed and twitching at the sight of you bare above him.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, and then—without a word—you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around him at the base, slow and steady, and he groans—a low, gravel-slick sound that punches straight through your core. He’s heavy in your hand. Hot. Already leaking, the tip slick and flushed, thick veins pulsing beneath your palm like he’s barely holding on.

You stroke once—slow and deliberate, from base to tip—and his head drops back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You do it again—twisting slightly at the top this time, just enough to smear the precum down his shaft.

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex on your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” You whisper, eyes locked on him. “Thinking about me touching you like this?”

He growls—actually growls, hips jerking up into your grip.

“You have no fuckin’ idea.”

You stroke him again, then again, a little faster now, wrist twisting just right—and he’s breathing like a man on the edge, jaw tight, thighs tense, chest rising in sharp, shallow pulls.

“Feels good?” You ask in a murmur.

“Feels—” He cuts off with another moan when your thumb rolls over the head. “Feels too good. Gonna—fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and lean in—lips brushing his ear.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Joel growls again. One hand snaps to your wrist, gripping just hard enough to still you—but not to hurt.

“I’m hangin’ by a thread here, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough. “Don’t make me beg.”

You lick your bottom lip and tilt your head slightly, “but you beg real pretty, you know that?” You mock, gasping as he pulls your bodies impossibly closer and grinds up against your slick cunt with zero shame.

“I warned you,” he mutters, the words sharp against your neck. “You think I won’t beg? You think I won’t lose it for you?”

His hand slips between your bodies. One strong finger traces the seam of your folds—slick and swollen—and you shudder when he groans.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He nudges his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet—just letting the head glide through the wetness, dragging it along your clit in slow, devastating passes.

“Go on, then,” he rasps, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted control? Take it. Sit on it. Make me watch you fuckin’ ruin me.”

You rise just enough to line him up, your hand guiding him to your entrance—slick and aching and so fucking ready.

And then—slowly, trembling—you start to sink.

The stretch is unreal.

Thick. Blunt. Hot.

You feel the pressure first, the way your walls fight to take him, your body instinctively pulsing around the intrusion. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and you gasp—sharp and broken—your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.

Joel grunts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening like a warning to himself not to thrust up, not to ruin the moment.

“Shit,” he groans. “Baby…”

You slide lower. Another inch. Then another.

It burns, but it’s perfect—just enough to make your thighs shake, just enough to make your vision blur. You pause halfway down, forehead dropping to his, your breath catching in your throat.

“I can’t—I’m not—Joel, you’re so—”

“I know,” he pants, voice ragged. “I know. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby. Look at you.”

He strokes your back with one hand, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself through your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am already?”

You whimper, hips rolling in a tiny, desperate circle.

“Too much?”

You shake your head instantly. “No—it’s just… you’re stretching me so full. I feel you everywhere.”

Joel growls, low in his throat, and kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice breaking apart as he whispers, “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You start to lower yourself again, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you bottom out.

The fullness knocks the air out of your lungs. You sit still, trembling in his lap, thighs twitching where they cage his hips. Your pussy pulses around him, fluttering tight, trying to adjust to the size, the stretch, the weight of him buried that deep.

He curses again, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me.”

He kisses your neck. Then your shoulder. Then back up to your jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You got me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

You rock again, your thighs already trembling from the stretch. The drag of him inside you is slow, devastating—too much and not enough at once. Every grind brings your clit down against the ridge of his pelvis, and you can feel your slick spreading between your bodies, soaking the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then back down again—every movement heavy with reverence, with restraint. He’s guiding you, not controlling. Letting you take your time, letting you use him, even though his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“You ride so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just like that. Nice and slow. Let me feel every bit of it.”

You moan—soft and caught in your throat—and move again, lifting yourself an inch before sinking back down, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot just inside you.

Joel grunts.

His head drops back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, a pulse ticking hard at the base of his throat. He looks wrecked. Sweaty. Flushed. His shirt sticks to his chest, soaked where your bodies meet, and you realize with a sharp, hot rush that you did this to him.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to his, lips brushing his jaw.

“You like that?” You whisper.

His hands tighten on your ass. “Too much,” he says, voice hoarse. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, deliberately now—grinding your clit down against him, letting your body melt into his. The pressure builds low in your belly, slow and tight, a heat that curls and coils and refuses to let go.

Joel groans—deep—and buries his face in your neck.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So tight. Keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You lift yourself higher this time, until just the tip of him is inside, and then drop back down with a moan.

Joel chokes on a sound—half growl, half prayer.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “You feel that? The way you stretch around me?”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you do it again, and again—building a rhythm now, riding him slow but deeper, hips tilting with each pass to chase your own pleasure.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, over your ribs, slipping between your shoulder blades to hold you close as he thrusts up into you, gentle but deliberate.

You sob quietly against his mouth.

“Can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let it come. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

His thumb finds your clit—presses, circles, rubs you exactly how you need—and your whole body locks up.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, crushing intensity—wringing your cunt tight around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight, shaking, clinging, your moan breaking apart against his neck.

Joel loses it.

The second he feels you fall apart around him, he thrusts up hard, his grip bruising, mouth open as he groans straight into your ear.

“That’s it—fuck, baby—give it to me—make a fuckin’ mess—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes with a growl, hips jerking beneath you, cock twitching deep inside as he spills, hot and thick, his breath stuttering in your hair.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You collapse against his chest, your body still trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Your pulse throbs between your legs, your slick mixed with his, dripping slowly down your thighs where you’re still seated, still full, still connected.

Joel presses his lips to your shoulder.

Then your collarbone.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, the edge gone. “Need anything?”

You nod into his neck, still breathless.

“Water. A cigarette. A new spine.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and brushes a thumb along your jaw.

“You were fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Took me like you were made for it.”

***

The windows are still fogged. The air inside the car is thick—humid with sweat, heat, and the sharp-sweet scent of sex that clings to your skin and seeps into the seats.

You haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

You’re still in his lap, thighs spread across thighs, skin flushed and trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. The whole car feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Joel moves first.

One hand drifts up your spine—slow, steady. The other rests at your hip, fingers curling like he needs the anchor more than you do. His head is tilted forward, lips brushing your shoulder, breath cooling where sweat still clings.

“Gonna pull out now,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked against your ear. “Alright?”

You nod.

Your legs ache. Muscles cramping from how long you’ve been straddling him.

He’s careful—one hand steadying your waist, the other slipping to your thigh. You wince when he eases out of you, slow and wet, the stretch still echoing deep inside. The emptiness leaves your stomach fluttering, body still too full, too sensitive to register anything clearly.

Joel watches it happen.

His breath stutters. One hand drops between your thighs—thumb brushing where you’re dripping, slick and spent, your release already sliding down your leg.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Look at that…”

He leans over, finds the flannel he’d discarded on the seat next to you, and brings it up folded in his hand. The fabric is soft from wear, warm from his skin. He presses it between your thighs, gentle, slow, wiping the mess before it can fall.

You gasp—too overstimmed to hide it—and your hand flies to his wrist on instinct.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “I got you. Just wanna clean you up.”

You breathe out, let him.

Melt into his chest, boneless, every part of you raw and exposed. He wipes you down without rushing. Without speaking. Like it’s something he’s done before. Like he wants to.

And when he’s done, his hand lingers. Thumb tracing circles against your leg, lazy and warm.

He’s not ready to let go.

You sit up slowly, muscles tight. Your thighs ache when you move off his lap, cunt still pulsing with aftershocks. Joel helps—wordless and steady—one hand at your waist, the other bracing your back as you climb over the console.

You slide into the front seat, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the steering wheel like it’ll hold you together. The hoodie you left in the passenger seat is still there—twisted in a soft, wrinkled heap. You pull it on, swallowing a quiet breath, the cotton dragging across sweat-slick skin. You can’t even imagine trying to pull the jeans up right now with how slick your skin feels.

Joel stays in the back.

Half dressed. Chest rising slow. His shirt is clinging to his body, darkened with sweat, his jeans still undone. One arm slung over the back of the seat. The other resting on his thigh.

And his eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You reach for the keys. The engine’s off. The dashboard blinks softly and the hum of cool air hits you harshly. You adjust the mirror—just slightly—and catch his reflection in the glass.

Wrecked. Quiet. Still tracking the curve of your jaw like he doesn’t know what happens next.

Truth is, you don’t either.

But your lips are swollen. Your thighs are sore. Your body’s buzzing, full of him even now.

And the air around you still smells like sweat and leather and Joel.

You’d let him do it all over again.

[jackdaw-sprite]

This would be used in addition to the danny phantom tag, turning it into a true umbrella tag for everything related to Danny Phantom, while having a few major sub-tags for people to find exactly what they want.

---

After some more discussion with members of the fandom in the notes of my poll asking about a community and elsewhere, it seems like the better option for everyone might actually be a new tag, so I'm making a new poll here!

Some answers to questions I think people might have are below the readmore:

Q: Why are all of these only one word?

A: For the same reason the dpxdc tag is only one word! Tumblr's tagging implementation is Not Good. Tags with spaces don't play well with it, and especially don't play well with blocked tags. If someone wants to block non-crossover Danny Phantom content, we want to make it as painless as possible for them.

Q: What issues were raised around communities?

A: A few! To name some of them:

Limited interactions with posts: Communities only let you react with emoji and leave comments on posts reblogged into them. Not great, if we want to have long reblog chains riffing on one another

Original Posters aren't notified if someone else reblogs their post into a community, even if it's public. So if someone reblogged your post into the community for you, you wouldn't know about it -- or know to look for people interacting with it.

Communities have mods, and therefore would need trustworthy, engaged mods to make it work. Over a short time frame, we could probably manage it! But over a longer one, a community for an entire fandom would probably have moderator drama. That could lead to fracturing, or people leaving specifically because they don't like the mods, etc. A tag is a lot less active maintenance.

A few people also expressed a general dislike for the feature, even if they were willing to move to one. This seems like a much smaller change that will let those people stay away from a feature they don't like, while interacting with the content they do.

Q: What about less-common crossovers? Won't those get excluded from this tag?

A: They will. I'm asking about this poll first because I figured getting the community to make a decision about the other crossovers would be easier if we'd already decided on the non-crossovers.

The current idea is to move those to their own tag as well, so they can get dedicated attention from the crossover enthusiasts who love them. One of the people I talked to about this runs the niche-dp-crossovers blog, so it's on the radar. If you have concerns or suggestions about that, the notes on this post is as good a place as any to suggest them!

[mcrdvcks]

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

[cinnamon7girl7]

"WE DON'T BELIEVE YOU, GOJO!!!"

At this point, saying Satoru Gojo was famous on the internet was an understatement. With thirteen million followers on Twitch, a YouTube channel full of viral clips, and a legion of fans who followed him everywhere, he was basically a digital celebrity. No one would’ve imagined that the guy with the “just woke up” face and loud laugh would make it this far—least of all, him.

Gojo had started streaming a couple of years ago, at first as a joke. He uploaded short clips playing with his friends, no cam, just a voice that sounded way too confident for someone constantly losing in Valorant. But everything changed the moment he decided to turn on his camera and show his face—then the internet fell at his feet. There was something about him… that mix of shameless charm, zero embarrassment, and a cocky smile that seemed custom-made to break hearts through the screen.

Now, he streamed four times a week, usually at night, starting around 8 p.m. and sometimes staying on past midnight. Mondays were for “chatting with chat,” as he liked to say—sometimes he didn’t even play, just commented on random stuff, reacted to videos, and laughed at the dumbest comments. Wednesdays were shooter days: Valorant, Overwatch 2, sometimes a little Call of Duty. Fridays were for story-driven games like Detroit: Become Human or Until Dawn, where he screamed like it was the end of the world every time a character died. Sundays were pure chaos: games with followers, silly challenges, and an outrageous amount of bits flying across the screen.

His room was part of the charm. The camera always showed the same angle: Gojo in his white gamer chair, wearing black headphones that contrasted with his messy white hair. Behind him, a wall decorated with blue LED lights, shelves packed with Funkos and little figurines, and a giant plushie of a cat with a suspicious face that always made an appearance at some point during the stream. Sometimes he wore sunglasses, just “for the drama.” Other times he showed up with wet hair, like he’d just gotten out of the shower and couldn’t care less. Always in oversized T-shirts or hoodies, most of them printed with memes or ridiculous quotes like “you won because I let you.”

That Monday night, he was in his usual talking stream. Almost 580,000 people were tuned in.

—Hey, hey, wait, wait —Gojo spoke with a lazy smile, leaning back in his chair—. Why are you saying that if I let my hair grow longer I look like a chaotic elf? Respect!

The chat was going a thousand miles an hour, emojis, conspiracy theories about whether he slept more than three hours a day. Affectionate insults, threats of eternal love, greetings from countries he didn’t even remember visiting. All the usual stuff.

Gojo slowly spun his chair from side to side while finishing adjusting his headset. He wore a gray hoodie with a stretched neck, like he had put it on without looking. His hair, messier than ever, fell disorderly over his forehead, and the dark glasses rested on the tip of his nose, letting his eyes peek over with a mischievous smile.

—Okay, let’s see, what do we have today?

@ILoveYouSoWhat: DO YOU SLEEP OR JUST EXIST?

@LoveRamen: I dreamed about you last night and woke up sad

@GojoEndMe: why are you so handsome today? Stop making me suffer

@SayHiOrIExplode: SAY SOMETHING, SENSEI, SAY SOMETHINGGG

—But I haven’t said anything and you’re all already upset! —he laughed, resting his elbows on the desk while reading the chaos on screen—. Weren’t I unbearable? Weren’t you all over it already?

@ShinyHair: yes, but your existence drags us

@MyPaleKing: you’re too close to the camera. My knees are shaking

@GojoFanClub: speaking for everyone when I say I hate you lovingly

—Wow. Strong statements for a Monday —he replied, raising an eyebrow—. I wake up, turn on the stream, gift you this beauty in 4K and all I get are threats and confused love declarations.

@StopThisMan: I can’t take this man anymore

@VirtualKiss: your existence is emotional violence

Gojo burst out laughing and leaned back, letting his chair squeak dramatically.

—See why I don’t stream every day? I need time to emotionally recover from the bullying you all do to me. Where’s the sincere affection? Where’s the pure love?

@BlindLove: I do love you, even if you’re unbearable

@ProfGojo: sincere affection? You only understand chaos

@BiteMeGojo: you give me love and trauma at the same time

—Love and trauma? What a strong phrase to put on a t-shirt! Wait... I’m going to write that down!

He made the dramatic gesture of writing with an invisible pen, as if he really had a notebook at hand.

—“Love and trauma since 199... well, since a few years ago. With love, Satoru.”

@IWantThatShirt: I’ll buy it RIGHT NOW

@AdorableMenace: stop monetizing our mental health

—But you all come to me! I didn’t even go looking for you. I was calm, playing calmly, and suddenly I wake up with thousands of you yelling “hit me or kiss me,” what am I supposed to do with that?!

@LetUsLoveYou: just kiss us all already

@GimmeStreamGimmeLife: we chose you as our favorite trauma

Gojo snapped his fingers, pointing at the screen as if he could really see them.

—Now I understand why my psychologist always seems so exhausted when I see him. He looks at me like “I don’t get paid enough to listen to what you tell me.”

@SatoruSpillIt: that’s because you didn’t tell him you’re a streamer

@SpicyTeaTime: does your psychologist know you’re a streamer?

—Of course. It was his idea, actually. He told me: “Maybe you should channel that need for attention in a healthier way.” And look at me now! Surrounded by thousands of strangers yelling things at me... total emotional healing.

@SawYouFirst: so it was the psychologist’s idea... we love him

@TherapistOfThePeople: thanks for everything, doc

He stayed silent for a moment, watching the number of viewers keep rising. It was already over 670,000 live. He noticed, but didn’t comment on it. He just smiled.

—Hey… can I ask something?

The chat paused for just a second. Just enough for someone to write:

@AskSensei: obviously, whatever you want

—Do you all watch all my streams? Like, every single one? Or is there someone here who just arrived, like, casually?

@CameFromTikTok: you showed up in an edit and now I can’t escape

@FromApexWithLove: I’ve been here since they were killing you in the lobby

@NoviceInLove: I came for a clip and stayed for your face

@NoEscape: I arrived yesterday and already sold my soul

—Ha! I love you guys. Well, not literally. Imagine if I could say that without legal consequences… “Streamer marries 13 million people.” Can you imagine? My big digital wedding. The first kiss would be delayed.

@IWannaBeTheBrideNumberOne: I want to be bride number one!

@LetThemKiss: can you kiss through the stream?

@ToxicMoon: no, but I can kiss the screen anyway

Gojo brought his hand to his chest with a hurt expression.

—You’re killing me. This is no longer bullying: it’s emotional homicide. And you know what’s worst? I like it. I’m an accomplice.

@ToxicButLoyal: we’re your favorite crime

@LaughButConfess: you laugh a lot but don’t say if you have a girlfriend

The comment went by fast. Almost unnoticed. But he read it.

And he didn’t answer immediately.

He just stared at the screen a little longer than usual, with a half frozen, half amused smile. The silence didn’t last even three seconds, but on the internet that’s eternal.

@I_SAW_IT: he saw it… he read it… and stayed silent

@WE_DONT_BELIEVE_YOU: there it is, the silence gave him away

@MAKE_HIM_CONFESS: don’t run away, bald guy with powers

Gojo squinted. Tilted his head. Then chuckled softly.

—See how you are? One thing is to call me handsome, and another to corner me like this is a live trial. What’s next? Bringing a lawyer to the stream?

@ChatAccuses: Satoru Gojo, accused of hiding love information

@WE_DEMAND_PROOF: Do you have a girlfriend or not?

@NOBODY_BELIEVES_YOU: this man is way too happy to be single

Gojo clicked his tongue, spun in his chair, covered his face with one hand, and murmured:

—And so, ladies and ladies… the war has begun.

The silence barely lasted a second. Maybe two. Then, as if someone had pressed a giant red button, the chat exploded into absolute chaos.

@SugarCookie: Don’t tell me you have a girlfriend.

@DonutKarma: What war? What did you do, Satoru?

@TenderRamen: YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?! WHAT WAR?

@GojoTheories: The one who stays silent… has a girlfriend.

@SadEyes: Is what I’m reading real or am I projecting?

Satoru raised both eyebrows as he read the messages flying across the screen. The monitor’s glow reflected in his eyes, now sparkling with pure amusement. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a dangerous smile on his lips.

—But what does one thing have to do with the other? —he said in a relaxed tone, though not hiding the laugh escaping from the corner of his mouth—. I was talking about the emotional war unleashed in this stream… who mentioned girlfriends?

@EmoPanda: WHAT WAR? THE EMOTIONAL ONE YOU’RE CAUSING ME?!

@LoggingOff: Gojo, DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?

@SpiritualSandal: CONFIRM OR DENY, NOW.

@FuriousPikachu: don’t evade the question, master

He let out a full laugh, with that laugh of his that seemed contagious even if you had no idea what was going on. He turned his chair a bit, moving closer to the microphone, as if he really had something important to confess.

—What if I do? —he asked boldly, raising an eyebrow—. What if I do have one?

@InnocentMe: CRY WITH ME

@DestroyedFan: I don’t know how to deal with this

@RealSandal: Don’t make me throw the sandal, Gojo

@ShockedRabbit: Are you telling me I was THE OTHER without knowing?

He rubbed the back of his neck with a half guilty, half delighted smile. Like he was enjoying every second of this collective reaction.

—Come on, it’s not that big a deal. —He shrugged with a dramatic sigh—. I just said “what if I do?” I haven’t confirmed anything, technically.

@Conspiracy3000: That’s what someone WHO HAS a girlfriend would say

@DramaQueen: the one who doubts, HAS

@DisappointedCake: I’m listening to Taylor Swift while reading this

@NotNormal: You said it. You sold yourself out, Gojo

Satoru rested his elbows on the table, intertwined his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. He looked at the screen as if the whole world was judging him in an interrogation room. His lips formed a sly, almost tender smile, but in his gaze there was a spark of mischief no one was going to put out.

—Since when is having a partner a federal crime? —he murmured, in a mock victim tone—. I literally just said “what if I do,” and now they want to exile me.

@NoPeaceSinceToday: I just wanted to watch you play. Now I’m in therapy.

@BackgroundNetflix: This is better than any series

@NotAJoke: Say it. Just say it. Do you have a girlfriend or not?

And that’s when he decided.

He closed his eyes for a second, took a breath, and then leaned even closer to the mic, as if about to tell the biggest secret of his life. He spoke with a soft, sincere voice… but without losing the humor.

—Yes.

He dropped it with such dangerous calm it seemed scripted. Then shrugged, as if he hadn’t just destroyed thousands of hearts with a single word.

—Yes, I have a girlfriend. For six years.

The chat froze for a fraction of a second before going into spontaneous combustion.

@AreYouKiddingMe: error 404

@IAlreadyLeft: Nope. It can’t be. It’s not real.

@BrokenFantasy: SIX? SIX YEARS? SIX YEARS.

@MomI’mCrying: don’t talk to me, I’m mourning

@MySoulHurts: I felt like running in the rain

— I know, I know — he said, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture that didn’t help at all —. It all happened very fast… six years ago. I met her, I fell in love, and since then, here we are. And it’s not like I wanted to hide her, okay? It’s just that… you all are intense. Look at you right now.

He laughed alone seeing how fast the chat was moving. The chaos. The suffering. And yet, there was affection behind it all. That was the price of being loved by so many people: even good news hurt.

— She lives with me, puts up with me, makes me laugh… and she cooks better than anyone. I adore her. A lot. And no, I didn’t make her up. This is not a marketing plan or a strategy for a movie. It’s real.

@CollectivePanic: I’m dizzy.

@CollectivePanic: I’m sweating.

@CollectivePanic: I fell off the couch.

@ShockedCat: What do you mean SHE LIVES WITH YOU?

@BrokenHeart: I lost the light in my eyes

@I’mLeaving: This is my last stream, it was an honor

— What did you expect? That I would live alone and eat instant ramen my whole life?

He put a hand on his chest as if he really felt hurt.

— You don’t believe me! Do you really not believe me? After everything we’ve shared?

@DoubleStandard: I can’t be happy for you if I’m not the one

@IDon’tBelieveYouGojo: LIAR. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

@That’sFake: Gojo, you don’t know what true love is

@HaterButLoyal: This is a phase. Tomorrow he’ll deny it.

He laughed, the kind of laugh he only let out when everything seemed like an eternal joke.

— Want an official announcement? A blood-signed document? A romantic stream by candlelight?

@YourExInSilence: YES

@GiveItToMeNOW: Let her come. Let her confirm it. NOW!

@DeluxeBetrayal: Proof, Satoru. We want proof.

He leaned back, settling into that expression like he had everything under control. Like he’d been waiting all night for this moment.

— No, not yet — he said, winking —. You haven’t begged me enough.

@FuriousAndUnited: WE BEG ON OUR KNEES, DADDY

@FuryKiss: LET US MEET THE QUEEN

@ShockedHeart: I don’t know whether to cry or applaud

— That’s why I never tell you anything — he murmured, shaking his head with a charming smile —. They literally put me on trial the moment I open my mouth. This is an emotional court with no neutral jury.

@YouAskedForIt: Guilty. No way out.

@InnocenceIsOver: This is my last stream

— Well, now you know. I have a girlfriend. Six years. It’s real. She’s beautiful. She’s mine. And I’m not going to show her. Not yet. — He leaned toward the camera, winking cheekily —. And the best part is… this is just the beginning.

The chat kept roaring like an endless storm. Hearts were broken, fingers typed as if trying to pierce through the screen, and Satoru… he simply enjoyed it. You could tell. That playful sparkle in his eyes was like a mischievous child nobody could stop.

@DetectiveFan: OK. LET’S START THE INVESTIGATION

@BestFriendWhoDoesn’tSuspect: IS SHE BLONDE?

@BetrayedButLoyal: GOJO, IS SHE PRETTY?

@EyesLikeTheSky: tell me if she has light eyes or I’ll die

Satoru let out a mischievous giggle and tilted his head, resting his cheek against the back of his hand while watching the messages flood the screen.

—Hmm… —he made a thoughtful sound, as if truly evaluating something important—. Want to know about her?

@Everyone: YES!!

@NowRightNow: TELL US EVERYTHING

@ConfessNow: GOJO, I BEG YOU

He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, pretending to be indecisive.

—Okay. But let’s play. If you guess her hair color… I’ll say something about her. Only one thing per correct guess, okay?

@PinkHair: PINK!

@BlackLikeMySoul: BLACK

@SilverLikeYou: SILVER LIKE YOURS

@RedheadPlease: REDHEAD!

@SurelyBlonde: She’s blonde, my soul tells me

@FantasticRainbow: She’s bald

Satoru watched each message pass with a raised eyebrow, as if silently judging. He smiled with clenched teeth and shook his head.

—No, no, no. Everyone is pretty far off… Although that one from “@FantasticRainbow” made me laugh —he shrugged—. Anything else? Anyone else want to try?

@IneverFail: DARK REDHEAD

@MyIdealMotherInLaw: BLACK WITH BLUE HIGHLIGHTS

@DetectiveChestnut: BROWN

And there, he said it. He heard it. Well, he read it. He paused. His eyes opened a little wider, that subtle way he has only when caught. A laugh escaped him before he could control it, soft and playful.

—Aha… —he whispered to the microphone—. We have a winner.

@NOOOO: WHAT? WHO? WHICH ONE WAS IT?

@REPEATIT: I DIDN’T SEE! I DIDN’T SEE!

@STOPEVERYTHING: SOMEONE GOT IT RIGHT!

Satoru let out a louder laugh, dropped his head back for a second, then looked directly at the camera again.

—Yes. Brown. Bingo.

@IMDEAD: I’M SAYING GOODBYE TO THE WORLD

@IWANTTHATINFO: TELL THE TRUTH, YOU PROMISED

@GOSSIPWITHPRIZE: GOJO, SPILL IT

Satoru rested his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers, and looked at the camera with a smile that melts hearts.

—Okay. One truth about her… Every time I get sick, doesn’t matter if it’s a silly cold, or I just sneeze three times a day… she makes me soup. A special one. It has ginger, onion, carrot, sometimes rice. And she knows exactly how long to boil it to heal me. It never fails. Never.

@SOULHEALER: I want to die of love

@IWANTTHATSOUPE: Do you have the recipe?

@SHE’SMYIDOLNOW: MAKE HER A SAINT!

—Another round, want it? —he said in a lower, playful voice, as if he knew the chat had no escape—. What if now you guess… her eye color?

@BlueLikeMyHeart: BLUE!

@SorceressGreen: GREEN!

@BlackLikeMyShadow: BLACK

@RedLikeMyEnvy: I DON’T KNOW BUT I WANT THEM TO BE RED

@Violet: VIOLET, obviously

@SweetCoffee: Brown

Another pause. A slow smile formed on Satoru’s lips, who barely bit his lower lip.

—Look at that! Again… someone got it right.

@WHOWASIT: SAY IT!

@IDIDNTSEE: WHO SAID IT?

—Brown. —The word came out soft, with sincere affection—. A brown that changes with the light. Sometimes it looks like honey, sometimes like wet earth. They’re… pretty —he admitted quietly, lowering his gaze only a second before regaining composure—. Another truth, then.

He stretched in his chair, as if thinking a bit.

—She doesn’t let me leave without breakfast. Never. And when I try, she crosses her arms at the door and won’t let me pass. She says, “You won’t last five minutes like that.” And she’s right. Always right.

@I'MCHILLING: HOW DO I BECOME HER?

@IWANTTOBEBREAKFAST: I DON'T EVEN CARE THAT MUCH ABOUT MYSELF

@MARRIAGEIN4MONTHS: I MARRY THEM

And suddenly, BOOM! The screen exploded with violet lights and digital fireworks.

@IDONTBELIEVEYOU just dropped the bomb: 💥 20,000 bits 💥 The message came with pure venom: @IDONTBELIEVEYOU: I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY. I. DO. NOT. BELIEVE. YOU. I won't believe it until she comes and says it with her VOICE. WE WANT TO HEAR HER! CALL HER NOW, GOJO!

The chat collapsed as if someone had kicked a beehive.

@OHMYGOD: AAAAAAAA

@THISISASECT: THIS GOT SERIOUS

@BIGDONATION: YOU DON'T PLAY WITH 20K BITS

@MYSOULSCREAMED: THE VOICE! THE VOICE!

Satoru opened his eyes as if he'd been challenged to the world gossip finals. He leaned back in his chair, making a face like "Are you seriously doing this to me?"... then he smiled.

— Well, well... — he said, looking at the camera like he was talking to an accomplice.

Someone wants audio proof.

The chat went on fire.

@CALLCALLNOW: I'M NERVOUS AND I'M NOT EVEN HER

@WEARECRAZY: WHAT IF HE ANSWERS SWEETLY?

@IWILLDIEHAPPY: WHAT IF HE SAYS "LOVE"?

Satoru was already pulling out his phone. With one hand he unlocked it, swiped to your contacts, and there was your name, with a bow emoji and a pink heart.

He typed. He called. Speakerphone.

— If you don't answer... they're going to burn me alive — he murmured, amused.

A couple of rings, and then:

— Hi? — your voice, unprepared, so natural, so you.

Satoru straightened up a bit, a smile already fixed and a mischievous look.

— Love, where are you?

— At Zara — you said, unaware you were being listened to by thousands of lost souls.

I'm between two dresses, one makes my legs look beautiful, the other is very short. What are you doing?

Silence. TOTAL silence.

Satoru looked straight at the camera. He didn’t explain anything. He just said with a calm smile:

— Nothing. I just wanted to hear you — he replied, with that low, honeyed voice reserved only for you.

And that’s when hell broke loose.

@NOOOOOOOOOOO: HE SAID LOVE LIVE ON AIR!

@IGOTOUTOFTHISWORLD: THAT VOICE. THAT VOICE. THAT VOICE.

@INEEDAIR: SHE'S AT ZARA AND HE CALLS HER. WHY IS THIS SO REAL?

@ICRYFORTHEM: SHE SAID “WHAT ARE YOU DOING” AND HE ANSWERED “NOTHING.” THEY’RE DESTROYING ME

@20KBITSWELLSPENT: IT WAS WORTH EVERY BIT. EVERY SINGLE ONE.

@SHOPPINGQUEEN: SHE’S SHOPPING AND HE CALLS TO HEAR HER VOICE? SHUT UP, I’M CRYING IN PUBLIC!

@IMBREAKING: WHO SAYS “I JUST WANTED TO HEAR YOU”? WHO DOES THAT AND SURVIVES?

@HAPPYLIVES: THAT’S IT. THIS IS A DRAMA. THIS IS NOT REAL.

@LOVEONLOUDSPEAKER: I NEED TO BE LOVED LIKE THIS. HOW DO YOU DO IT?

@THISISNOTADRILL: GOJO, STOP. YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HALF THE FANDOM

@OFFICIALLYDECLARE: HER VOICE IS SOFT. HE LISTENS LIKE IT’S A PRIVILEGE

— Are you busy? — you asked, not knowing your voice had just been archived by thousands of people in their brains and hearts forever.

— For you, never — he said with a little smile, resting his elbow on the table like this was an intimate video call... and not a stream watched by over a hundred thousand people.

@IMDEAD: HE SAID “FOR YOU, NEVER.” FOR YOU, NEVER!!!!!

@BREATHEFORGOD: LIVE FLIRTING. PUBLIC FLIRTING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

@HEROESOFMYHEART: I THOUGHT I WAS IN GOJO’S STREAM, NOT IN A LOVE STORY

— I’m just... at Zara. I saw something I thought you’d like — you kept saying, while the world melted in real time.

— What?

— A white shirt, one of those you like.

@SHEKNOWSWHATSHELIKES: SHE KNOWS WHAT SHIRTS HE LIKES!!!

@STOPEVERYTHING: WHO AUTHORIZED HER TO BE THIS PERFECT?

@GOJOSWIFECONFIRMED: NO DOUBT LEFT. THIS WOMAN EXISTS AND HAS HIM IN LOVE

— Send me a photo — he said, completely shameless, ignoring that the entire world was listening to every word with teary eyes.

— Okay, but don’t ignore me, okay? — you whispered sweetly.

— Never — and the monitor in front of him reflected for a second that silly, in-love smile.

@IMSOFEDUP: ENOUGH!!!! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE

@LOVEEXISTS: IF THEY EXIST, LOVE DOES TOO

@BREATHETOGETHER: SERIOUSLY, STOP. I’M CRYING IN THE WORK BATHROOM

— Did you buy anything yet or are you still doubting as always? — he joked, leaning further back in the chair.

— I’m looking... there’s a pretty dress too, but I don’t know which of the three to pick — you answered with a little laugh.

— Everything you wear looks spectacular. Literally. Everything — he replied without thinking twice.

@IMSCREAMING: HOW CAN I GET SOMETHING LIKE THAT?

@BREATHEWITHME: I’M. H-Y-P-E-R-V-E-N-T-I-L-A-T-I-N-G.

@EVERYTHINGCONFIRMED: THEY CALL, THEY FLIRT, THEY KNOW EACH OTHER’S CLOTHES… THEY’RE MARRIED, END

— How dramatic — you replied, though he could already imagine your smile, and that was enough for him.

— Dramatic, but sincere.

@StopThis: THE TONE. THE TONE. HOW DO YOU TALK TO SOMEONE LIKE THAT AND STILL BE ALIVE?

@NowEverythingMakesSense: THAT’S WHY THEY CURE WITH YOUR SOUP. BECAUSE YOU TALK LIKE THAT

— Do you want me to buy you something? — you asked, switching to sweet mode like nothing happened.

— Yes. But only if you send me a photo of you trying it on.

@ImBurningUp: OH PLEASE! HOW EMBARRASSING, GOJO!

@I’mShaking: THIS IS PRIVATE NOW. WE’RE IN HIS LIVING ROOM WITHOUT PERMISSION

@GojoNoFilter: HE’S ON STREAM, HE FORGOT!

— Satoru… — your voice sounded between amused and exasperated — Now that I remember, weren’t you doing something?

There was a brief silence.

Then he burst out laughing.

— Ah, right — he said between laughs — I was on stream.

@NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO: THEY TOLD HIM!!! SHE DIDN’T KNOW!!!!

@DeadlyGojo: SATORU!!! YOU CALLED HER LIVE AND SHE DIDN’T KNOW???

@That’sWhyIt’sReal: IT’S SO REAL SHE DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER SHE HAD AN AUDIENCE

@100KWitnesses: WE WERE HERE. WITNESSES TO THIS ROMANTIC MOVIE

— WHAT? YOU’RE ON STREAM!? — you asked, stopping dead.

— Yup — he answered, totally shameless — Six hundred eighty thousand people just fell in love with you, just so you know.

@Confirmed: OFFICIAL. WE ALL FELL IN LOVE

@SheOwnsEverything: THE VOICE. THE WAY HE TALKS TO HER. THE SWEETNESS. IT SWEPT ME AWAY

@NowWeGetHer: AND WE WERE CRITICIZING. YOU DESERVE GOJO, QUEEN

— Oh, Satoru… how embarrassing. — Your voice was soft, nervous, but sweet.

— Embarrassed? Everyone’s dead in love with you. They just asked me to propose to you live.

@IAlreadySaidIt: CONFIRMED, HE PROPOSES ON THE NEXT STREAM

@SatoruAndHer: I’M NOT INTERESTED IN ANY OTHER COUPLE NOW

— Hang up already, dummy — you whispered laughing, and he nodded with a soft smile.

— See you at home, love. I love you.

— Me too.

And he hung up.

For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at the screen with a silly smile on his lips, while the chat kept exploding.

@ThatWasTooMuch: I’M GOING TO LAY DOWN ON THE FLOOR

@StreamOfTheDecade: THIS STREAM SHOULD WIN AN AWARD

@GonnaMuteMyself: I NEED TO PROCESS ALL THIS

— Well… — Satoru finally broke the silence with a mischievous tone — I think that was enough emotional trauma for today, right?

@INeedMore: NO, DON’T CLOSE. MORE, MORE, MORE

@NoHealingYet: WE NEED GROUP THERAPY RIGHT NOW

— See you on the next stream, chat. I don’t know if we’ll get over this… but we’ll try.

And with one last smile, he ended the broadcast.

Black screen. Chat crashing. Hearts exploding.

And somewhere in the world, you smiled unaware you had left half the planet in love with you.

[hitomisuzuya]

i think we need more of kabukimono with a cat reader whos in heat and gives her oral..

kunikuzushi (kabukimono) x fem!hybrid reader. smut. cunnilingus. squirting. breeding kink. kuni is straight babbling and incredibly pussy drunk.

i meant to have this posted a lot sooner. everyone, please stay cool if you are in this nasty heat wave like i am.

heats are always particularly hard on you. for days, kunikuzushi has watched you flit about, all flushed and restless, trying to act like everything was normal.

this suddenly change in behavior is quite frankly fascinating to him. why would you try and hide the fact that you need a little help? he wants to help you, but at the same time, he doesn't understand why are acting like this.

and some selfish part of him that's been in love with you wants you to come ask him for help yourself.

kunikuzushi has never really known what arousal felt like until he met you. and how sweet you were when you caved and finally came mewing to him for help. all flushed, your ears drooping from intense arousal.

"you are the only one that can help me. kuni, please?" you pleaded, "eat me out, fuck me however you want, in whatever hole you want. just please, i can't stand it anymore."

you didn't know how often kunikuzushi thought about breeding you. of using your ears as leverage to fuck you from behind while you claw and cry about his good his cock felt.

he is all too happy to strip you, and part your thighs. to bury his face into your pussy, and eat until the sun came up.

"k-kuni," you whimper weakly, hastily reaching for the back of his head to press his mouth down onto your sopping pussy. "i..need to cum," tears of aroused desperation are falling so prettily from your fucked out eyes.

"shh, it's okay, my pretty kitty," he coos, rubbing your thighs soothingly, "i'll take care of you, i promise. be patient," he brushes his nose against your abused clit. the sensation makes your back arch off the bed, your thighs twitching as you grind needy into his mouth.

"your moans sound way too sweet for me to just finish you now," he swirls the tip of his tongue casually around your clit, groaning in absolute ecstasy as he scoops it into his mouth to suck on.

he has been sloppily tongue fucking you for what felt like hours. the loud, shameless slurping noises were almost enough to feel you feel embarrassed through your hazy lust.

he's been playing with you, taking you just high enough to be on the verge of cumming. keeping you there out of greedy indulgence.

your thighs tremble as he releases your clit with a soft pop. "bad kitties who aren't patient get their wrists tied above their heads," his tongue laps at your clenching hole as stars burst in your eyes. his practically purred words makes your pussy clench.

he groans as your fingernails dig into the back of his head. panting, he lifts his head to lick long, slow stripes up and down your pussy. "although, with you all tied up. defenseless and at my mercy, it would make it easier for me to breed you."

he is babbling now you taste so good.

you shiver as your moans couldn't stop rising in octave. your whole body burns with the shameless need to fuck yourself on his tongue until you couldn't anymore. "please, please breed me," you shamelessly mewl.

kunikuzushi's cock throbs with every word you say. "breed you so full of cum that it swells your belly. and then swells it with something else," he hums drunkenly, kissing and prodding your throbbing clit with his tongue.

he chuckles as one of your hands leaves the back of his head to pinch your nipple as you squirm. "kuni, kuni i am going to cum," your desperate whine sounds so golden in his ears. his fingers massage your thighs, firmly holding them apart.

a sudden realization sets in, and he boldly conveys it as he teases his tongue on your creamy cunt. "i read about something called squirting recently. let's see if i can't get you do that, my pretty kitty- kitty."

his sucks are ravenous as he latches onto your clit again. you gasp in pleasure as he inserts two fingers, gently scissoring your walls apart until he zeroes in on your sweet spot.

he attacks your sweet spot relentlessly, absolutely reeling with the fact that you need him. you are depending on him to make you feel good. and he latched onto that like a starved dog.

pleasure bursts white hot behind your eyes as you writhe. the hot coils of your orgasm curl intense in your core. you squirm feeling another pressure start to bubble up. "kuni! kuni, what's happening. i feel so.. so," your words fall away into almost pornographic moans as your body spasms in bliss.

kunikuzushi smirks as he sucks on your pussy, hooking and burrowing his fingers into your g-spot. "come on, kitty. cum all over my face," he moans, panting, "let me finally taste what's mine."

suddenly, everything inside of you breaks apart all at once. the intensity of your orgasm as it washes over you is so great that it actually deafens sound around you. you didn't know if you were moaning or sobbing in pleasure as you cream on his tongue.

kunikuzushi's eyes roll back into his head, groaning in delight from tasting you cumming on his tongue. "what a good little kitty," he praises, greedily lapping at your release, "i didn't think i could ever like anything so sweet."

[lucenra]

Triggered

𝓟airing ↳ Jinu X F!Reader

𝓘𝓷 𝔀𝓱𝓲𝓬𝓱 .. Reader tries her best to ignore her ex.

𝓦arnings .. flashbacks, mentions of cheating

𝓐uthor's note .. inspired by jhene aikos song triggered everyone are normal humans in thid

Part 2!

It’s been a year and a few months since you and Jinu broke up. You’ve been handling it pretty well. The popular K-Pop group HUNTR/X, also known as your bestest friends in the whole world, have been helping you get through it. You finally managed to get him off your mind.

Until..

You went out with the girls to get Rumi’s tonic juice. Everything was fine, until a group of boys walked into the same alley. Mira and Zoey immediately started thirsting over one of the guy’s abs, while Rumi scolded them, and you just shot them a look. Not that you could blame them.

Then, another guy appeared behind them.

"…Jinu?" you whispered to yourself.

Your breath hitched, and Rumi instantly grabbed your arm once she realized who it was. Jinu looked at you with yearning eyes. And just like that, the memories flooded in. Every date, every joke, every moment you bonded, every gift exchanged—it all came rushing back. Your heart ached. Burned. It felt just like it did when you first found out he cheated.

But for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to look away from him.

Luckily, the girls stepped in before it could go any further. Before you knew it, you were being pulled away, your arms in their grasp. As you looked back, Jinu was still staring.

"Are you okay Y/N?" Zoey asks as her hand is still on your arm.

“Yeah.. yeah. Don’t worry about me. It’s fine.” You sighed, trying to convince yourself.

Mira let go of your shoulder, arms now crossed. “I’m gonna kill that bastard. Who does he think he is showing up here? Ugh. Pisses me off.”

“Thank you, Mira.” You laughed softly.

“Hey,” Rumi chimed in, trying to change the mood, “why don’t we just get your mind off things? Watch the Saja Boys perform or something?”

You nodded. Anything to distract yourself.

What you didn’t know was that you were about to see your ex again—this time, on stage.

“What the…?” Mira muttered as the same group of boys from earlier suddenly appeared and began singing. All the girls turned to look at you. You just pressed your lips together and stared at your feet.

“This is just amazing,” you muttered, Rumi then feeling bad for you.

But surprisingly… the song was actually catchy. So, you decided to stay and watch. Every time Jinu sang, his eyes were locked on you.

Wow. What a unique way to get your ex back.

♡

After the performance, the group mingled with fans. You were about to leave when someone grabbed your wrist. You prayed it was just someone letting you know you dropped something.

Of course not.

“Wait, Y/N. I want to talk to you,” Jinu said, desperation in his voice.

“Yeah, no thanks. I’m good,” you replied flatly, yanking your wrist out of his grip and following the girls.

He ran after you. Persistent.

“Can we please talk?” he asked again, this time placing his hand on your shoulder.

You shrugged him off. “You don’t get to touch me anymore. And you sure as hell don’t get to have a conversation with me,” you snapped.

He stood there, stunned. You walked away, pretending like none of it happened.

♡

Later, you lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything in your mind. What you said. What he said. Were you too harsh? Were you being rude?

No. He deserved it.

But… maybe he changed?

Your thoughts spiraled, too fast to control. You needed air. So, you went out for a walk, hood up, hands in your pockets, AirPods blasting music.

Eventually, you walked into a convenience store to grab a snack. Hood down now, you were scanning the shelves.

“Why don’t you get the blue Takis? I know they’re your favorite,” a familiar voice said behind you.

You turned. Of course. Jinu.

“You just never stop, do you?” you scoffed, brushing past him, your shoulder bumping into his.

“I really want to talk. That’s all.”

You moved to a different aisle, but he followed you like a puppy.

“What is there to talk about?” you asked coldly.

“I just need a chance to show you I’ve changed. I want a second chance. Please,” he begged.

You stood there, arms crossed. Silent.

“Please,” he repeated, softer this time.

…

“Well…”

[freakmcnastyy]

Possession Games

Park Humin x f!reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, semi-public setting, fingering, unprotected sex, light pain, biting, possessive behavior.

Summary: Baku loses control of his jealousy after seeing you meet with an old friend.

Note: Anon requestttt

⸻ /Flashback/

Your eyes were fixed on the fractured navy of the sky. A soft breeze stirred the lazy whispers of the trees. The wind brushed against your back, speed danced at your feet, and a childlike hope glowed quietly in your gaze. You swung higher and higher on the swing, unaware of the two sets of eyes watching you.

In the far corner of the yard, hidden under the shade of an old walnut tree, two boys sat side by side. The weight of their conversation didn’t quite suit their age. They heard only your laughter, watched only the way your hair danced in the wind. But the meanings behind their gazes were far from the same—one held trust, the other, a secret.

Baek-jin tilted his head slightly, fidgeting with a stone in his pocket. The words sat heavy on the edge of his tongue, refusing to fall.

Baku’s brows were furrowed; he didn’t like this kind of silence.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone clipped and direct.

Baek-jin blinked, then subtly nodded in your direction as you soared back and forth.

“I love her,” he said.

The words hung in the air for a moment, suspended in time. Even the breeze seemed to still.

Baku didn’t respond at first. He squinted toward you, then turned back to Baek-jin.

“What did you say?”

“Yn,” Baek-jin repeated, firmer now. “I love her. I have for a long time. Maybe you’ve noticed, maybe not. But I… I don’t know. Keeping it in this long is starting to eat away at me. And when she smiles… it’s like I can’t think of anything else.”

Baku said nothing. But his jaw tensed, a flicker tightening the muscle near his chin.

Baek-jin noticed—but didn’t back down.

“Everything’s going to change, I know. We’ll grow up. But no matter what happens… I think I’ll always love her.”

He looked down at his hands, then back toward you.

“Have you ever looked at someone and felt time stop? Like… even just the way they breathe feels like a miracle?”

Baku’s eyes shifted back to you again.

Baek-jin’s voice returned, quieter this time, unsure:

“Maybe I’ll tell her someday. Or maybe I’ll just stay beside her… quietly.”

Baku clenched his jaw, but stayed silent.

What was he supposed to say? Don’t love her, because I already do?

⸻ /Today/

It was a small café on a street corner. The table by the window sat in soft afternoon shadow, sunlight spilling through the glass at an angle. A slow jazz tune played in the background, and the outside world blurred into something cinematic.

You glanced at your phone. The time matched exactly what you’d agreed on.

Then the door opened.

Baek-jin.

His hair was slightly messy, his eyes familiar but a little more tired than before.

But the second you saw him, you stood without hesitation and wrapped your arms around him. It wasn’t a long hug, nor a short one. It was the kind that held just enough weight to carry everything unspoken.

You both sat down. The way you crossed your legs under the table, the sip you took from your coffee, the way you tilted your head—it all showed you still cared.

“How’ve you been?” you asked, voice soft.

Baek-jin didn’t look away. He smiled, faintly.

“Alright. Life’s shit in its own way, but I’m getting used to it.”

You paused. Your eyes lingered on his.

The distance between you wasn’t new or old. Just… known. Familiar.

That’s why you asked without hesitation:

“How’s the Union going?”

There was concern in your tone, though your smile stayed gentle.

“I don’t want to see you getting in trouble again.”

Baek-jin said nothing for a second. He took a sip of his coffee, then looked toward the window.

“I’m trying to grow it,” he replied. “But the more you build something like that, the more enemies come crawling out.”

Your head lowered slightly.

“Just… be careful,” you murmured. “There are still people who care about you. Not everyone’s abandoned you, okay?”

Baek-jin closed his eyes briefly. He sighed.

“I know,” he said. “I know you’ve always been there. But…”

He didn’t finish. Because both of you already felt the weight of that but, lodged somewhere in the space between.

While you spoke, someone was watching.

A few tables away, a boy in a hoodie sat motionless, hands clasped together, elbows resting on the table.

Baku.

His eyes were locked on your face.

The way you smiled, how your fingers danced around your cup, the gentle angle of your head—he saw it all.

But what really anchored him was the way Baek-jin looked at you.

That same look, from that same afternoon under the walnut tree.

“I love her,” Baek-jin had said.

And maybe he still did.

Maybe he always would.

Baku’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed.

Maybe he couldn’t hear what you were saying—but body language didn’t lie. Every gesture between you two felt like a quiet threat. Not because he didn’t trust you. But because he did.

And that made it worse.

⸻

Your footsteps echoed softly against the wet pavement. The exhaustion of the day hung over you like a damp coat, and the night had swallowed the city into a hush. You were only a few blocks from home, having cut through a quiet side street where hardly anyone ever passed. No music in your ears. No phone in your hands. You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

Until it was too late.

An arm wrapped around you from behind, pulling you back into a firm chest. A hand pressed over your mouth.

A warm breath brushed against your neck.

“Don’t scream” came a familiar, low voice.

Your body tensed—not out of fear, but surprise.

“It’s me” Baku whispered.

Your breathing was still uneven. Your heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of your chest. He let you go slowly—but didn’t move his hand away from you.

“How long have you been seeing him?”

You tried to turn your head, but he didn’t let you move far.

“I never stopped,” you whispered. “We’ve always kept in touch.”

Baku spun you around, gently but firmly. His gaze locked on yours.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

His voice wasn’t just accusing—it carried a quiet, bruised betrayal.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t like it,” you admitted, voice small but honest. Your eyes didn’t look away. You didn’t hide.

He took a step closer.

“Then why are you still seeing him?” he said, the calm in his voice barely holding.

“He’s dangerous. He’s into shit again. He could hurt you.”

“He’s my friend,” you replied.

And that—that word—was what set him off.

“Friend?” he scoffed.

The word rolled off his tongue like poison.

Before you could process it, your back was pressed to the wall. His body didn’t touch yours fully, but the air between you vanished.He raised a hand, brushed your cheek, then slipped his thumb under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Don’t act like you don’t know how he looks at you. He still wants you.”

His voice dropped, turning into something dark, something real.

“And you let him.”

His hand slid to your waist, no longer gentle. Fingers curled under the hem of your shirt, dragging upward slightly before smoothing back down. You gasped, and he felt it.

He didn’t stop.

“The thought of someone else imagining you like that… fucks with my head,” he murmured.

“But what messes me up more is knowing you don’t even care.”

The heat between you changed. Anger turned to desire. Possession became need.

Baku’s eyes burned with something deeper than jealousy now. His fingers slid lower, past your waist to your hips. His other hand tangled into your hair.

His lips didn’t kiss—but hovered.

Close enough to feel. Close enough to want.

But not yet.

“You knew you’d drive me crazy, didn’t you?” he whispered.

When his hand squeezed your ass, you leaned into him—instinctively.

Not because you had to.

Because you wanted to.

Fingertips skimmed just under the edge of your skirt, tracing the elastic of your underwear.

But he didn’t slip inside.

He just stayed there.

Right at the edge.

“I could go lower” he murmured, his lips ghosting your skin. “Should I?”

“Finish what you started” you finally muttered, breathless. “Do it.”

Baku chuckled. He already knew you’d give in—but hearing it lit a fire in him. Without hesitation, his hand slipped under your skirt and into your panties. But he didn’t dive in just yet. He wanted to feel how much you needed it first.

“God” he muttered, “is this what being claimed does to you?”

He laughed, low and dark.

“I haven’t even kissed you yet… and look at you.”

And he was right. You were soaked. Because nothing turned you on more… than knowing you were his.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Two of his fingers slid into your entrance—not to get you off with them, but to prepare you for something much bigger. You nearly screamed when you felt his thick fingers stretch you from the inside, but he caught your cry with his mouth. His kiss muffled the sound, but not the overwhelming feeling.

His movements were rushed. Was it because he wanted to finish before anyone found out? Or was it because he just couldn’t wait to be inside you? You couldn’t tell. Not when those two fingers were scissoring you open, making it almost impossible to think straight.

Your eyes were teary now, your legs trembling like they could give out at any second. But he held you down so easily, one hand gripping your waist, the other steadying you with his body. Just when your vision started to blur, Baku pulled his fingers out. It wasn’t supposed to end yet. You felt the sudden emptiness, but knowing what came next eased the ache.

He looked at you one last time. He needed to be sure. And when you looked back with eyes full of need, he didn’t hold back anymore. While you clung to him, he unbuttoned his pants—not all the way down, just enough to free himself. His hand found your underwear again, but this time, just to push it aside.

It was too dark to see anything clearly. You could only feel it. And what you felt now was something thick pressing at your entrance. Your eyes widened.

“Baku—fuck—what is that?” you gasped. He chuckled and kissed you again, his tongue invading your mouth with no hesitation. Your tongues tangled in a messy rhythm until he bit your lip suddenly. As you flinched at the sting, he used that moment to sink into you completely. Your eyes rolled back from the shock, your body frozen for a moment in white-hot overload.

He pulled back from your lips only when he was fully inside. You bit down on your own moan, trying not to make a sound, but fuck—he was huge. He waited, letting you adjust, not moving just yet. Instead, his mouth latched onto your neck, sucking in a slow, burning trail.

If someone walked in right now, you’d both be screwed. But neither of you cared. You were too far gone, wrapped up in each other like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, hips rolling into you at a steady pace. His voice sounded like he might stop if you said yes. But you knew he wouldn’t. And honestly, if you weren’t clinging to him, your legs would’ve collapsed by now.

When you didn’t answer, he picked up the pace. His bare cock kept slamming into you, again and again, harder every time.

“I was gonna do this in a more romantic way, but—fuck,” he groaned, thrusts turning frantic. “But you don’t respond to sweet talk, do you?” he finished through gritted teeth. He was pounding into you so hard, it felt like the wall behind you was going to crack.

And about a minute later, it wasn’t the wall that cracke—it was you. The orgasm hit you like a freight train, so intense it nearly knocked you out. He’d already come deep inside you by then.

The moment was so overwhelming you couldn’t catch your breath.

“Humin—what the hell are you, some kind of monster?” you asked, still panting, while he was still buried inside you.

“Oh yeah. A pink one,” he teased, making a joke out of it. And it was funny—if you weren’t so completely wrecked you might’ve laughed.

When he finally pulled out, the emptiness made your face twist into a grimace. Your legs felt useless, like they weren’t even yours anymore. He moved fast, adjusting your clothes, taking care of everything without needing to be asked.

“Want me to carry you?” he asked, completely serious.

“You better” you half-joked, half-meant it.

Everything had happened so fast, it felt surreal. But you didn’t regret it. Meeting Baekjin that day had been the best mistake you could’ve made—because if you hadn’t, this moment might’ve never happened.

[bitchinbarzal]

Emergency Contact | M Kesselring

summary: you never changed your emergency contact and he never stopped showing up.

⸻

You don’t realise you’ve still got Michael listed as your emergency contact until you’re half-conscious in the back of an ambulance, blood trickling down your temple, vision swimming in and out. The paramedic asks if there’s anyone they should call and you try to give them your sister’s name, or maybe your best friend, but the record they’ve pulled already has a name. His. And you never changed it.

You’re trying to explain that it’s a mistake. That there’s someone else. That he’s not—he shouldn’t be involved. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve already called. And when the hospital doors slide open and your bed rolls past the waiting area, he’s standing right there.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe just tired. Same frame, same face, same stupid hoodie you used to wear when it was cold and you didn’t want to ask for your own. When he sees you, he swears under his breath and follows without hesitation.

You come to fully in the hospital bed, surrounded by too-white walls and the low hum of machines. Your head is pounding but your body feels light, like it hasn’t caught up to the trauma yet. You hear a chair shift and your eyes flick toward the movement. He’s there. Michael.

You blink slowly. “Why are you here?”

“They called me,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Emergency contact, remember?”

“I didn’t mean for that to still be you.”

“I figured.” He doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds careful. “But I came anyway.”

He stays quiet after that, just sitting by the bed with his hands clasped in front of him like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like maybe he hasn’t known in a while.

“How bad is it?” you ask, your voice thin and tired.

“Concussion. Needed stitches. You were unconscious for a bit but you’re okay now.”

You nod and let the silence wrap around you again. But it’s not the same silence that sat between you in the last few months of your relationship. That one was tense and bitter, full of things unsaid. This one is gentler. Sad, but not angry.

“I didn’t mean to pull you into this,” you say eventually.

He shakes his head. “You didn’t. I just… I needed to see for myself that you were okay.”

There’s something in his voice you almost don’t recognise. Not until he adds, “I was scared.”

You blink, and it stings. “Why?”

He looks at you like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “Because I still care. Because even after everything, you’re still the person I think about first when something happens.”

You want to say something back but you don’t know how. So you don’t. You just watch him as he leans back in the chair, his knee bouncing, his gaze fixed on the edge of your blanket like it might offer some kind of answer.

When the nurse mentions you’ll need someone to stay with you the first night back, he answers before you can. “I’ll do it.”

You shoot him a look but he just shrugs. “I want to.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. And maybe, deep down, you don’t want to.

The ride home is quiet. He drives your car like he used to. Left hand loose on the wheel. Right hand flexing on his thigh. You glance at him once, maybe twice, and it hits you how familiar this all still feels. Like no time has passed. Like the last fight, the last tears, the final goodbye, never happened.

He helps you into bed, finds the extra pillow without asking, even knows where the painkillers are. You hate how natural it all feels. You hate that you still know how he takes his coffee and that he still knows how you like your blankets folded.

“Why’d you really come?” you ask in the dark, your voice just above a whisper.

There’s a pause, and then he answers just as softly. “Because you’re still the first person I want to show up for. Even when I shouldn’t be. Even when it hurts.”

You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. He’s sitting in the chair beside your bed again, same as earlier, arms crossed over his chest like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“I didn’t change my emergency contact,” you say, “because I think I always hoped it’d still be you.”

His expression shifts. Not surprise. Just something softer. Something that looks a lot like hope.

“I never stopped caring,” you add.

Michael stands slowly, walks over, and sits gently on the edge of your bed. He reaches for your hand, pauses, then curls his fingers around yours like he used to. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I didn’t know how to fight for something I thought I was already losing,” he says. “I thought giving you space was the right thing. But I was wrong. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve tried harder. I thought I was doing the kind thing by stepping back.”

“You didn’t trap me,” you murmur. “You just let me go.”

He leans in then, forehead resting against yours, and for a second neither of you breathe. When he kisses you, it’s careful. Like he’s not sure if this is okay. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

But you don’t.

You kiss him back like your heart never figured out how not to.

The next morning, he’s in the kitchen, burning toast and swearing at the toaster like it personally offended him. You walk in, sore and slow, and he turns like he’s been caught.

“You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“You’re supposed to be letting someone else cook.”

He laughs, low and sheepish. “I wanted to make you breakfast. Still terrible at it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He looks at you for a moment, all soft eyes and sleep-mussed hair. “I wanted to.”

And this time, you believe him.

You believe he’s here because he wants to be. Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation.

Because he never stopped showing up.

And maybe this time, you won’t stop him from staying.

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა WAKE UP CALL ! — bucky barnes

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. following a spontaneous lead from valentina's assisstant, bucky calls you to let you know he’s driven halfway across the country and picked up a few strays.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. written as f!reader in mind but can be gn!, phone call, thunderbolts era, established relationship, takes place right before the scene in the gas station, pet names, veryyy light angst, steve mentioned — 1.4k words

���𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. this is just a little practice fic i wrote post-thunderbolts! it's based loosely on my oc, who was in the og avengers, so there are references to that and her fighting/having powers. but feel free to imagine it however you want <3 can be read in the same timeline as this fic, but it's not necessary to read.

The phone rings once, twice, then a third time, before Bucky’s apologetic, softened voice runs down the line.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he starts off gentle, before his words are coming out in one barely coherent string, like he can’t get them out fast enough. “First of all, I’m sorry. I should’ve — I should’ve told you I was leaving. It wasn’t — Well, I was gonna stay out of it, but the whole thing with Valentina…” Bucky trails off. His voice grows quieter, like there's someone else in the room with him, before he picks back up again.

For a few seconds more, he babbles, almost like he’s afraid to let you speak. He sounds slightly flustered, and more than exhausted — but that’s evident only to you, who has known him so well, for so long. 

Then, he concludes his little speech, less than eloquently. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I should’ve called earlier. I’m sorry.” 

You pause, letting your spoon rest against the side of your coffee mug, trying to make sense of all the words he's just said. The coffee swirls inside the cup, shading a lighter color of brown, before it settles, stilling completely.

Outside, the sun is already beginning to beat hot on the concrete, though it’s not even noon. Which tells you that sometime between the gala last night and the crack of dawn, Bucky had already gotten himself into some sort of trouble. 

“It’s nine, Bucky,” you say, taking a long sip of your coffee. You’d only just brewed it, but you’d used enough creamer to cool it to a drinkable temperature. “I wouldn’t have answered had you called any earlier.” 

He exhales on the end of the line, and says nothing. You can’t tell if he’s relieved or not. 

“When's the last time you slept?” 

“Doesn't matter. I'm fine," Bucky says. You can hear him shifting, his jacket rustling as he brushes up against something. He changes the subject quickly, going back to the matter of calling, which is more than enough to have you worrying. “Listen, I meant to call last night when I got back, but they gave me all these packets to read and—”

“Bucky,” you cut him off, before he can launch into another disgruntled tirade about all the paperwork he hates reading. “What’s going on?” 

This time, the pause on the other line lasts a few moments longer. 

While Bucky never lies to you about anything, he struggles, sometimes, when it comes to communicating. Occasionally, he omits the truth, or says nothing at all, because he wants to keep you safe, and he knows you’ll drag yourself into the danger with him. 

Despite all the years you've been together, Bucky still can't quite fathom that someone would put themselves in the crossfire because of him. He always accused Steve of having something to prove, and he thinks the same of you, when the truth is, you both just love—loved—him enough to put your lives on the line. 

Bucky hesitates on the other end before answering, his voice hushed, growing quieter again. “I don’t know everything, yet.”

You close your eyes, lean your head against the wall. For all the shit he gave Steve for jumping head-first into things, Bucky’s never been much better, in your opinion. “Bucky—”

He doesn’t let you interject, insistent on regurgitating all his words before you can chew him out. “Remember Valentina’s assistant I was telling you about?”

You wrinkle your eyebrows together. “Yeah. Did she actually give you something?”

Bucky exhales as you take a seat on the couch, curling your legs up into your chest. It’s been over a week since he’s been back home, and you miss him already, even if you’re used to being apart. 

He explains, briefly, about the people involved in Valentina’s dirty work, ones he can use in the trial against her. You’ve heard of them all, infamous in your line of work, including John Walker, who you’ve had the displeasure of meeting before. 

Bucky’s story is finished up quickly, a messy wrapping, tied up in nothing more than a knot. You can’t tell if he’s leaving out details, or if he really just doesn’t know them all. 

You purse your lips, pulling at a loose thread in your sweater. “You should’ve taken me with you,” you say, before falling back into the couch, your eyes glued to a spot on the ceiling, where the paint looks off. The longer you gaze at it, the more it starts to look like a discoloration, one you’re not certain is real. Maybe your imagination is just desperate for something to fixate on. “I could’ve helped.” 

Bucky’s smooth, silky tone soothes the aches in your heart and mind. “It was nothing.” He sounds louder, then, as if his mouth is leaning closer to the microphone. “Besides, you told me you wanted to stay out of all this.”

A frown takes over your features. You had said that; it was the entire reason you hadn’t moved to D.C. along with him, and sometimes, you wonder if he thinks you hate him for working in Congress. “It’s still your career. I don’t want to be completely uninvolved.”

“I know."

You’re grateful for the sincerity in his voice. You’re not a fan of most politicians, but you hope he knows that you'll support him, love him, no matter what.

“If I really needed your help, I would’ve called.” He laughs, then, a small sound. “I just didn’t. This time.”

You can picture his small smile on the other end, can envision the lines forming tighter around his eyes. In the near decade since he’s regained his memories, he’s only aged a couple years. Oftentimes, you wonder if you’ll ever catch up to him, if one day, you’ll look older than the man who has lived through more than a century. 

It’s a strange thing to think about. 

“Will you be home soon?” you ask, softly, surprised by how vulnerable your voice sounds. 

The house feels colder without him there, empty. It had been your choice to stay in New York, but sometimes, you wish you would’ve just moved with him.

There is evidence of your life all around — books you love, pictures of friends you still have, and those that are gone. Your favorite restaurants are still just a walk away, memories of your existence on every avenue. 

It’s home — it just feels less like one without Bucky Barnes in it. 

“I’m not sure. Maybe sooner than expected. I don’t think they’ll want to keep me in Congress for much longer, now.” Bucky goes for humor, but you don’t laugh, and neither does he. “Are you okay?”

Things haven’t been bad, lately, but you’re tired. It’s been one thing after another after another, after another, for years. 

The world just won’t let either of you rest.

“I just miss you.” Too much emotion seeps into your voice, and there’s a cloud settling over your heart that makes you want to cry into the phone.

You don’t, though. It would just make him feel bad, and make you feel worse, and you’re more than old enough to handle being alone for another week, even if you don’t want to.  

Still, he sounds even more apologetic on the other end. “I miss you too. So much.” There’s a sound behind him — it’s faint, but it sounds like a groan. One of the hostages is waking up, it seems. “I have to go, sweetheart — I’m sorry.” 

He’ll never stop apologizing, even if these things are out of his control. Sometimes, you feel selfish for wanting so much of his time when he has the heart and the strength to save the world. 

“It’s okay,” you say, even if the words sound a little dull to your ears. “Promise me you’ll call when you get the chance?” 

“I promise. I love you.” 

The words make you smile. It is, perhaps, the first genuine one you’ve had since he answered the phone. You lean your head back in the cushion, settling into it, before repeating the words back to him. 

The line goes dead. 

thank you so much for reading! please consider leaving a or reblog if you enjoyed ❤︎ black divider by k1ssyoursister

[mumbeau]

mumbos s10 plotline is soooo incredibly compelling to me ive said this again and again and reiterated on the suicide aspect of it hard in posts but that's only a piece of his whole deal. hes gotten caught in this weird space where he believes killing himself, watching himself die, is the only way to live forever. he loves the ever changing world he's a part of so much that he wants everything to stay the same. he refuses to die on anyone else's terms but his own, so much so that... he ends up aiding in his own death on somebody else's terms anyways. mineds trap is working. he's become so invested in his own demise and preservation of life that his judgement on what he's doing has become so deeply clouded and his perception of what hes doing has warped. the way he's gone from calling the mumbot "me" to "it" to "him". He has this idealized version of his own shady plan that's been set in his mind ever since the idea came to him and that's been, in my eyes, consistently reinforced by mined that "i'll do this and then ill be this and then ill live forever with no problem!" and is unable to see the downsides past his fear because of the perceived time limit that's been imposed on him with his rapid aging. his s10 plot is driven by fear and nostalgia and success and failure that i feel is obviously a translation of some of olis own feelings as he reaches 30 and as he's kind of turned over a new leaf in his career in the past few years. it ties a lot of the smaller less groundbreaking aspects of cmumbos character that are so natural to him they often go unnoticed together into a single story. his impulsivity his suicidal tendencies his anxiety his sentimentality his love of technology and new and fun things his fear of the unknown his draw to the unknown. his will to live and his urge to die. his love of preservation and his love of destruction. his intricate multi step season plan with no consideration as to how this will be the last. everything about this plotline is a pile of contradictions that highlights itself with each passing video and its just so good It's so peak i will NEVER stop being annoying about mumbos s10 nothing can compare

[ikeufile]

Y J W ❤︎ 𝒫rom queen

𝒫airing ⤷ bsf jungwon x f.reader genre : childhood besties to lovers, FLUFFYY FLUFFF synopsis – you didn’t have a date to prom, but ur best friend showed up changing ur night from horrible, to rememberable.  warnings nd wc!¡ - 603, just kissing !! NOT PROOFREAD

␥ ℯmi note - ahhhh 2nd fic WOOOOOO !!! thank u so much for the support on my last fic it means a lot ( ･ิϖ･ิ). I’ll be coming out with a intro + masterlist when i have more ppl on here. also this might become a small series if this does good, so pls send some recommendations!! I did. rush a bit at the end bc I didn’t know how to finish this.. but anyway, deuces ٩(′д‵)۶!!

you were quite bummed that you didn’t have a date to your first year of prom as a junior. hoping to go with your best friend that you’ve had a crush on since childhood. but you didn’t know if he felt the same way.

sitting outside the venue in your beautiful pink dress and flower tied around your wrist, letting the cool night air envelope ur sorrows. you were too distracted by the muffled music coming from inside to even notice him peeking from the corner looking for you. once he spotted you he walked over and took a seat beside you on the small bench.

“where’s your date?”. he questioned as he scooted closer to you, his hips a few inches besides yours. you shrugged before speaking “don’t have one..”. he frowned slightly before speaking again. “you look gorgeous though..”, softly saying with the raw emotion of pure honesty and admiration.

your face turned a light shade a pink before looking away, “thanks..”. the air was tense and quiet for a few minutes. but the whole time he was looking at you, eyes big and filled like a little kid looking at a toy behind the glass. you didn’t notice him until your eyes saw his hand shifting a bit, now just a inch closer to yours.

you didn’t know what to do at this point. ur best friend, aka the boy you were hopelessly inlove with was so close to you, you felt like screaming at the top of your lungs. before you know it he brushed his hand against yours, intertwining his fingers with yours. you held back a gasp, but your eyes still widened at the sudden contact.

he chuckled at your reaction, “what? can’t hold your hand?”. you gulped before speaking “no.. it’s just-”. he tilted his head squeezing your hand a tad bit tighter. “you don’t have a date right? the night is still young so why waste it..?”. his eyes sparkled under the moonlight, you swore you could stare into them for hours if you wanted to. “but-..”. he cut you off before you could finish, “please..?”. gosh.. you couldn’t say no by the way he was looking at you.

at a loss of words, you just nodded in return. making him smile slightly. you two just stayed like that. enjoying the quiet of the night while holding hands, finding comfort in eachothers presence. before you know it his other hand comes to tilt your chin up, his body moving a bit to face you better.

you swore you felt your heart drop down to your stomach at his hand touching your skin. he brushedhis thumb across your jaw, moving his hand up so his whole palm was covering your right cheek. he looked at you for good second before bringing his face closer to yours, tilting his head then pressing a soft kiss on your lips.

your brain could not process what the hell was happening right now, the only thing you COULD process was how good it felt. so you sat there letting yourself feel his soft lips on yours. he pulled away slowly and sweetly before saying, “i’ve been waiting for god knows how long to do this..”. you smiled, squeezing his hand tighter. “me too..”.

he let go of your face, letting his hand drop to his side. you shifted closer to him, resting your head on the side of his shoulder, sinking in everything that just happened. you two just stayed like that. you knew that you could always count on your best friend, to make your night great again.

𝒩ow playing ↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ prom queen - lana del ray, prom - sza , l. pink toes - childish gambino, nights like this - the kid laroi, i wish you roses - kali uchis

[lavenderangel111]

Heyyyy

I'm George's sister Valerie

I found loa in 2024 since then it's been a roller coaster. I was obsessed with changing my life but it was so hard to stay motivated. My family was poor and I was bullied for wearing old clothes and shoes. I have been bullied my whole life. My self esteem was shit. Deep down I didn't feel worthy of having a good life. I managed to manifest few things over the years but the thing I wanted the most is to enter void. When my brother started having problems with work I knew that I had to lock in. The breaking point for me was the day my brother called me from jail after he didn't come home which isn't something he would do. After that call I said f it all. I will enter void if it's the last thing I will do. I didn't sleep that night. I spent the whole night rampaging. I fell asleep what the sun rise. I woke up to my mom shouting and crying. My brother had come home looking like he had been to hell and come back. He was limping and had bruises all over his body. He had dried blood on his face and his clothes were torn. I'm crying just remembering. I'm so glad he got his revenge. Anyway, my mother and I helped cleaned his wounds and he went to sleep after taking pain killers. Both of my parents looked 20 years older. When my brother woke up from his nap he said that he would enter void. He said that if he enters he will manifest that we have always been rich and we have never suffered. I told him that I want to remember our old life and that he should manifest that I enter void. We were all so tired and we went to bed early.

The exciting part

I woke up in the middle pf the night to pee. Before I open my eyes I know that something feels different. My bed feels soft as a cloud. I opened my eyes and said oh shit. My room was completely different. I just sat there for 2 minutes crying because I couldn't believe that my brother actually did it. I wanted to run to his room to wake him up but I remembered that I had to pee. I put my feet on the ground and I felt this soft rug. I'm embarrassed to say that I got off the bed and rolled on the rug 🙈. I looked around my room and noticed that I had my own bathroom. I did my business and looked in the mirror but my face was still the same. I was almost disappointed then I remembered that I asked my brother to manifest for me to enter void so I ran to bed and lay on my back. I forced myself to stay still until I started to feel like I'm floating. I said "I am pure consciousness" until I fell asleep. When I woke up everything was black then I said "I have everything I want" then I just stayed there because it was so peaceful. I woke up and my room was different again. This time it was exactly what I wanted. I heard little feet on the floor and a bark. It was a puppy! A golden retriever. She's so cute and as soon as I picked her up she gave me lots of kisses. I stood up to check out the rest of my room and I was really impressed because I didn't have an exact picture of the things I wanted but I believed that everything would be perfect. I have a walk in closet full of so many things like expensive jewellery, shoes, clothes and purses. I also have a full length mirror. My jaw dropped when I saw my face and body. I look Unreal now. My skin is clear, my body is hairless, I have dark waist length hair and Hazel eyes, slim thick body. Everything is even better than I could have possibly imagined. I finished exploring my room and when I stepped outside my room, my brother was about to knock on my door and when he saw me and my puppy he said "Valerie what the hell???" Lol. I noticed that his injuries dissappear so I gave him a tight hug and thanked him a thousand times. I went to take shower and spent an hour in there playing with soaps shampoo and all the different shower settings 😂. I checked my phone and it was a Samsung S25. I saw that I was added to so many groups and I had a bunch of new friends 🧡. I went downstairs to have breakfast prepared by our new private chef with my family. My parents look so happy and carefree. I don't think I have ever seen them like this before. Later on i went to hang out wuth my friends and we took pictures for instagram. I saw that i have 95k follwers. I git home and cried again because i couldn't believe that me the girl who had no friends and was bullied has a perfect life now. I go to a private school and I'm the most popular girl in school. In tbe evening, my brother and i just sat in silence. I turned to him and said "is this what happiness feels like?" He said "Yes, we don't have to worry about anything ever again." I'm sorry for giving unnecessary details but I'm just so excited 😊. I'll end here.

I would like to thank everyone in the community. Your posts, advices and success stories kept me going. Lavender, I want to thank you for being there for my brother through the roughest time of his life. You're an angel 😇. Because of you we are now planning a family vacation and I'm going to have a sweet 16❤️. I love you so much 😘

Congratulations Valerie!!!

You guys have been through so much but everything worked out in the end. Some parts of your story made me cry and other parts made me laugh, I really enjoyed reading it and I love how detailed it was :) I could feel your excitement through the screen 💖

Have fun on your vacation! Love you too ❤️❤️

[alluringeight]

PISCES VENUS

Pisces Venus are the wounded lovers to me. And I say this because sometimes Pisces Venus can look at love is confinement which triggers their commitment issues. I know there is rumors about them being this head over heels placement which is true but it’s not the core of them. They tend to stay trapped in love until they no longer feel like it’s a good environment they don’t use their logic for this because Pisces are water signs and they are feelers. This Venus in fact skip over the red flags simply because they have to feel it to really sit in their space to truly understand. When these Venus signs are in relationships they tend to become ungrounded engulfing themselves into their partner. Not really spending alone time to recharge but once they finally sit and look at the mirror reflecting back to them they began to understand that after every love interaction they aren’t feeling like themselves. They become so over giving that they haven’t took a step back to realize they are burning out. Also in fact Pisces are known widely for their addictions & addictive tendencies with this placement this could also indicate that maybe in childhood your parents or caretakers had an addiction which took away (in Venus case) love & what it means to be loved and feel beautiful.

(Also you could look at the house it’s in as well) Ex: Venus Pisces 3rd it could manifest as : you not getting enough love but your siblings did or maybe it felt like your caretaker/parent loved others in the community more.

Pisces Venus in 2nd could manifest as not getting enough validation or maybe feeling like you have to settle because what you want seems untamable.

But anyways .. Pisces Venus could dabble in drugs as well mainly because the emotions or feeling like nobody is right for you or nobody loves like you do. Causing you to feel lonely and sometimes depressed.

Pisces Venus operate off of love (love in the purest form) which can cause them to be naive they just want love to feel a void but most people see that as an advantage to manipulate or play them.

These people are really creative and have an eye for beauty. Could really be into Pinterest & moodboards.

Music connects to their souls & they tend to make playlist that remind them of their lover or the lover their longing for. Now I would say Pisces are mystical so maybe others might get the downloads from them. (Still haven’t figured that out yet)

Pisces Venus aren’t meant for superficial relationships they like them deep, spiritual and soul binding. They crave that kind of intimacy and are often let down by others because they don’t seem to pick partners that vibrate on the same frequency as them.

Like I said Pisces are wounded lovers trying to make up for their childhood related wounds so they tend to play captain save a hoe because these girlies think everything sent to them is fate or that God (or whoever you believe in) has sent them. They are natural healers so they don’t mind helping but they don’t realize that people need to change when they are ready not when we want them to.

Pisces Venus can also be players too they get bored easily and no matter how much they hurt they will be back building a list full of crushes and partners they would like to freak on. Did I mention Pisces Venus are freakssss they are so addy and cute but baby they gets down!!!

Underdeveloped Pisces Venus are big crazy only thinking about a man lol. They crave relationships even though they don’t want to fully commit to them. If you have other water placements they could only want to get into relationships for sex or just to say they have someone even though they might not want them the next week.

This is kinda long so I’m stop here :)