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kutepik · 4 months ago

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Eyes on you - Part 2

(mdni 18+) Caleb is aware that you know about the hidden cameras all over his house. Now he’ll have to face the consequences of his actions once he gets home.

3k words. also posted on ao3!

Part 1 HERE (please read it for context)

Did you... Winked at the camera?

Did you... know? Were you aware of the cameras all along? And you did all that, knowing he'd be watching?

Caleb stared at the large monitor in his office like a maniac, replaying the part of the tape where you left your soaked panties on the bathroom door handle and looked directly at the hidden camera next to the painting in the hallway. He played the scene once more, pausing at the frame where you winked directly at him. Caleb's lips curled up into a sick smile. He could touch himself and cum right there and then, but you were clearly waiting for him at home to “relax”. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You were as fucking insane as he was. And that made him even crazier about you.

Flustered and in a hurry, Caleb left his office without explaining himself to anyone, determined to arrive in less than twenty minutes - no, ten if he ran over a few stop signs. It didn't matter how many tickets he got, he just had to be quick enough to find those panties still wet. And trust him, he would.

Now he found himself in that hallway, standing in front of the closed bathroom door with those panties between his fingers. He could feel the wetness and viscosity of your fluids against the soft fabric. It was so soaked that his fingers got wet enough to bring it to his lips and lick it like a hungry dog. It wasn't enough. Caleb brought the panties to his mouth and nose, sinking into their smell, taste and wetness. And that was the scene you witnessed when you opened the bathroom door, dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel.

The lilac eyes of your oh, so dear friend Caleb seemed more violet in the dimness of that corridor. He looked at you like an animal, not a man. It was almost threatening, if you didn't know that this man would never be able to do anything to you - at least not something you didn't want him to.

At first, when you left the panties on the doorknob, the plan was to get Caleb into the bathroom, where you two could work out the sexual tension that had built up over the years. But now, here, with this man explicitly pleasuring himself with your used panties, obsessed, hungry, and unashamed to show it to you, all you could think about was how far he would go for you.

"Pathetic” you said, lifting your chin, your eyes locked on his. His pupils dilated as he heard you, his hand still holding your panties to his nose, as if he could not fucking stop smelling and feeling you in that dirty piece of cloth, even with you here, watching him and scolding him for it. "I knew you stole my panties in high school," you muttered quietly, taking a step forward. "But you're still doing it as a full-grown man? Really pathetic" His erection was obvious "And what about those cameras? Hm?" You pushed your hand against his, suffocating him with the panties he smelled like a pervert. Caleb smiled while groaning under the fabric, breathless. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?" You pushed him, your hand still over his nose and your panties, making him stagger backwards and through the bedroom door that was opposite the bathroom in the hallway. With one last push, Caleb fell onto the bed, his elbows supporting him, and you took the opportunity to grab your panties back. He panted like a dog after his favorite toy, forcing you to put a knee between his legs — against his hard-on — to prevent him from moving.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he groaned, rubbing his clothed cock against your leg. “I- you're driving me crazy-" he gasped, holding your thigh "Literally. All I think about is you, all I want is you, all I..." He panted, still thrusting against your bare skin like a pervert. You pressed your knee down harder, making him moan louder and stop moving.

"Since when did you install the cameras?" You waved your panties in front of his face like a tempting reward. "Hm?" You brought the fabric close to his nose and pulled before he could grab it.

"Ever since you came back to Linkon and told me you were coming to see me," Caleb leaned his head against your stomach, like a devotee holding onto their god. "I just wanted to see you when I wasn't home, Pipsqueak. I just want to make sure you're safe." The Colonel's rough fingers curled into the fabric of the towel wrapped around your damp body, pulling you closer, secure in his embrace. "You're everything. Everything" He lifted his face, still pressed against your abdomen, staring at you with eyes that were now a deep purple.

"You say it like that was your only intention." You pulled his hair back, forcing him to pull away from you "But what about the cameras in the bathroom? The ones near the shower? Are they there to protect me?" He bit his lip and tried to pull you close again, but you pulled even harder on his hair. Caleb groaned, and even with the force that your knee exerted on the middle of his legs, you felt the abundant pre-cum against your skin.

"I told you, crazy. You drive me crazy, Pip. I want it all, to see it all, to touch it everything-" He dug his fingers even deeper into the towel. "I tried, I swear, I really did. But you're like a fucking drug. The panties weren't enough, I needed more." His voice was rough, like he was about to lose it, about to give in to his desires, but he kept fighting with everything he had.

"More." You repeated and loosened your grip on the back of his neck, bringing the same hand up to caress his face. With the other hand, you released your panties on the floor. Then, you moved to the knot holding the towel and loosened it, letting the fabric fall to your feet. "Like this?"

That was all it took for Caleb to sink his face into your stomach again, this time feeling skin on skin, covering it with mouth-open kisses. "Yes, yes, yes, fuck-" He sank his fingers into your flesh, bringing your mound against his lips. "Fuck, yes, like that," he said, almost desperate.

"I'll give you what you need." You replied in a sweet tone and lifted the leg that had been caging against his cock to rest on the bed. This gave Caleb full access, and he understood the message. He started eating you out like a starving man who hadn't eaten in days. His tongue sank between your wet flesh, up and down, while his nose circled over your clit, soaking in your scent as if his life depended on it. One of his hands that had been holding your waist went down to your dripping pussy, and Caleb ran his fingers into your folds, wetting them with your juices. Suddenly, you felt his calloused, lubricated fingers enter you, curving as they fucked into you deliciously.

"Thank you," he whispered as he kissed and licked your clit non-stop, at the same time as he fucked you with his fingers at a frantic pace. The whole situation had already turned you on, and the way Caleb fucked you with his fingers was too intoxicating for you to last long. Soon, your thighs started trembling, betraying the orgasm that was about to come. "Princess, please, please, come on my fingers, please," he begged, desperate, as he increased the speed of his thrusts and the movements of his tongue against your sweet nub.

"Caleb!" You grabbed his hair again, trying to keep his face away from the squirt of your orgasm, but he grunted and stayed between your legs, drinking every drop.

"You think I wouldn't want you to come all over my face?" He stuck out his tongue and licked your pussy again, looking at you obscenely. "I fucking dreamt about this for years. God, you're perfect." He kissed your belly again and nuzzled his face there.

"You're really crazy." You grabbed his face, watching his drunken, cum-slicked smile. He seemed satisfied with it, as if your pleasure was all that mattered, and in fact, Caleb could die now, and it would be more than enough. But that wasn't enough for you. Not at all. During the time he was supposedly dead, if there was one thing you had learned, it was how much you regretted not having done more. You put yourself through hell, thinking about what might have happened if you'd just admitted that you knew about his crush on you, or that you knew about the hidden panties, or that you'd heard him masturbate countless times and call your name when he thought he was alone. You spent sleepless nights back then, thinking about what Caleb would do if he found out that you liked this, this obsession, this devotion, and worse, you felt that way about him too. You were obsessed, crazy, and attentive to him and what he did for you and to you. Now that he was back to you and had made his intentions clearer than ever, there was no point in hiding.

"Take your clothes off." Your eyes lit up as you stared at the large stain in the middle of his pants. That wasn't just pre-cum. He came just from eating you out. Crazy bastard.

Caleb pulled off his clothes carelessly, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. "Are you sure? I mean, I don't really need you to do anything. It already feels really good just to have had the chance to eat you out and make you come." You could tell he was holding back, and it made you angry. You wanted all of him, everything, completely honest and true, to you and to himself.

"Caleb." You climbed on top of him, rubbing your wet pussy perfectly against the length of his throbbing and once again erect cock. Caleb moaned with pleasure, bringing his eyes down to meet your folds as you licked his cock clean. "You can do whatever you want to me." Your hips moved back and forth slowly. "I love that you're fucking insane about me..." You both moaned as your clit rubbed against his swollen tip. In one smooth motion, you lifted your hips slightly and held his hot length, rubbing the throbbing head over your clit, using his cock to please yourself.

"Oh my god, that's so fucking hot," he cried as he began to thrust against your clit, moaning loudly along with you.

"Caleb, I love that you're insane about me, because I'm just as insane as you are, and for you." With another roll against his tip, your lips let out a loud moan that was soon interrupted by Caleb's rough hands pulling you into a kiss. It was dirty and unceremonious. Your tongues met obscenely and without shame.

"I-I can really do whatever I want? You sure?" He said between kisses, lowering one hand to your ass and the other to your soaking cunt.

"A-Ah! Yes! Please." You felt him thrust his fingers into you again, fucking you. The noise was wet, erotic, and your moans mingled with your panting breaths.

"I want to fuck your pussy with my cock, please, please, please - I know you said I can do whatever I want, but I want to hear you tell me that I can, and that you want it as much as I do. I want to fuck you stupid and make you come again and again and again and fill your pussy with my cum to the brim," he said against your ear, spreading kisses as he continued to push his fingers inside you without stopping.

"I want you inside me. Fuck." You whimpered at the speed of his fingers. "I want your cock, I – I want you." Your lips came together again in a hasty kiss.

He thrust his curved fingers in harder, eliciting an obscene sound from you, before pulling them out. "I'll give you what you want. I'll give you anything, anything you want." Caleb ran his wet fingers over his own throbbing cock and held it, slapping it against the folds of your sensitive pussy. With his other hand, he lifted your hips just enough to bring his cock closer to your hole. He let out a loud sigh as he circled the tip over your entrance, feeling you, soaking into your juices. Then, in one smooth motion, he thrust in and reached your bottom. You swallowed him whole at once, both moaned in unison. This was just insane.

"Are you okay? Are you feeling okay?" He said, breathing heavily, his eyebrows scrunched up, violet eyes searching your face for any sign of discomfort. You smiled and relaxed your hips a bit more, lowering yourself enough to feel him balls deep into you. "Oh my god, you're so fucking good, you're taking me so deep. God, you're so tight—so perfect for me." Caleb looked so happy, finally being able to feel you, to be inside you, to fuck you. The two of you stared at each other breathlessly, still, savoring the sensation of being connected like this for the first time. "Look at you," he said, moving his hands up to your breasts and caressing them. "I need to fuck your breasts, cover them with cum, bite them and suck them..." Caleb murmured in a trance as he ran his hands over your body, imagining the possibilities. He brought his fingers up to your mouth, and you opened your lips and sucked his index and middle fingers. "I need to fuck your mouth too... I've imagined you sucking me off and me slapping my cock against your pretty cheek just to paint your face with my cum. I bet you'd look so beautiful." You moaned with his fingers inside your mouth. He withdrew the wet digits and guided them into his own mouth, sucking on them.

You couldn't take it anymore, so you threw your torso back, leaned on his knees with your hands, and started rolling back and forth, riding him. Caleb watched as your pussy swallowed his throbbing cock up and down. "Holy shi- Yeah, just like that, fuck- like that." He brought his thumb to your sensitive nub and started stimulating it in slow, circular motions.

"A-Ah, instead of thinking about what you are going to fuck, why don't you concentrate on this?" You teased, lifting your hips just enough to reach the sensitive head of his cock, only to slowly roll over.

"You are- " Before Caleb could finish, you sank down again and started fucking yourself on his cock at a faster pace. Caleb threw his head back and cried out, moaning your name like a mantra. "'Holy fucking shit, where did you learn that?!" Before he could think too much about how you had acquired your sexual skills, you decided to hit him with another brutal ride. He groaned again, gripping your hips tightly. That would leave a mark

"Better than you imagined, huh? When you touch yourself thinking of me." You said breathlessly, without stopping the movement of your hips. Caleb lifted his face to look at you, his eyes full of water and his mouth swollen from biting down to hold back his moans.

"Are you kidding? Fuck. There's no comparison." He rubbed his thumb against your clit again, encouraging you to roll over more, seeking more friction. "Ah- Ah, yes! Good girl, use me however you want, fuck me, please." His finger followed the increasingly rapid speed of your hips, almost violently, abusing your already swollen spot from another orgasm. "Please, please use my cock however you want, fuck, sit on it, cum on my cock, please"

"C-Caleb- Ah, ah, Shit!" You were breathless at the way he rubbed your clit, and suddenly, you stopped riding, sitting on him with your legs trembling, as you felt the orgasm come for the second time, wetting his cock with your liquid again. Your walls were contracting non-stop against his member, making him curse loudly.

"Fuck, you're so hot, squirting all over my cock, so fucking pretty.” He moaned, eyes filled with lust as he absorbed the vision of his cock soaked from your juices, “You're going to drive me crazy squeezing me like this, shit-" He suddenly pulled your torso into a tight embrace, pressing your breasts against his chest as he began to thrust into you like a savage animal. "I'm sorry, I really can't hold it anymore," he bit your shoulder as he rammed into you with all his might, fucking and fucking you deep and dumb. Your sweaty skin seemed to melt and fuse together, and it was almost as if you were one. "You're so beautiful, so perfect. Your pussy was made to be fucked by me and only - shit - by me." He hugged your back as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling you two as close as possible. "You were made. for. me," he punctuated the words with each thrust, and took on an erratic rhythm.

"I was. And you for — Ah! Me." You said, burying your face in his neck, and it was like a trigger: Caleb's legs started shaking, and his cock started throbbing, shooting his load inside you, over and over again. You both groaned loudly and hugged each other even tighter, as if that were humanly possible. The two of you stayed like that, hugging, soaked, stuck together, panting, and even after a full minute you could feel Caleb's cock twitching inside you, releasing one last hot spurt.

After a bit of quiet time to catch your breath, you began to laugh and planted a few kisses on Caleb's sweaty neck. Carefully, you lifted your face to look at him. He had his eyes closed and a smile on his face.

"Hey, Colonel, how's it going?" You said, your voice hoarse and tired. Caleb let out a quiet "mm-hmm" of approval. "Can you let me go now? We're disgusting." You looked down, feeling the sweat that glued your breasts and belly to his chest and abdomen. Caleb wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead.

"I'll never let you go," he said with a smile. You laughed and nuzzled your face against his neck again. You stayed like that, together, your breathing calming down and your heartbeats synchronizing. Suddenly, something popped into your head.

"Hey, how long do these cameras keep the recordings?" You whispered, and Caleb shivered. You looked at him again, and he opened his eyes, his pupils getting bigger again.

"I don't know... A few hours, or days, maybe." He stroked your back, lost in thought. "Do you want to see?"

You laughed and stared back at him, "Absolutely."

#lads caleb #love and deepspace #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb xia #fanfic #lads smut #kutepik #caleb smut

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albertharveys-blog · 1 year ago

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#openframemonitors #open frame touch screen monitors

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thepencilnerd · 3 months ago

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seeing double

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader x michael "robby" robinavitch summary: A night out with two of your closest colleagues turns into something you never expected—or did you? Between cocktails, dancing, and old tension, the line between friendship and something more finally blurs. warnings/content: nsfw | 18+ MDNI, porn with a whisper of plot, pining, threesome (m/f/m), p in v + oral sex (m&f receiving), jack and robby are both soft/pleasure doms, protective/possessive/jealous tendencies, praise kink, no condoms but IUD use, domestic fluff, banter wc: 10k a/n: wine drunk alone on a friday night + one very rare instance of dreaming = this monstrosity, excuse any mistakes, not religious but i will pray for forgiveness for i have sinned because jfc—

It started like any other post-shift outing: exhausted, half-delirious, desperate for something that didn't smell like ammonia.

Robby had slung his arm around your shoulders the second you walked out of the ER, pulling you toward Jack with a bright grin. "First round's on me. Hell, second round too if you both promise not to ditch me for charting."

Jack had just smirked, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "We'll see how intolerable you get after two shots."

It wasn't always like this—the three of you tangled together like gravity and inevitability. When you first joined day shift, it was Robby you bonded with. Quick jokes in the trauma bay, quiet coffee runs between codes, the kind of easy camaraderie that came from surviving the same battlefield night after night. His touches had started out friendly—a pat on your shoulder after a long shift, a gentle squeeze on the same shoulder when you nailed a tricky procedure—but over time, the air between you shifted.

Every glance lingered longer. Every touch sparked hotter.

Robby's hand on your lower back when you squeezed past him in the supply room, the way he’d always seem to find reasons to stand just a little too close, his thumb brushing yours when you handed him charts—it all built slowly, unbearably. You’d catch him staring sometimes, his round, dark-rimmed frames lingering a second too long on your mouth or the curve of your neck before he’d grin and deflect with a joke.

There was the night after a particularly brutal trauma when Robby had tugged you into a half-hug outside the ambulance bay, squeezing you so tightly you had to laugh. "You're a badass, you know that?" he'd said against your hair, voice rough. And for a second—just a second—he hadn't let go.

When you switched to night shift for extra trauma training, you met Jack. At first, he was just your attending—brilliant, relentless, intimidating. He kept a careful distance, crisp in his authority. But slowly, cracks showed.

One night, after a rough code, you’d slumped against the nurses’ station with blood-streaked gloves still on. Jack appeared beside you, two coffees in hand, sliding one toward you without a word. You’d blinked at him, fingers brushing his when you took it, and for a moment he didn't move.

"Thanks," you’d muttered, voice rough.

He’d just shrugged, but there was the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "You’re welcome, hotshot."

You caught him smirking more often after that—at your dry jokes, your quick comebacks—offering gruff praise when you pulled off a save. Once, when you fumbled a suturing kit in a rare moment of exhaustion, Jack crouched beside you and murmured low, "Hey, breathe. You've got this."

His hand brushed your back—brief, grounding, unbearably warm—and your heart stuttered so hard it was a wonder he didn’t hear it.

Jack was slower to open up. The late-night rooftop coffees, both of you leaning back against the ledge, city lights blinking below as you traded quiet stories about worst patients, favorite saves, tiny admissions about sleeplessness and fear. The stolen glances across the nurses' station, like magnets catching without meaning to.

There were nights the ER would blur around you—patients screaming, monitors wailing—and Jack's voice would cut through the noise, steady and sure: "You with me?"

And you’d always nod. Always.

Once, you'd both reached for the same suture kit and your hands had collided, his fingers wrapping around yours instinctively. Neither of you pulled away immediately. His thumb brushed your knuckles before he let go, the moment stretched tight enough to snap like a stale rubberband.

By the time you'd rotated back onto a blended shift with Robby and Jack, you were caught in the pull of both of them. Two different kinds of push and pull.

If working with the both of them had taught you anything, it was that Michael Robinavitch and Jack Abbot were combustible—two sparks waiting for a reason to ignite, especially when it came to you.

They both had a tendency to be overprotective, possessive, and if they were honest, being around each other's orbit didn't help. When you’d come in for night shift and bid Robby goodbye as he ended his day, Jack would eye the way you laughed with Robby, the way Robby’s hand lingered at your elbow or lower back. More than once, Jack had swooped in, pretending to need you for a case, cutting the conversation short with a clipped, "You ready, Dr. L/N?"

Robby noticed. His wide grin supersaturated with disbelief, like he knew exactly what Jack was doing, clapping him on the shoulder harder than necessary as he left.

Likewise, when you clocked out in the morning and Robby was coming in to start his shift, it was Jack’s turn to be on the receiving end. You’d be talking with Jack at the nurses' station—usually laughing softly, leaning in closer than strictly necessary—and Robby would stroll up, insert himself easily into the conversation, his arm bumping yours as he reached for a chart.

Jack would tense, jaw ticking, shooting Robby a look that practically screamed, "We'll talk about this later," even if the words never came.

And when it came to the new interns—the accident magnets they were—their protective instincts bordered on alien.

Santos once knocked over a cart dangerously close to you and before you could even flinch, Jack had caught the edge of it with lightning-fast reflexes, his body shielding yours. He turned to Santos after, shooting him a look so sharp it could’ve drawn blood—the kind of glare that promised slow, premeditated murder if she didn't start paying more attention. Santos paled visibly, stammering an apology that Jack didn't even acknowledge.

Another time, Whitaker had nearly swung a door into you during a code and Robby had yanked you back by your waist, muttering a sharp, "Watch it," without even looking. A few minutes later, Robby—with all the casual malice in the world—assigned Whitaker to shadow Myrna for the rest of his shift as punishment. The look on Whitaker's face had been priceless; the vindictive smirk on Robby's face afterward, even better.

Javadi once sent a gurney skidding wild around a corner and you barely sidestepped—only for both Jack and Robby to step in front of you at once. Both of them looked ready to grill Javadi, who froze like she'd been caught committing arson. Before either could open their mouths, you clicked your tongue at them in warning, stepping around them to calm the sleep-deprived child genius, "Are you okay, honey? Let's get you some coffee."

You shot Robby and Jack a narrow glare over your shoulder—a silent command to stand down—and, grudgingly, they obeyed. But not without Jack muttering something about "rookies" under his breath. You, for the most part, played innocent—but you weren’t completely blind. You saw the way they watched you, the way they bristled and circled, each trying not to cross some invisible line neither had the nerve to define.

Once, you’d even caught them at the end of the hallway near the staff lockers, deep in a heated whisper-yelling argument. You were too far away to hear it all, but you caught pieces as you slowed your steps.

"...not yours to stake out," Robby hissed, shoulders tense.

Jack’s jaw flexed. "Maybe I’m what she needs," he snapped, voice rough with something almost broken.

Robby stepped closer, the space between them charged. "You don't get to decide that."

You’d ducked away before they could notice you, heart pounding, pretending you hadn't heard a single thing. You hadn't known then—not really. But you'd be lying if you said you hadn't had an idea.

In the weeks that followed, you noticed the air between them eased—less tense, less brittle. They started joking again, nudged shoulders in passing, teased you in tandem during transitional shifts. It almost felt normal again. Almost. But underneath it, something still lingered—a crackling undercurrent that neither of them could quite hide. Not from each other. And certainly not from you.

Little did you know that tonight would be the night where things completely shifted.

The bar was loud and too warm, the floor sticky, the music a little too old to be considered vintage and a little too new to be classic. It didn’t matter. It was freedom.

Robby bought whiskey for himself, beer for Jack, and whatever alcohol-masked cocktail you pointed at on the menu.

"To surviving," Robby toasted, clinking glasses.

"To making it out without a lawsuit," Jack amended dryly.

You laughed, rolling your eyes, and drank deep.

It was easier than it should have been to relax. To let the haze of alcohol smooth the sharp edges of exhaustion. You grabbed Robby's hand and tugged him toward the makeshift dance floor, singing, "Come on, old man, dance with me!"

He hesitated, shaking his head and smiling to himself—then grinned and let you pull him. Robby spun you first instead, taking you by surprise, his laughter warm and easy against your ear. You laughed as he caught you against him again, both of you breathless and loose with happiness.

Jack leaned against the nearby wall, watching with that steady gaze of his, beer bottle dangling from his fingertips.

"C'mon, Jack," Robby called over the music. "Get your ass over here."

Jack held up a hand from where he leaned against the wall, a silent 'I'm good,' his mouth quirking in a reluctant smile. But you weren't having it. You weaved your way through the crowd toward him, leaning up on your toes to whisper something warm against his ear.

"Dance with me, Jack," you whispered through the noise, your voice low and warm, meant only for him. Jack stiffened for a second, breath catching, and when you pulled back, his eyes were dark, hungry. He pushed off the wall without another word and followed you to the floor, his beer forgotten.

Robby spun you again, and when you stumbled laughing into Jack, he caught you with hands that lingered a little too long on your waist. His palms were warm, steady, the faint smell of his cologne—clean soap and cedar—curling around you. Robby pressed back into your other side, the scent of whiskey and his usual lazy citrus aftershave filling your senses.

Their touches blended together—Jack’s firmer grip at your hips, Robby’s looser, teasing sways—and yet you could still tell exactly who was who. Jack's breath was slow and deliberate against your temple; Robby’s laughter rumbled against your back, a low vibration that soaked into your bones. For a moment, you were suspended between them, the music, the warmth, the want—utterly theirs.

You were on cloud nine, swaying to and fro like you were caught between the ocean and the moon—their touches the tide, pulling you back and forth, holding you steady.

Jack’s fingers flexed, and for a moment, the world tightened down to just the three of you—the heat, the gravity pulling you closer.

Robby pressed in behind you, his hands finding your hips, swaying you to the beat. Jack didn't step back. He stepped closer.

The music pulsed around you. Your head tipped back against Robby's shoulder, your eyes locking with Jack's.

Jack’s hand brushed your cheek, feather-light, like he was giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Robby's breath ghosted your ear. "God, you’re beautiful."

Jack's thumb traced your jawline. "You drive us crazy, you know that?"

Your pulse thundered. Your body ached in ways that had nothing to do with fatigue.

You leaned in close, hovering near Jack's lips, but didn't kiss him—not yet. Jack froze, his hands tightening just slightly at your waist, pulling back just enough to make the boundary clear. You could see it written all over him—the hesitation, the unspoken rule he lived by: he wouldn't kiss you or anyone without explicit consent, either given or received.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw. "I'm sober enough to give consent," you assured, breathless but certain.

Then you turned to Robby too, catching his eye as your fingers brushed his cheek, your voice low but sure. "To both of you." His fingers tangled with yours easily, his grin soft and a little stunned as he let you loop him into your orbit—exactly where he’d always wanted to be.

Facing Jack again, you saw relief flash across his face—followed almost immediately by want. Jack leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning your lips, his nose brushing yours. He hovered there, still hesitant, giving you one last chance to pull away. When you didn't—when you leaned into him instead—he surrendered. His mouth claimed yours unapologetically, slow and aching, like he had all the time in the world and no intention of ever letting you go.

Robby kissed your neck at the same time, teeth scraping lightly against your pulse point, one hand splaying over your stomach, pulling you closer. His beard scraped roughly against your skin, a delicious, rasping contrast to Jack's lighter stubble as Jack’s mouth moved against yours—a difference you felt everywhere they touched you. Robby's touch was warmer, softer, always teasing; Jack's was firmer, anchoring, a bundle of hot coals beneath your skin. Different, but the same in the way they both made your nerves light up, made you feel like you were being pulled apart only to be put back together better, more whole, by the both of them.

You whimpered into Jack’s mouth, dizzy from the dual sensation, from the way they bracketed you, claimed you without a single word. Jack's hands shifted, strong and sure, spinning you gently—a slow, deliberate turn—until you faced Robby. For a moment, you stood suspended between them again, heartbeat thundering in your ears.

Robby met you with a grin that was all heat and mischief, and then he kissed you—hotter, deeper, needier. Jack's mouth found your pulse point, sucking and nipping, while Robby's tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing you open.

You gasped into Robby's mouth, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as Jack’s teeth grazed your throat, a low growl rumbling against your skin. Every nerve ending sparked, overwhelmed by the heat, the dizzying contrast, the way their hands and mouths knew your body like a song they'd always known by heart.

You couldn't tell how long the three of you had been standing there, tangled up, swaying in the sticky heat of the bar, the music thudding faintly around you. It could’ve been minutes or hours—time had stopped mattering somewhere between Jack’s lips and Robby’s hands.

Jack dipped his head, his breath skating warm against your ear, sending a fresh shiver down your spine.

"Do you want to get out of here, sweetheart?" he murmured, voice low and rough, a rasp of barely leashed need.

You nodded immediately, the word tumbling from your lips like a prayer. "Yes," you breathed—needy, desperate. The delicious ache between your legs had built to a throbbing pulse you couldn't ignore anymore, and feeling their firm bodies sandwiching yours, pressing into you from both sides, did absolutely nothing to help your self-control.

Robby chuckled, low and rough. "My place?"

"Fuck, yes—anywhere," you breathed, a laugh bubbling out of you, unable to stop the grin pulling at your lips. Jack grabbed your hand. Robby wrapped an arm around your waist.

Together, you stumbled out into the night—drunk on each other—laughing, touching, wanting.

Robby’s apartment wasn’t far—just a few blocks—and the fresh air hit your overheated skin like a balm.

The three of you walked fast, heads down, hands brushing and grabbing. Jack’s hand found the small of your back, steady and grounding. Robby kept an arm slung around your shoulders, pulling you close enough that you stumbled a few steps, giggling breathlessly against his chest.

The streets were mostly empty, just the faint hum of distant traffic and the sharp sound of your shoes hitting pavement. Every so often, Jack would glance over at you, his gaze dark, searing through the haze of streetlight. Robby would squeeze your side, lean in to murmur something low and wicked that made your cheeks burn and your thighs clench.

By the time you reached Robby’s building, you were buzzing with need, clinging to both of them without even thinking.

Jack opened the door for you, hand lingering low on your back. Robby herded you inside, already crowding close, already reaching for you like he couldn't wait a second longer.

The door slammed shut behind you with a thud, and before you could even blink, their hands were on you again—urgent, hungry, claiming.

It was dizzying, overwhelming, intoxicating.

But somewhere between Jack's mouth brushing your neck and Robby's fingers slipping under your shirt, clarity cracked through the haze. You shifted slightly, placing a hand on each of their chests, feeling their hearts hammering under your palms.

"Wait," you breathed.

Immediately, they froze—Jack pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, Robby's hands pausing where they'd met your hips.

You took a shaky breath, sobering a little more with every heartbeat. "I just… I need to ask… what's going on between us?" you said, voice rough with nerves. "I want this—I want both of you—but are you two okay with that? With… us?"

You glanced between them, heart hammering, terrified of the answer but needing it all the same.

Robby's grin softened into something gentler, thumb brushing the bare skin of your waist. "Been wanting this longer than I should probably admit."

Jack's hand found your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone, gaze burning into yours. After a moment, he exhaled slowly, seeming to gather himself. Then, with a gentle but firm touch, he guided you to sit on the couch behind you.

"Come here," he said softly. "Let's talk."

Robby, reading the mood immediately, peeled away toward the kitchen. "I'll make some tea," he said over his shoulder—giving you space, but also clearly knowing this conversation might take a minute, and that sobering up a little more wouldn't hurt any of you.

Jack sat down on your left, still close but not crowding, his thumb brushing lightly over your knee. "Talk to us, sweetheart," he murmured. "Whatever's in your head—we want to hear it."

You fiddled with the hem of your top, nervous energy humming under your skin. "I... how did we even get here?" you asked. "You, Robby—this thing between the three of us... Are you two really okay with it? With… sharing me? Sharing each other?"

Jack's lips twitched like he almost smiled but held it back, something more serious glinting in his eyes instead. Robby set down mugs on the table and dropped onto the arm of the couch on your right.

"Yeah," Robby said, voice softer now. "More than okay."

Jack reached up, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. "Been a long time coming, if you ask me," he said quietly. "And if we weren’t good with it, sweetheart, you’d know already."

Robby leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, flashing you a crooked grin. "If it's any consolation," he said, voice teasing, "I liked you first."

You scoffed, the tension easing a little, even as your cheeks heated. Jack snorted under his breath, giving Robby a sideways look. "Congratulations. You had a head start and still fumbled it."

"Hey!" Robby protested. "Some of us play the long game."

You shook your head, warmth blooming in your chest, feeling the old familiar dynamic between them—sniping, nudging, teasing—but now all focused on you.

"So," you said, biting your lip. "Was that what you two were arguing about that day by the lockers? A few weeks ago?"

Jack sighed through his nose, and Robby grinned like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Yeah," Robby admitted. "You caught the tail end of it."

Jack's hand slid down your arm, squeezing gently. "We were... figuring it out."

"Mostly... arguing over who was gonna make the first move," Robby added, winking.

You laughed, soft and breathless, the last of the nerves bleeding out of you. Robby bumped your shoulder gently with his, his eyes crinkling with affection.

"Old school here wanted to make some grand gesture," Jack said, jerking his thumb at Robby. "I was ready to just tackle you and confess."

Robby shook his head, tongue poking the inside of his cheek, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And you wonder why I didn't trust you to lead."

You let out a giggle you couldn't quite suppress, heart squeezing at how easy this felt—how they both looked at you like you were something precious. Jack shifted closer, his knee brushing yours, while Robby draped his arm casually across the back of the couch behind you.

"Whatever pace you want, sweetheart," Jack murmured. "Whatever you need. If you want this—us—we're in."

"We're not going anywhere," Robby affirmed. "Only if you want us too."

Cradling the warm mug between your hands, you smiled to yourself, giddy and a little dazed. Surrounded by them—their warmth, their steadiness, their absolute certainty—you felt a slow, overwhelming peace settle into your bones.

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined either of them liking you—let alone, outside any professional context—but this? This was beyond anything you dared hope for. A dream you hadn't even let yourself dream.

Still, nerves prickled under your skin. Nerves hummed just beneath your skin. "I’m nervous," you admitted, voice soft but steady. "I’ve never done anything like this before. What if I’m not enough? What if I disappoint you? I don’t know if I’m built for relationships—let alone something this delicate. I’m scared I won’t be able to give each of you what you need."

Robby immediately set his mug down and reached for you, his hand settling warmly on your thigh, squeezing gently. "Hey," he said, voice low and sure. "You’re already enough. You, exactly as you are."

Jack leaned in too, his fingers brushing the back of your neck, grounding you with each slow stroke. "We’re not asking for perfect," he murmured. "We just want you."

Their certainty cracked something open inside you, something you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding shut—and slowly, steadily, the fear loosened its grip.

You set your mug down, heart hammering, and looked between them, searching their faces one more time. Robby gave you an encouraging tilt of his head; Jack’s hand never left your skin, tracing slow, grounding patterns.

You cleared your throat. "So how does..." you gestured vaguely between the three of you, "this work? Sharing me, I mean."

Robby chuckled. "Well, we'd figure it out together," he said easily. His fingers traced lazy circles over your knee, comforting, teasing. "It’s not about splitting you up or taking turns like it’s a damn schedule. It’s about both of us making sure you feel wanted. Taken care of. Every second."

As he spoke, Jack leaned in, lips brushing just below your ear, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin.

Robby's voice dropped, a smirk playing on his lips as he tilted his head toward Jack. "Though he’s better at explaining the rules."

Jack's hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him. "No rules, not really," he murmured, mouth dragging along your neck. "Just tell us what you need. When you need it. And we—" he pressed a lingering kiss just below your jawline, "promise to give it to you."

You exhaled shakily, caught between the heat of Jack’s mouth and the warm weight of Robby's hand sliding higher along your thigh, the both of them slowly, steadily, setting you aflame.

Jack leaned in first—not demanding, not pushing, just giving you space to meet him halfway. You did, pressing your mouth to his, a sigh escaping against his lips. His kiss was slow at first, savoring, a promise.

When you broke apart, Robby was already there, catching your chin between his fingers and drawing you into him. His kiss was hotter, rougher, all pent-up hunger and laughter and want. You gasped softly into his mouth, fingers curling in his shirt.

Hands roamed—Jack’s warm and patient, stroking slow, steady paths along your inner thigh, while Robby’s fingers flirted shamelessly with the hem of your shirt, tugging it higher inch by inch. The pace between them built naturally—Jack’s touch grounding and possessive, Robby’s teasing and featherlight, like a promise he was aching to keep.

Jack’s hand slipped under the fabric of your top first, palm splaying flat over your bare stomach, the heat of him searing straight through you. Robby followed a breath later, fingers brushing just beneath your ribs, making you arch into them, helpless and wanting. Jack’s mouth was back on your neck, teeth scraping lightly against your pulse, while Robby pressed kisses along your jaw, slow and coaxing, both of them winding you tighter with every breath.

The duality of it—the steadiness of Jack’s hands anchoring you, the playful, maddening tease of Robby’s touch—left you trembling, gasping, caught between them, aching. They didn’t just touch you—they learned you, charting every gasp, every shiver, every breathless plea with reverent, greedy hands. And you gave yourself over to it completely, trusting them to catch you as you fell.

Jack's hand slid higher, fingertips brushing just beneath the band of your bra, while Robby nudged your shirt up over your ribs, planting slow, open-mouthed kisses along your exposed skin. They worked in tandem, peeling your shirt away with practiced ease, leaving you shivering and bare between them.

Jack kissed along your collarbone, featherlight, while Robby's hands coasted down your sides, making you arch and sigh into their touch. You felt dizzy with it, lost in the contrast—Jack's slow, claiming heat, Robby's teasing, daring warmth. Every nerve in your body sang for them, thrumming with the need to be touched, devoured, loved.

Jack's mouth returned to yours in a slow, bruising kiss while Robby leaned in, hands slipping beneath the band of your bra, rough thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped, the sensation sparking through you like lightning, hips shifting restlessly against the couch cushions.

Robby grinned against your shoulder, murmuring low against your skin, "Sensitive, huh?"

Jack chuckled into your mouth, his hands steadying your waist. "Good to know..."

You whimpered, nodding, surrendering completely to their slow, relentless worship—your body already unraveling under their hands and mouths, and they were just getting started.

"Too many clothes... off," you gasped breathlessly, tugging at the hem of your own top and glancing meaningfully between the two of them.

Robby grinned, wicked and eager. "Thought you'd never ask."

Jack hummed low in his throat, his hands already sliding up your sides, helping to peel the rest of your clothes away with deliberate slowness—as if unwrapping something precious they both intended to indulge in to the fullest extent.

They stripped you bare first, taking their time, every inch of skin revealed under their hungry, adoring gazes. After, you leaned back against the couch, heart hammering, feeling their eyes rake over you with something between adoration and possession. Then they undressed themselves—shirts pulled off in swift, unceremonious movements, revealing solid, muscular frames. Jack's arms flexed as he tossed his shirt aside, lean but powerful, while Robby's broader chest gleamed under the low light, his biceps straining deliciously as he shucked off his own layers.

You couldn't help it—you toyed with the hem of your underwear absentmindedly, admiring them, drinking them in. The dips of their hips, the strength built over years of unrelenting shifts and physical work. The noticeable bulges pressing against their briefs made your thighs squeeze together instinctively, seeking relief from the growing, delicious ache.

Both of them noticed. Jack prowled closer first, his eyes dark, focused, reverent, like he was already memorizing every inch of you. Robby followed, his grin dropping into something hungrier, need coiling thick between the three of you.

Jack knelt between your legs, his hands trailing slowly up your calves, your knees, coaxing them apart as Robby lowered himself onto the couch behind you, sliding you down lower, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arms bracketed you securely, anchoring you against the firm heat of his body, while you melted between him and Jack, breath catching at the feeling of being completely surrounded.

You felt their heat everywhere—Jack's breath fanning against your inner thighs, Robby's heartbeat hammering steady against your spine. Jack's hands were firm on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles that made your skin prickle with anticipation. Behind you, Robby's hands roamed shamelessly, toying with your stomach, skimming higher to tease the sensitive peaks of your breasts, brushing and rolling your nipples until you gasped and arched into their touch, caught helplessly between them.

Jack glanced up at you through his lashes, a slow, devastating smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Let us take care of you."

Robby murmured into your ear, his lips brushing your temple. "Just lean back. Let us show you how good this can be."

You whimpered softly, head falling back against Robby's shoulder, fully surrendering to them. Jack's hands squeezed your thighs, steadying you, while Robby's fingers skimmed higher, teasing circles around your nipples until you were trembling with need.

Jack pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, working his way slowly, deliberately up your inner thigh, each one hotter, wetter, more possessive than the last. Robby kept you anchored, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face, murmuring low praise against your skin, grounding you even as you unraveled.

Every brush of Jack's stubble against your sensitive thighs sent shivers skating down your spine. You barely managed to pant out, "Please," before Jack's mouth hovered dangerously close to where you needed him most, the heat of his breath making you writhe against Robby's chest, desperate and burning and so beautifully undone.

Jack hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it down with agonizing slowness. Once it was off, he balled the fabric in his hand for a moment—then tossed it up toward Robby without a word. Robby caught it without missing a beat. He lifted it to his face, inhaled deeply, and groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back. "Fuck, baby," he rasped, his grip tightening around your waist.

And then—finally—Jack's mouth found you. One slow, deliberate lick that made you cry out, made your whole body tense and shudder against Robby's.

Jack groaned into you, hands digging into your thighs like he could hold you open forever. He ate you out like a man possessed, like he'd been starved for the taste of you and was finally allowed to feast. Messy, desperate, utterly pussy-drunk. He mouthed and sucked and licked you like worship, dragging obscene sounds from your throat with every flick of his tongue. The wet, filthy sounds of it filled the room, each lap of his tongue driving you closer to the edge.

You were soaked—shamelessly, beautifully wet for him—and Jack reveled in it, letting out a low, wrecked groan every time you bucked against his mouth. His face was drenched in you, slick and shining under the dim lights, the evidence of your pleasure painting his jaw and chin as he worked you over with single-minded devotion. Robby pressed kisses along your temple, whispering praises into your ear, but it was Jack who owned you in that moment—Jack who wouldn't stop, couldn't stop until you shattered for him, drunk on nothing but the sound and taste and feel of you, desperate for everything you would give him.

Jack slid one thick finger inside you, curling it expertly, pulling another whimper from your throat. He didn't give you time to adjust before slipping in a second, stretching you so sweetly, working you open with slow, devastating precision. Robby's fingers trailed down your stomach, teasing lazy, featherlight patterns until they found your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Jack held your right thigh open with one firm hand, while Robby used his left leg to nudge your other knee wider, keeping you perfectly spread for them—completely, gloriously exposed. The contrast of their steady pressure, their control, only heightened the burning pleasure already coiling low in your belly.

Overwhelming was an understatement to describe the state of your sensory cortex—Jack's tongue and fingers working deep inside you, Robby's slow, relentless pressure on your clit. You felt your soul begin to slip from your body, floating somewhere above, untethered by the sheer, unbearable pleasure. Everything was too much—the wet, filthy sound of Jack feasting on you, the breathy filth Robby was murmuring in your ear, the way they both knew exactly how to break you apart.

It hit you like a flashfire—white-hot and consuming—and you exploded with a choked cry, body arching helplessly between them as the orgasm ripped through you, shattering you into a thousand glittering pieces in their hands.

Jack didn't stop—not at first. He licked you through it, groaning into your core like a man possessed, savoring every trembling aftershock you gave him. Robby held you tighter, grounding you while your vision blurred and your body spasmed with the force of it.

You whimpered, boneless and wrecked, hips twitching as Jack finally eased off with a final kiss to your sensitive clit. When he pulled back, his face was a mess—slick with your release, shining under the dim lights, utterly wrecked and utterly in love with the taste of you.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth—completely unashamed—and smirked, voice rough and low. "You taste even better than I dreamed, sweetheart."

He lifted his hand—your essence webbed slick between his middle and ring fingers—and held it up toward Robby. Robby caught his wrist without hesitation, wrapped his lips around Jack's fingers, and sucked them clean, slow and deliberate. The sight—Robby moaning low around Jack’s fingers, Jack staring down at you like he wanted to devour you all over again—nearly made you die and ascend straight to heaven on the spot.

Robby licked his lips, eyes molten. His voice was low and rough when he finally spoke. "Which one of us do you want first?"

You could barely breathe, still half-falling from your last orgasm. Your body was limp, floating, buzzing with overstimulation—but the way they looked at you—hungry, waiting—set a fresh ache rolling through your gut.

You bit your lip, gaze flickering between them. Robby—broad and steady behind you, heat radiating from his bare chest now damp with sweat. Jack—still kneeling between your spread thighs, resting his head lightly against your thigh like it was a pillow, his face slick with you, shining under the dim lights. He stared up at you with a look so raw, so utterly reverent, it made your breath catch—like you were something holy, something he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch.

You opened your mouth to answer—but all that came out was a wrecked, breathy little giggle.

Jack chuckled, low and wrecked. "Yeah," he rasped, thumb brushing your thigh possessively. "We might've broken her a little."

Robby grinned wickedly against your shoulder, pressing a slow kiss to your neck. "We haven't even started yet, baby."

You found the strength to lift your head, heart still hammering against your ribs. Jack and Robby seemed to feel it too—the need to slow, just for a second, to gather you back into yourself.Jack kissed your thigh softly while Robby stroked lazy, grounding patterns along your ribs and stomach, whispering, "Breathe. We've got you."

Their touches soothed the wild, frantic buzz in your veins. You melted between them, savoring that brief, perfect moment of care—before the tension, the heat, the hunger started sparking again.

You leaned forward, pulling Jack up onto the couch, crashing your mouth against his in a heated, desperate kiss. You tasted yourself on his tongue, slick and filthy and devastating—and it only made you kiss him harder, grinding your hips against Robby in wordless, frantic need.

Robby groaned, feeling you start to move against him, and his hands slid possessively down your sides to anchor you. Jack pulled back just enough for you to gasp a shaky breath, eyes dark and blown wide, before you started moving, trading places—Robby got up with a low groan, adjusting himself slightly as he moved aside. You slid off Robby's lap, allowing Jack to fall back onto the couch cushions, legs spread, inviting. Kneeling between Jack’s thighs, your fingers fumbled at his waistband. He hissed softly when you freed him, the heavy, flushed weight of him slapping against his stomach.

Robby kneeled down behind you—his hands tracing down the delicate arch of your back, then slipping lower to spread you open. You shuddered as he leaned in, pressing a soft, teasing lick along your folds, tasting you again before standing up behind you, lining himself up.

Jack held his hand up toward Robby and paused for a beat, gaze searching yours. "Do you want us to use condoms?" he asked, voice quiet but serious.

You shook your head instantly, breathless but certain. "I want to feel you. Please, I need you like this..."

That was all the permission they needed.

Before he could push in, you turned your head slightly, your hands reaching back. You found Robby's cock in one hand and Jack's in the other, stroking them both slowly, deliberately, savoring the way each man shuddered under your touch. You gave yourself a moment to take in their differences: Robby was longer, while Jack was thicker. Robby had a dark, full bush of hair at his base, while Jack was trimmed short, neat but not bare. Both of them were perfect—different textures, different shapes—but each exactly the right length and girth to fulfill your every need. Your mouth watered just thinking about it, your thighs instinctively pressing together in anticipation.

Robby leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder, and then pointed toward Jack with a tilt of his chin, a silent handoff. "It's okay, baby," he murmured against your skin, voice thick with need. "We've got you."

With that, he gripped your hips, steadying you, and with one slow, devastating push, he slid inside—filling you completely, making your knees tremble.

"Fuck." You couldn't tell which one of you said it but all of you understood.

Sandwiched between them, your mouth found Jack’s cock, wrapping your lips around him as Robby filled you from behind, and you thought—half-delirious—that heaven had nothing on this.

"I'm considering getting it taken out," you admitted to Samira one sluggish morning, slumped at the nurses' station after a brutal overnight shift. "I haven't had sex in forever. And honestly? After that disaster of a 'date' last month—if you can even call it that—I’m swearing off men altogether."

Samira snorted into her coffee. "Babe. It's an IUD, not a vow of celibacy. Just leave it. Who knows? One day you’ll trip and fall onto someone worthwhile."

You laughed weakly, swirling your pen between your fingers. "Yeah. The odds of my toys and I having a long, happy life together are becoming more and more likely."

Neither of you noticed Jack and Robby just around the corner of the nurses' station, both frozen in place, pretending to sift through charts as they listened intently—Jack’s jaw clenched tight, Robby’s fingers twitching like he wanted to strangle something. Robby cleared his throat a little too aggressively.

Samira sipped her coffee, then grinned over the rim of the mug. "Please. The perfect man could walk in, naked, with a six-pack and a stethoscope and you’d still roll your eyes."

You snorted. "Exactly. Unless he’s got magic hands and a brain with emotional intelligence to match, I’m not interested. And even then…" You shrugged. "Battery-powered and drama-free is winning right now."

Jack's pen snapped clean in two, the sharp crack making you and Samira both glance up. He didn't even flinch, just grabbed another pen—handed to him silently by Robby, like nothing had happened—and kept moving. You and Samira shared a puzzled look before continuing your conversation.

"I'm just saying," Samira continued breezily, unaware of the storm brewing behind the divider, "maybe keep it. Future you might thank you."

Jack’s voice floated in a second later—low, rough, a little too casual. "Keep it."

You blinked. "Uh… thanks for the unsolicited medical advice, Dr. Abbot?" you teased lightly.

Jack just shrugged, gaze unreadable. "Saw a teen pregnancy case come through last night," he said, voice low and rough.

Samira let out a soft exhale. "Shit."

You winced, the image settling heavy in your chest. "That’s awful."

Jack tipped his chin down. "Reminded me how fast things can change. Better to be protected. Even if you think you won’t need it."

You nodded slowly, assuming he meant it like any good physician would—just another reminder in a world of unpredictable chaos. At the time, you didn't know that when he said "keep it," he wasn’t thinking about some random case or an oath of ethics.

He was thinking about you, and Robby, and the secret, filthy hope that someday soon, it wouldn’t just be hypothetical anymore.

The thing about Jack and Robby was this—they both prided themselves on being brilliant doctors, but even more so on remembering the little things.

Especially when it came to you.

A particularly deep thrust snapped you out of your mind wandering. Robby set a brutal pace almost immediately, hips slamming into yours with deep, relentless thrusts that made your entire body jolt forward. You moaned around Jack's cock, drool slipping from the corners of your lips, your throat vibrating with every desperate, broken sound you made.

Jack hissed, his hand tangling in your hair, the vibrations from your moans sending sharp waves of pleasure up his spine. "Fuck, sweetheart," he groaned, head falling back against the couch. "You're perfect like this."

You could barely think, overwhelmed and soaked, the rhythm of Robby pounding into you from behind driving you forward with every thrust—until your lips slid further down Jack's length, gagging slightly as you fought to keep your composure.

"That's it," Robby growled, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding up your spine. "Look at you… taking him so well while I wreck you."

Jack moaned low in his throat, eyes dark and glassy as he watched your mouth stretch around him. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, his voice rough and reverent. "You're gonna make me lose it."

Robby laughed softly behind you, breath hot against your shoulder as he drove into you with another sharp, delicious thrust. "She loves it. Don't you, baby?"

You could only let out a faint, muffled whimper, your mouth still stuffed full of Jack. Jack leaned forward, his hand curling into your hair and giving a firm tug at the roots—just enough to sting, just enough to make your eyes roll back with the delicious ache.

"He asked you a question, sweetheart..." he cooed, his voice dark silk in your ear.

He pulled you off his cock slowly, strings of spit still connecting your lips to him, a line trailing messily down your chin. You turned your head to look back at Robby, dazed and trembling, lips swollen, your chin slick, eyes red-rimmed and glassy with the threat of a tear, and a blissed-out, filthy smile curving your mouth.

"I love it," you managed, voice hoarse, breath catching between words. "I love everything you're doing to me. Please... don't stop."

Robby’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of you. His eyes darkened, hands tightening on your hips. "Fuck," he rasped, stunned and awed. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

Jack leaned in, brushing your hair away from your face with a surprisingly gentle hand, his other palm cradling your cheek. "You’re doing so well," he murmured, voice a smooth, deep rasp that curled low in your belly. "So fucking perfect like this. Look at you, taking him so well. Can you feel how much he loves being inside you?"

You whimpered, nodding as Jack’s fingers trailed down your jaw, tilting your chin up so he could look into your eyes. "That’s it," he whispered.

Jack brushed your cheek with his knuckles, tugging you into a messy, open-mouthed kiss, his hips slowing just enough to keep you balanced right on the precipice. You moaned against him, the sound helpless, raw—your body trembling with need. Robby's smirk brushed your skin where he pressed kisses to your shoulder, still moving inside you with slow, devastating thrusts. He pulled out suddenly, making you whimper as the high you were balancing on ripped cruelly from your grasp. You barely had time to recover before Jack's hand wrapped around your throat, firm but careful, beckoning you to follow his lead.

"On the couch," he ordered, voice rough silk.

Dazed but obedient, you moved quickly, positioning yourself laterally across the couch and head perched on the raised armrest. Robby stood directly above your head, cock glistening and heavy, while Jack moved below you, one hand stroking your chest possessively before gripping your thighs.

You braced your elbows on the cushions, breath catching as Jack lined himself up. With one strong, devastating push, he filled you—thicker, stretching you even more, making your mouth fall open in a ragged moan. Robby guided your face toward him, his hand gentle on your cheek, his cock brushing your lips. You blinked up at him, wrecked, lips parted around a gasp as Jack pounded into you, driving you up with every punishing thrust. Robby watched you with hooded eyes, stroking himself lazily, the sight of you completely wrecked making his cock twitch in his hand.

"Come on, baby," he said softly, thumbing the center of your lip. "Open up for me."

"Look at you," Jack rasped. "You're fucking perfect. Made for us."

Both of them were drinking in the sight of you—your hair damp and stuck to your forehead, lips swollen and slick. Your moans were breathy and ragged, a near-constant stream of gasps and incorrigible cries. Robby's gaze was half-lidded, jaw tight. Jack’s hands gripped your hips like he never wanted to let go, his eyes devouring every inch of you like a man deprived of oxygen. The raw awe in their stares made your stomach twist with heat.

It was too much. The stretch of Jack's thick cock filling you, Robby's taste still lingering on your tongue. Surrounded by their heat, their sounds mixing with your own, the pressure finally crested. Your pleasure broke like a supernova, sharp and wild, tearing through you. You came again with a single, desperate cry, your entire body convulsing between them, walls fluttering and gripping Jack so tightly it dragged a guttural, broken groan from his throat.

That did it for Robby.

He thrust into your mouth with a sharp snap of his hips, then again, and again—desperate, ragged, chasing his own high. You could barely keep up, still shuddering from your orgasm as he fucked your throat, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other in your hair.

"Jesus fuck—" he gasped, voice unraveling. "Just like that..."

With a final, wrecked moan, Robby came, hips stuttering. Hot release spilled across your tongue as he groaned through clenched teeth, fingers flexing in your hair as he slowly stilled, trembling with aftershocks.

You swallowed greedily, drinking him down without hesitation, eager for every drop. His taste sent another flicker of arousal through your spent frame. The hunger in your body didn’t fade—it only simmered lower, deeper, tethered to the way Robby was still trembling, cock pulsing with the last aftershocks of his release. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, cheeks flushed, a dazed but satisfied smile curling at the corners of his lips as he memorized you—every wrecked, glistening inch of you. Jack, still hard and deep inside you, kept his hands on your hips, his eyes fixed on your face like he was watching something holy.

Jack slowed his thrusts, then gestured silently for Robby to join him.

Robby leaned down and gave you a deep, claiming kiss, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan before making his way down your body. Jack shifted, lifting you with surprising care, settling onto the couch with you pulled onto his lap—back to his chest. You were straddling him in reverse, legs spread open across the cushions.

"Just relax," Jack murmured against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin. "Let us take care of you."

Robby knelt down between your legs, his breath ghosting over your plump folds before his mouth latched on, tongue teasing and devouring in practiced rhythm. He licked long and deep, groaning into you, tasting both your slick and Jack's—heady, intoxicating. He held your knees wide open, anchoring you in place with firm hands, occasionally slipping one beneath your thighs to lift you slightly—helping Jack thrust up harder, deeper, driving his cock into you at an angle that made your vision blur.

Jack's hands returned to your breasts, massaging, kneading, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you whimpered. One hand slid up to your throat again, pressing just enough to make your breath catch, before traveling back down over your chest, across your belly.

If God was real, you had no doubt that this was the Biblical version of heaven. Jack filling you from behind, grinding up into your sweet spot with precision, while Robby sucked at your clit, tongue flicking and curling.

Robby pulled back for a moment with a breathless groan, his mouth slick, beard glistening, and eyes dark with awe. "So fucking beautiful," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your trembling inner thigh.

Jack's voice followed, low and wrecked against your ear.

"One more for us," he rasped. "Come for us again. Give it to us."

The word—us—shattered something inside you. The way he said it, raw and desperate, made your body clench again in anticipation, your breath hitching helplessly as the overwhelming pressure began to build all over again.

Your vision went white. The combined rhythm of Jack's thrusts and Robby's relentless mouth on your clit sent you spiraling. You shattered with a choked cry, body trembling uncontrollably, and everything dropped away for a second—blacking out from the intensity of it.

Jack groaned when he felt your walls clamp down hard around him, the aftershocks of your orgasm milking him with every flutter. He growled into your shoulder and buried himself deep, spilling into you with a rough, broken curse, clutching you tightly as he came, hips twitching with each wave of release.

You collapsed back against his chest, boneless and dazed, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it thrum through your fingertips. Jack wrapped an arm tightly around your waist, pressing lazy, reverent kisses to your shoulder as he caught his breath.

Robby made his way up the couch and slid in beside you, tucking your loose hair behind your ear before pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek. "You are an absolute vision," he murmured against your skin, voice low. Jack found your hand, intertwining your fingers, rubbing soothing circles into the knuckle of your index finger. The steady rhythm of his thumb was the only thing anchoring you to the now, holding you steady in the soft, humming aftermath.

They took their time with you after that—gentle hands roaming your skin, tender kisses mapping your body. Jack shifted you carefully off his lap, murmuring soft praises as he rubbed soothing circles over the places where his grip had been a little too rough, thumbs ghosting over faint red imprints along your hips and thighs. He pressed warm, apologetic kisses to your shoulder, to the curve of your neck, anywhere his hands had left their mark. Robby, meanwhile, grabbed a warm cloth and helped clean you up with quiet, focused tenderness, his fingers brushing your skin like you were made of glass, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your knee when he finished.

You smiled through the haze of bliss, wriggling free once you felt a little more solid. "Be right back," you muttered, voice scratchy and small.

You tried to stand—and immediately wobbled, your knees buckling.

Jack and Robby, splayed out lazily on the couch, reacted instantly. Their hands came up instinctively to support your back and arms, steadying you with a gentleness that made your chest ache. When you managed to stay upright, they let their hands linger a beat longer.

They watched you sway with twin smirks tugging at their lips, too spent to do much else but chuckle under their breath.

"Careful," Jack drawled, his voice rough but warm. "You look like you just got hit by a truck."

Robby grinned, resting his head against the back of the couch. "Hell of a good one, though."

You managed to wobble to the bathroom, limbs heavy and bliss-drunk, but halfway there, you turned around briefly—gave them both a playful glare, narrowing your eyes, and held up a finger in mock warning.

The living room echoed with bellied laughter, eyes bright despite the exhaustion, the sound warm and full of affection.

By the time you returned from the bathroom, your body felt like a jar of honey under summer sun, the post-sex haze still curling like smoke under your skin. You flopped gracelessly back onto the couch, a sigh of contentment escaping your lips. Jack and Robby had disappeared briefly into the bathroom themselves. You heard the sound of running water, a few low murmurs exchanged, and then footsteps returning.

When they stepped back into the room, you were curled into the couch cushions, fast asleep, a soft smile curving your lips—blissed out and peaceful. Jack stopped in his tracks, heart thudding at the sight. Robby stilled beside him, eyes soft.

"Out like a light," Robby said quietly, but fondly.

Jack nodded. "Yeah. She earned it."

With a quiet grunt, Robby bent and scooped you up gently, cradling you against his chest. You stirred slightly, your arms looping behind his neck, head nuzzling into his collarbone. Jack padded behind, turning off the lights as they went.

The bedroom was dim and quiet. Robby laid you down carefully, brushing the hair from your face as Jack pulled the covers up over you. You shifted sleepily, instinctively reaching for them.

They climbed in on either side of you—Robby wrapping an arm around your waist, Jack curling close behind. Sandwiched between them, you let out a little contented hum as Jack pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, and Robby to your shoulder.

And in that soft, sleepy silence, you drifted off again—safe, wrapped in warmth, held by the two men who had finally let themselves love you, together.

—

Morning came slowly, the golden haze of sunlight warming the sheets. You stirred first, blinking your eyes open and stretching slightly—only to wince at the delicious soreness that radiated from places you hadn’t known could be sore. You smiled into your pillow as flashes from the night before flared back into focus: the heat of their bodies, the sound of their voices, the way your name had spilled from their mouths.

You tip-toed to the bathroom first, brushing your teeth with the spare toothbrush Robby kept under the sink and washing your face. The cool water anchored you back in your body. When you looked up, the mirror offered you a sight to behold—patches of hickeys forming on your neck, some darker than others, scattered like constellations across your collarbone and throat. Something flashed in your core, a low ache waking up with a pulse of memory. Your smile curled with equal parts embarrassment and pride.

Voices drifted from the kitchen. You pulled on a random shirt hung on the edge of the laundry hamper and padded toward the sound, feet silent on the hardwood.

Jack and Robby stood by the stove—well, more accurately, bickered at the stove. Robby held a spatula mid-air while Jack pointed at something on the counter.

"You can’t add garlic to pancakes," Jack muttered, exasperated.

Robby rolled his eyes. "I wasn’t adding it to the pancakes. I was sautéing it for the eggs—Jesus, keep your scrubs on."

Jack gestured broadly with a mixing bowl. "They’re in the same pan, Robby. They’re going to taste like garlic pancakes."

You leaned against the doorway, grinning as you watched them. Both of them were shirtless, wearing sweatpants. His curls were still mussed from sleep, and Robby wore his sweats low on his hips. They looked like a married couple arguing over brunch logistics—and you loved it more than you could say.

"You need to flip that now or it's going to burn," Jack warned, eyeing the skillet like it had personally offended him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Robby shot back, jabbing at the eggs with the spatula, "Did you suddenly become head chef? You're not even on omelette duty."

Jack crossed his arms and tipped his chin up. "I was until you hijacked the burner and tried to infuse everything with garlic."

"As someone who survived off of expired MREs and basically drinks hot sauce as your only condiment, you are the last person who should be judging my culinary decisions."

You couldn’t hold back your amused scoff. You cleared your throat loudly.

They both froze and turned like synchronized swimmers. Two sets of eyes locked onto you—Jack’s going slightly wide, Robby’s mouth parting like he was about to offer an excuse.

"Morning," you said, deadpan, then broke into a smile.

Their expressions melted, sheepish grins appearing in tandem.

Jack stepped forward first, slipping a hand around your waist and leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your cheek. It was soft, warm, lingering just long enough to make your chest flutter.

Robby started to move toward you too, clearly intending to follow suit, but Jack smirked and turned slightly. "Can’t let the eggs burn, can we?"

Robby glared at him but stayed put, grumbling under his breath as he gave the eggs a stir.

With a quiet laugh, you stepped over to him and tiptoed to press a kiss to his cheek. "Good morning, chef."

His grumble softened into a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he leaned into your kiss.

Behind you, Jack busied himself at the counter. "Coffee?"

You nodded. "Please. God, yes."

He smiled without turning around, already reaching for a mug. The air was thick with the scent of breakfast, coffee, and something much softer—something like home.

He handed you the cup a moment later, and your fingers brushed as you took it. Jack gave you a smile that was still sleep-soft and just a little shy, like he couldn't quite believe this was real.

Robby passed you a plate stacked high with eggs and a slightly lopsided pancake, and kissed your temple as you sat down. "Hope you’re hungry. I tried." Jack pinched his side lightly at the remark, smirking. Robby swatted his hand away with a glare, but he was smiling too.

"It looks delicious," you murmured, cheeks warm.

You ate shoulder to shoulder, trading quiet smiles and bites off each other's plates, content in the hush of morning. Jack poured more coffee without being asked. Robby reached over occasionally to tuck your hair behind your ear. It was nothing—and everything.

When the meal was done, you sat in the warmth of it all, sipping slowly from your mug.

Jack stretched behind you, his voice low. "We should do this again."

You looked up at him. "Breakfast?"

He smiled. "All of it."

Robby leaned back in his chair and reached for your hand. "Yeah. Us."

And for once, the thought didn’t scare you. It settled in your chest like something inevitable. Like something already yours. "I'd like that... very much..."

Jack kissed your temple again, his lips lingering a second longer, and Robby gave your hand a small squeeze. No fanfare. No big declarations. Just warmth, safety, and quiet promises in the soft morning light.

Robby nudged your plate closer. "You want the last pancake?"

You shook your head with a sleepy grin. "Only if we split it."

Jack rolled his eyes fondly and reached for a fork. "God help us, we’ve become that couple."

"Correction," Robby said, stealing a bite anyway. "That throuple."

You laughed, heart full to the brim. And as they bickered softly over syrup and coffee refills, you leaned back in your chair, wrapped in the calm after the storm—content, adored, and exactly where you belonged.

#the pitt #jack abbot #dr robby #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #noah wyle #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #michael robinavitch smut #i need jesus #dr abbot smut #dr robby smut #smut

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buckysleftbicep · 1 month ago

Text

for better or for worse (7) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, bucky breaking down, flashbacks, fluff if you squint

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 6k

author's note: hi sweethearts! wow, i actually finished this series! thank you all so, so much for your love and support, gosh, it means the world to me, and if i could thank you guys with a huge hug, i would 💓. this series means a lot to me, i have so many different ways to end it, i think i had 3, and this is one of them 🫶🏻 thank you all so much for staying and for finishing this series with me 💌 love you guys and stay safe out there!

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The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional hiss of the oxygen line. Pale morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, slicing the space into uneven golden strips that barely touched the corners.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a bouquet someone had left two days ago already beginning to droop in its plastic vase.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

Yelena stepped in, her hair a little messier than usual and two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days either—the kind of exhaustion that sat behind the eyes, silent and weighty—but she carried it better than most. She always did.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked in slowly, boots soft against the linoleum, eyes flicking toward the only occupied bed.

Bucky was already awake.

Curled awkwardly in a too-small hospital-issued foldable cot, the sheet tangled around his legs like it had been kicked off in a restless sleep. If you could even call it that.

He sat hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed as his fingers toyed with the worn edge of a medical bracelet still looped around his wrist from when he’d refused to leave the ER that night.

He looked up when he heard her—or maybe just sensed her presence—and Yelena caught the full brunt of what the last five days had done to him.

His eyes were bruised with fatigue, red-rimmed and glassy. The stubble across his jaw had darkened into something more permanent. His hair was a mess—not the charming, tousled kind, but the kind born of sleepless nights and fingers dragged through it too many times out of pure frustration.

The navy blue t-shirt clung to his frame like it had been slept in. The sweatpants sagged slightly at the hips. He didn’t look like a soldier, he looked like a man desperately holding himself together by a thread.

“We found him,” Yelena said softly, breaking the silence as she approached. “Raskovic.”

Bucky didn’t react right away. Just blinked up at her, like he had to translate the words in his head before they could settle.

“And?” His voice was low, rough—not from sleep, but from disuse.

She sighed, offering him one of the coffees. “We haven’t gotten much. He’s not talking. Won’t give up the rest of the weapons cache.”

He took the cup without meeting her eyes, fingers curling tightly around the warmth like it was the only thing grounding him. He didn’t drink it, didn’t speak. Just let the silence fall again, heavier this time.

Yelena studied him for a moment—really studied him.

The way he hadn’t moved from that chair for nearly five days.

The way the cot hadn’t even been laid flat most nights.

The way he looked at you every hour, on the hour, as if just by watching hard enough, he could will your eyes to open.

“You should rest,” she said gently, crouching beside him. “Bucky… it’s been five days. You need to—”

“No.” He cut her off, firm but not sharp. Just final. Like the decision had already been carved into stone. “I’m staying. The doctors said… they said she could wake up any moment.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I need to be the first face she sees.”

Yelena swallowed. There wasn’t anything she could say to that.

Not really.

Not when she’d watched him refuse to leave even once, not even to shower. Not when John, Alexei, and even Bob had tried every tactic short of physically dragging him out, and still—still—he hadn’t budged.

He’d brushed his teeth in the tiny public restroom by the elevators. Bought protein bars and shitty vending machine sandwiches. Sat by your bed, hour after hour, whispering things he didn’t think anyone could hear.

There was nothing she could say. So she just nodded, gently, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

The door clicked shut behind Yelena, leaving the room in its usual hush—the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around your throat and refused to let go. Too still. Too loud. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but suffocated.

Outside, the world was slowly waking—nurses exchanging shifts, machines humming behind closed doors—but in here, time had collapsed into a slow, dragging ache.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, sterile and cold, casting a pale sheen over the metal railings and tile floor. Even they seemed to dim beneath the heaviness in the air. Like the room itself knew how close it had come to losing you.

Bucky turned toward you.

He moved like it hurt. Like his limbs had forgotten how to function under the weight of what they’d carried for the last five days. His gaze dropped to your hand—pale and unmoving, the skin bruised beneath the tape and gauze, fingers limp where they lay curled near your hip.

The IV line trailed upward to the bag above your head, slow and methodical, like it had all the time in the world.

But he didn’t.

The sheet had been drawn neatly to your waist, the corners folded with practiced care. But Bucky had seen beneath it. He’d memorised the cuts, the dressings, the angry bruises blooming along your ribs.

He’d scrubbed your blood from his hands in the emergency room sink, over and over, until they were raw. Until there was nothing left but the ghost of your voice in his head.

He reached out—slowly, carefully, like one wrong move might shatter you all over again—and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The contrast was stark: his calloused, battered hands, and yours, soft and still. He held on like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice barely there—cracked and raw, like it had been scraped against too many sleepless nights. “I know you can hear me. Please…”

His eyes squeezed shut as he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the back of your hand. The contact was fragile, gentle. His breath hitched against your skin.

“Please wake up,” he whispered.

It wasn’t just a plea.

It was a surrender.

The words hung in the air, splintered and fraying at the edges—the way a man breaks when there’s no one left to see it. When the fight runs out, and all that’s left is the ache.

His lips brushed your knuckles, soft and lingering, like he could pour everything he hadn’t said into that single touch. Like if he kissed you gently enough, it might undo what the world had done to you.

His hand trembled around yours, chest rising in short, unsteady bursts. He’d spent the last five days holding it together—barely—and the cracks were beginning to show.

A single tear slid down his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw like it had every right to be there.

“Don’t go breaking my heart now, doll,” he whispered.

And it wasn’t just tenderness in his voice. It was fear. Bone-deep, marrow-carving fear.

Because Bucky Barnes had spent the last five days living in a world where nothing he did was enough—where holding your hand, begging, waiting, breaking, hadn’t been enough to undo the sight of you going still in his arms. Of blood on concrete. Of your eyes fluttering closed while he screamed.

He had faced war, torture, brainwashing—hell itself—and nothing had ever scared him like this.

He didn’t know how to live in a world where you didn’t come back.

He didn’t want to.

The memory came like a tide—slow and gentle—washing over Bucky where he sat now, curled at your bedside, hand still laced with yours.

It had been quiet then, too. Not like the sterile hush of a hospital, but something warm. Alive. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones without asking permission, that made everything else—pain, history, guilt—feel far away for just a moment.

The dock creaked beneath his feet as Sam’s boat rocked gently with the tide, tethered but still breathing with the water. The sky had melted into soft amber, streaks of orange and pink dripping into the still, dark ocean like brushstrokes on silk.

The air was thick with the scent of salt and sugar—someone onshore frying something sweet, maybe beignets or funnel cake—and the breeze tasted like summer. Warm, lazy, golden.

Somewhere behind him, Sam and Sarah laughed over an engine that refused to start, and AJ’s voice rang out, high and playful, a child’s joy unburdened by the weight of the world.

The sounds of a family.

You sat beside him on the edge of the boat’s stairs, knees pulled up, paper plate balanced in your lap. The hem of your shirt fluttered in the breeze. Your bare feet tapped gently against the wood, relaxed, alive. Like you belonged there.

You nudged the plate toward him without looking.

“Cake,” you said simply.

He took it from you, fingers brushing yours—a soft, accidental touch that lingered longer than it should’ve. He muttered a quiet, almost bashful, “Thanks,” eyes still cast toward the horizon.

But he didn’t eat it. Just sat there, the plate warm in his lap, staring out like the ocean might give him an answer if he looked long enough. The world had gone quiet in his chest for the first time in days, and it scared him more than he let on.

Peace wasn’t something he knew how to hold. Not really.

Then, quietly—almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud—“You think I deserve this?”

You turned to him, brows drawing in slightly. “Deserve what?”

His eyes were still on the water, unmoving. But his voice—that voice—was steady. Careful.

“Peace.”

It was such a simple word. But the weight it carried in his mouth was enormous. Like it didn’t belong to him. Like saying it out loud might make it vanish. Like wanting peace made him weak.

You didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the dying light—how it hit the high points of his face, turned his lashes gold, softened the lines etched deep into his forehead. How his jaw clenched, how his shoulders never fully relaxed.

There was a quiet awe to him then, even in stillness. Even in pain. Like he didn’t know what to do with a moment that didn’t come with gunfire or consequences.

You smiled, slow and sad. “You do, James.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and it almost hurt, the way your voice curled around his name like it was something worth holding.

“After everything,” you went on gently, “you deserve so much more than what the world gave you.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly around the paper plate, untouched cake still resting there. Like he needed to hold onto something just to stay grounded.

“But there’s so many people I—” he started, voice strained, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand found his, warm and certain, sliding over his knuckles like an anchor. You didn’t grip too hard. You didn’t need to.

“It wasn’t you,” you said. “You never had a choice. None of it was your fault.”

The wind tugged at your hair. The sky kept burning gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang from a ship docking further down the bay.

But here, on the steps of Sam’s old boat, time had frozen—like the world was giving him permission to stop running. Just for a second.

And for the first time in a very long time, something shifted in him.

Something cracked open. A softness he hadn’t known how to hold. A thought he hadn’t dared entertain—that maybe he could want something. Someone.

That maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

The memory faded, slow and reluctant, like a sunset slipping beneath the water. And when it was gone, Bucky was still there—seated at your bedside in the dim hush of the hospital room, your hand in his, the air too still.

The beeping of the monitor was steady, but too steady. Not fast enough to mean you were waking. Not flat enough to mean you were gone.

That in-between rhythm—it was driving him insane. Mocking him. Reminding him that you were here but not really. Close, but still too far.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise everything all over again. Your lashes against your cheek. The way the corner of your mouth dipped slightly, always slightly, when you slept. The small, near-faded scar on your temple from a mission gone wrong in Marrakesh. Every inch of you mapped onto him like a language only he could read.

And still… nothing.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, thick and tight. He hadn’t spoken in a while—not really. Not since Yelena left, not since the memory of your voice had come back to him, soft and alive and warm in the golden light.

Now it felt like if he opened his mouth, the entire dam might break.

So when he finally did, it came out hoarse. Barely a whisper.

“Please don’t take her away from me.”

It cracked in the middle, fractured down the middle of his chest like a fault line giving way.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “I don’t care about anything else.”

His eyes stayed on you, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked. His fingers tightened faintly around yours.

“Just…” he breathed, voice shaking, “just let her stay. I-I’ll do anything.”

He wasn’t praying. Not really, no, Bucky didn’t believe in that anymore. Hadn’t in decades. Maybe never did.

But he said it anyway—like if he could just get the words out, the universe might hear him.

Might show him mercy, just this once.

Might understand that you were the only good thing left in him.

That without you, everything else didn’t matter.

That if he lost you, there would be nothing left to come back to.

And so he sat there, forehead pressed to your hand again, tears slipping quietly down his face—no sobbing, no shaking, just the steady, exhausted grief of a man begging the world not to take the one person he didn’t know how to live without.

The first thing you registered was the light—too bright, too sharp, cutting through the darkness behind your eyelids like glass.

You blinked, once, twice, and the world came back slowly. Fuzzy around the edges.

The air felt sterile and cold, too clean. The scent of antiseptic curled at the edge of your senses, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then came the pain.

A dull, biting throb that pulsed hot through your leg—enough to steal the breath from your lungs. You winced, the movement sending a shock up your thigh. Your body felt heavy, as if the last week had settled into your bones like lead. It took effort to tilt your head, but you did, wincing as your vision swam.

And then you saw him.

Bucky was slumped beside you in a narrow hospital chair, legs sprawled out awkwardly, one arm still draped across the edge of your bed. His fingers were locked around yours—loosely, like he’d fallen asleep holding on and never let go.

His head was bowed, chin resting against his chest, and for a split second you thought he might have finally passed out from exhaustion. His hair was a mess, strands flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

There were shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His jaw was rough with days-old stubble, his shirt wrinkled and clinging to him in tired lines.

He looked wrecked.

But beautiful.

In that devastating, unguarded way he never let you see when he was awake. Like every sharp edge had been sanded down by worry, like grief had made room for something gentler.

Your chest tightened.

And just like that, it all came rushing back—the warehouse, the blood, the sting of your own scream. The panic in his voice when he found you. The way he’d cradled you against his chest, whispering your name like he could pull you back to the earth with nothing but his breath.

You stared at him now, barely breathing.

Because for all the bruises, for all the exhaustion written into every line of his body, he was still here.

Still holding on.

Like he’d never stopped.

You blinked hard against the prick of tears and let your fingers shift, just slightly, in his hand.

A small squeeze. Barely there.

But it was enough.

He stirred beside you, slow and groggy, like the weight of the last five days was still holding him under.

At first, he didn’t move. Just shifted slightly in the chair, the hand around yours twitching like his body already knew something had changed. Then his head lifted, eyes blinking open, blearily searching the room in that half-conscious fog where dreams hadn’t quite let go yet.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you—awake, breathing, eyes on him.

His breath caught in his throat. His entire body froze.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice rough and thin, barely more than air.

For a second, he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The emotion hit too fast—like it had been waiting just behind his ribs for this exact second to shatter him. His lips parted, a breath escaped, and then—

“Sweetheart.”

It came out like a promise. Like a prayer finally answered. He moved forward, hand cradling your face, thumb trembling where it brushed beneath your eye, over your cheek, as if he needed to touch every inch of you to believe this was real.

You could feel him shaking.

Not violently. Just enough to know that this had broken him in ways you hadn’t seen. That he had fallen apart in the quiet, in the waiting. And now that you were back, he didn’t know how to hold all of it.

His thumb traced down your jaw, reverent. Like you were something fragile, something rare.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice raw. He didn’t let go of your face.

You swallowed, the ache still sharp in your throat. Everything still hur—your leg, your ribs, your eyes—but somehow, right now, it didn’t matter.

You mustered a small, crooked smile. “Think I’m okay. Didn’t Steve used to say ‘break a leg’ before missions?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, a sound that cracked as much as it warmed. His eyes shone—too glassy, too full—but he let the joke carry him for a second. Let it be a tether.

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in something soft, something cracked wide open.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to finally breathe easy.

His forehead was still resting against yours when the silence stretched again—not heavy this time, but fragile. Like something delicate was settling between you, something you both felt but hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It trembled between your shared breath, suspended in that sliver of space where everything had changed and nothing had yet been said.

Bucky pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still cupping your cheek like he couldn’t bring himself to let go—like if he did, you might disappear again, slip through his fingers like smoke.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, his voice low and stripped raw. “That I’d lose you.”

The confession wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it cracked something open between you, split wide and aching. His voice held no armor. No deflection. Just truth—and the unbearable weight of it.

You opened your mouth, not to argue, not really. But he shook his head once, gently, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me finish.”

His chest rose, then fell—one deep breath, then another, like he was trying to steady himself before the dam broke. Like every word cost him something he’d never learned how to give.

“I know I’m not easy,” he began. “I’m rigid. Controlling. I hold onto things too tight, like if I let go, everything might fall apart. I ruin things before I ever deserve them. Before I even let myself hope.”

He blinked down at you, and his expression was ruined—not because he was falling apart, but because he was letting you see it.

Every crack. Every fear. Every piece of him that had been stitched together over years of surviving, now trembling in the quiet between you.

He wasn’t hiding behind protocol or mission strategy or the weight of being Bucky Barnes. Not here. Not now.

“But you…”

His voice caught, just for a moment. He swallowed hard and tried again, slower, like the words had to be dug up from somewhere deep.

“You changed everything. And I didn’t see it at first. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending. I stopped keeping you at arm’s length. And now—” his thumb brushed your cheek again, barely there, “now I can’t imagine anything without you in it.”

He paused, breath uneven, like he was standing in front of a door he didn’t know how to open—afraid of what might be waiting on the other side.

His jaw tensed, like he was bracing himself for impact.

“I can’t lose you. If I do… I’ll have nothing left.”

And he meant it. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a line. It was a quiet, soul-deep truth. One that had been building inside him long before the blood and the gunfire and the scream that had torn from his throat when he thought he’d already lost you.

He exhaled slowly, like he had to push the words past the fear.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I love you. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I just—if there’s still a part of you that wants this… if you’ll still have me…”

His voice broke, just barely, a hitch so small most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did.

“I’m yours.”

He looked at you then, like he was standing on the edge of something sharp and bottomless. Like your silence might be the thing that finally shattered him. Like he would take whatever answer you gave—even if it gutted him—because loving you had never been about control.

Because this wasn’t a man trained to ask for things.

And still—he asked for you.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right—like the words had landed too softly to be real, like they’d slipped through his defenses before he could catch them.

The weight of everything he’d just laid bare sat heavy in the space between you, and it was clear from the flicker in his eyes that it had taken everything he had to give it to you. Now, he didn’t know how to breathe, didn’t know how to hope.

Then, softly, almost like it hurt: “Say something. Please.”

His voice was barely above a whisper—fragile and trembling, held together by nothing but hope and fear and the quiet kind of love that never asked for anything, but still wanted everything.

There was no demand in it. Just raw need. The sound of a man standing at the edge, waiting to see if he’d be pulled back or left to fall.

Your heart ached with the honesty of it. With the way he sat there, waiting—not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not as someone who’d been trained to endure the worst the world could throw at him.

But as a man. Just a man. One who had finally admitted what he wanted, and was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. That he wouldn’t be enough.

You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, and he went still beneath your touch—completely still, like something inside him was holding its breath.

Your thumb swiped gently at the tear trailing down his cheek—a small, quiet thank-you for every part of him he had given you without expecting anything in return. For the courage it took to let himself be seen.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

His eyes shut like the words had cracked something wide open—like they’d found every broken part inside him and flooded it with light. His shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with release, like the tension he’d been carrying since the moment he found you on that warehouse floor had finally let go.

And when he moved, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours, and his breath ghosted across your lips—warm, uneven, shaky.

His hands came up to frame your face, fingertips brushing just beneath your ears, thumbs trembling faintly against your skin. And there was something in his expression that looked a lot like awe—like he couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

You felt your gaze drift down—just slightly—and caught the glint of silver on his hand.

The thin band still wrapped around the fourth finger of his right hand.

The one from the mission.

“You’re still wearing it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—like it startled him, that he still had laughter in him at all. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever take it off.”

There was something unshakable in the way he said it—not possessive, not forced. Just steady. Like this had never been a tactic or a disguise to him. Like it had always been more. Like somewhere along the way, without even meaning to, he’d decided that the ring was already real.

Then, carefully, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, slow, almost tentative, like even now he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. You watched as he pulled out the second ring, slim and silver and achingly familiar. The one he’d never gotten to put on you.

Until now.

He looked up at you again, and this time his smile was smaller. Shyer. A little nervous in the way only he could be, all confidence stripped away, leaving behind something earnest and boyish and real.

“You never let me put it on, remember?”

You met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, you didn’t speak. Just looked at him, this man who had nearly shattered in front of you, who had stayed by your side through blood and silence and pain, who had chosen you even when it wasn’t easy.

And without a word, you extended your hand, left palm facing him, fingers slightly curled, offering it to him like it meant something.

Because it did.

“Now’s your chance,” you murmured.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make it grand. He just took your hand like it was made of glass, something precious, something that had almost been taken from him, and slid the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

His touch was steady now, but his eyes… his eyes told the truth. They shimmered with a kind of wonder, like he couldn’t believe he got to do this. That you were letting him.

When the band settled into place, his lips found the center of your palm, pressing there softly, not rushed, just sure.

Like a vow made without words.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like home.

One week later, the compound felt like a strange mix of familiar and surreal. The sterile hallways and reinforced doors hadn’t changed, but everything else had. Or maybe it was just you.

You were home. Bruised, still limping, a dull ache riding your spine every time you moved too fast, but alive. Healing. Whole enough to smile when someone cracked a joke. Stable enough to tease John back. Present enough to notice the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the glass atrium instead of the pain it lit up in your leg.

The team had been insufferable, in the way that only people who loved you could be.

Bob made soup. Every day. Different flavours, each one weirder than the last, like he was trying to test the boundaries of what counted as comfort food.

The last one had contained turmeric, coconut milk, and what he swore up and down were healing enzymes. You hadn't asked. You just nodded, thanked him, the smile on his face grew brighter.

Alexei had taken it upon himself to be your personal chauffeur. The man had nearly gotten into a shouting match with a medbot over who was allowed to push your wheelchair. He’d won. Somehow.

And ever since, he wheeled you around like a race car driver, dramatic turns, Russian commentary, occasional sound effects, and all. “Turn three, is hairpin! Hold on!” he’d shout gleefully.

John yelled at the medbots on your behalf. Loudly. Colourfully. "Come on!" he'd barked after the fifth proximity alert went off near your bed, like the bots had something personal against you.

The medbot responded with a passive-aggressive buzz. John flipped it off. The medbot flipped the switch back, in its own, uncanny little way. You were pretty sure it had been programmed just for him.

And Bucky?

He stayed close, but not hovering. A hand always offered before you asked. A look always checking, just in case.

He’d been quieter these days, not distant, just steady. Like now that he’d said it, now that you’d both said it, he didn’t have to force anything.

He could just… be. With you. No more waiting, no more pretending. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had chosen you every day, even when you couldn’t see it.

You were curled up on the couch in the common room, a blanket across your lap and a hot pack on your hip when Yelena dropped down beside you. She handed you a cup of orange juice—cold, freshly poured.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat close, shoulder brushing yours.

Then she nudged you gently, her gaze tilted your way, curious. A little soft at the edges, like maybe she'd been waiting for the right moment to ask.

“How’s you and Bucky?”

You looked down instinctively, your fingers brushing the ring now resting on your left hand.

“I never thought I could find happiness,” you said after a moment, voice quieter than you intended. “Not really. Not like this. But with him… it feels real.”

Yelena’s eyes softened. She reached over and squeezed your hand.

“You deserve it,” she said simply. “You both do.”

You let your head rest against her shoulder, the blanket shifting slightly as you moved. Your chest felt warm, not from the heating pad, but from the way she said it.

After a beat, Yelena added, deadpan, “Val says she’ll pay for your honeymoon.”

You wrinkled your nose. “No thank you.”

She smirked. “You don’t want a government-sponsored vacation? With gps tracking and an optional mission brief?”

“I’d rather eat more of Bob’s soup.”

Behind you, from the kitchen, Bob yelled, “Hey!” You didn’t even turn around.

Laughter spilled into the room, light and easy, stretching out across the space like sunlight through glass.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself sink into it.

A few weeks had passed, and life had begun to stitch itself into something that resembled normal. Not the kind of normal you'd known before, not pre-mission, but something quieter. Softer. A version of normal that fit into slow mornings and shared looks across rooms.

It was healing, in its own strange way. A patchwork of bruises and blooming, of awkward firsts and familiar silences.

You still limped some days. Bucky still flinched at sudden noises.

But there was laughter now. There was warmth.

So when Bucky told you to meet him at the compound garage at 7 p.m, and added, almost shyly, “Dress nice” —you didn’t question it. Not out loud, anyway.

You just raised an eyebrow, and he gave you that look. The one that meant, Trust me.

You tried to pry it out of John first. Predictable. Blunt-force obvious. And somehow, somehow, the man managed to keep his mouth shut. Not even a hint.

“He made me swear,” he said with smugness. “I’m not breaking that.”

You stared at him. “Seriously? As if that ever stopped you.” You quipped, jokingly.

John just grinned. “You think I want to be the reason he throws me through a wall?”

Alexei was no better. He distracted you for a good hour with a wild, mostly unverifiable story about his glory days involving a Russian circus, a helicopter, and what may have been a tiger.

You weren’t sure if the entire thing was real or if he’d just been buying time, but he kept looking at the clock like it owed him something.

“Do not worry,” he said, patting your shoulder. “Is worth it.”

And then it was seven.

You made your way down the corridor, heels tapping softly against the concrete, nerves low in your belly even though you didn’t have a reason to be nervous.

The garage doors were half-open. The light inside was warm, glowing.

You stepped through.

And your breath caught.

There he was.

Bucky stood just a few feet away, dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was neatly pushed back, the kind of effort he only made back when he was a congressman and that, that had been after you told him he can’t walk into the capitol with his hair in a mess.

You both argued over that, sort of, but when you saw him on your television, hair slicked back, you had smiled.

In his hand was a bouquet, mismatched wildflowers, soft pinks and whites and sprigs of green,like he hadn’t just picked the nicest flowers and wrapped them himself, but the ones that looked most like you.

And behind him, tucked into the far corner of the garage, was a small table for two. White tablecloth. Candles flickering inside glass jars. A few strands of string lights hung above it, casting the scene in a golden, dreamlike glow.

A single speaker sat nearby, humming something low and instrumental, a soft jazz tune you vaguely recognized, the kind that filled a room without asking too much of it.

“What’s all this?” you asked, your voice catching slightly on the edges. You felt breathless. Not from shock, but from the tenderness of it all.

He gave a shrug, casual, but not careless. There was a nervous twitch to it, like he wasn’t quite sure how you were going to react. Like part of him still expected this to be too much. Or not enough.

“I figured…” He glanced away, then back at you. “I never got to take you on a real date. I wanted to do it right this time.”

You stared at him for a second longer, because it hit you all at once—the candles, the table, the flowers, him.

Every moment that had led to this one. Every choice, every ache, every time he could have walked away and didn’t.

The man who'd stormed into a warehouse for you, who had stayed awake five nights just to be the first thing you saw—he was here. In jeans. With wildflowers.

You stepped forward, eyes still on his, and took the flowers from his hand. Your fingers brushed his, and he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in, just slightly, like he was anchoring himself in the contact.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, a grin tugging at your mouth despite the lump rising in your throat.

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched warm between two people who no longer needed to rush. Who had already survived the worst and come out of it not just intact, but better.

Then his head tilted, the corner of his mouth tugging up into that familiar, crooked smirk that always made your heart skip a beat.

“So… Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice low, teasing, soft. “You free tonight?”

Your smile bloomed, wide and stupid and completely uncontained—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, your lungs, your bones. The kind that had once felt impossible and now came easy, like breathing.

“For you, Always.”

a/n: oh my gosh, we are at the end!!! ❤️ i am so grateful for each and everyone of you for taking the time to read this series, for your support, kind words that really motivated me to keep this series going 💌.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes@that-daughter-of-hephaestus

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lascvitae · 2 months ago

Text

BOUT MINE ✵ LARA RAJ.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. I BET YOU KNOW I

DON’T PLAY ABOUT MINE .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ during katseye’s calvin klein shoot, a guy asks for a photo with you — and lara shuts it down before you can give a proper answer.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. lara x 7th member of katseye!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. fluff ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. jealous && pouty lara, kissing

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 1.9k

ᝰ.ᐟ katty katseye x calvin klein when... also requested by anon

(🎧) now playing — bout mine by mariah the scientist.

masterlist.

THE AIR IN THE STUDIO IS THICK. you can feel the heat from the lights, hear the buzz of cameras clicking, and someone calling for more gloss. you’re standing in front of a white backdrop in calvin klein briefs and a white tank top, and the hem of the shirt just barely covers anything. it clings to your body like it knows who’s watching.

and you know who’s watching.

lara hasn’t taken her eyes off you once.

she’s off to the side, still in her solo set outfit: jeans and a calvin sports bra with one arm slung over the back of a metal stool. there’s a bottle of water in her hand she hasn’t touched. she’s just sat there the whole time, gaze fixed on you like she’s not in a studio surrounded by stylists, lighting techs, and your bandmates.

you flick your eyes toward her mid pose. she doesn’t flinch or look away. she smirks.

“lift your arms just a little. perfect. chin down, eyes right here.” the photographer says.

you hold the pose and let your mouth fall open just slightly. and still, somewhere behind all of the heat coming down onto you, you can feel lara’s stare dragging down your legs.

it’s not the first time she’s seen you in this outfit, but it’s the first time anyone else has.

you’re toweling off sweat and oil near the monitor when someone taps your shoulder.

“hey.” he says while grinning. it’s one of the male models from the joint campaign. you’ve spoken, like, twice.

“you killed it. wanna get a shot together?” he adds.

you raise an eyebrow. “a photo?”

“yeah. just us. for the campaign. you looked… insane.” he glances down your body slowly, running a hand through his hair afterwards.

then he laughs like it’s a compliment. like lara isn’t standing ten feet away.

you glance down at yourself — tank still sticking to every curve, briefs showing just enough — then back up at him.

“insane, huh?”

he smiles again. “yeah. you’ve got good chemistry. we’d kill a frame.”

your lips twitch. you’re two seconds from saying something unserious — maybe “you couldn’t handle it” — when a voice cuts in coming from just behind him.

“she said no.”

he turns slightly.

lara’s standing now.

she must’ve moved while he was talking, because she’s right there, still in her calvin sports bra and jeans, arms crossed under her chest, not smiling. her eyes flick from his face to yours and back, slow and sharp, and her expression is unreadable.

the kind of unreadable that makes people nervous.

“she didn’t say anything yet.” the model says, trying to keep it light.

“she doesn’t need to.”

he laughs. awkward. “didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

her jaw ticks. “then don’t.”

you press your lips together to hide the smile threatening to break out onto your face. you love this version of her — cool, protective, and intimidating.

the guy mumbles something like “got it” and backs off without another word.

only once he’s fully gone and out of view does lara finally exhale. her arms drop from her chest and she moves toward you with a sigh.

you tilt your head. “you good?”

she frowns at your water bottle. “you let him stand too close.”

you laugh. “you were right there.”

“he was flirting with you.” she says, voice quiet but pouty.

you smile a little. “maybe. you were watching?”

she rolls her eyes. “i always watch.”

you lean closer, hand brushing her wrist. “and?”

lara’s lips purse dramatically. “and he was touching his hair. who even does that?”

you laugh and she frowns even more, bottom lip stuck out just a bit. she shifts her weight like she’s still a little annoyed. it’s like she’s trying to be mad but barely holding the pout back.

“i didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“i liked the way you looked at me.”

her breath hitches and you squeeze her hand. “cmere.”

she steps closer automatically and you lean in to press a kiss, soft, short, and sweet, right to her mouth.

her eyes flutter closed for just a second.

and when you pull back, her lip gloss is on your mouth and her face is just a little less tense.

“still mad?” you whisper.

lara shrugs, but it’s useless. she’s already leaning into you again.

“you’re so dramatic.” you murmur, tugging her hand.

“he was annoying.”

“you’re jealous.”

“not jealous. i just don’t like sharing.” she says, eyes flicking down your tank top like she’s lying.

you smile wider. “you don’t have to. i’m all yours, remember?”

she hums, lashes fluttering. “say it again.”

you say it softer. “i’m yours.”

she tugs the hem of your tank a little lower, like it suddenly bothers her how much skin is showing. “good. then don’t let anyone else look at you like that.”

and even though it’s barely above a whisper, you feel it all over.

taglist — @saysirhc @m00nqvv @yuyuy90

#bout mine — lr #katseye imagines #katseye x reader #lara katseye #lara x reader #lara raj #wlw #wlw post #gxg imagine

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honeyandruin · 1 month ago

Text

Seared - Firefighter!Joel Miller x Reader

🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦

Pairing: firefighter!Joel Miller x Reader (modern AU)

Summary: You triage trauma. He runs headfirst into it. But nothing prepares either of you for what happens when restraint finally snaps.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Mutual pining. Rough, desperate oral (f!receiving). Semi-clothed sex. Overstimulation. Praise kink. Slight manhandling. Breathy filth. Joel is obsessed and possessive but soft where it counts.

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Firefighter Joel owns me. This is a slow, burning collapse into obsession, filth, and the softest kind of ruin. Blame the wall. Blame the pie. Blame him.

🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦ 🩺 🩺 ✦ 🔥 ✦

You remember the first time you met Joel Miller like a scar—ugly, sharp, and still sensitive to the touch.

He came through the ER doors at a sprint, boots pounding tile, smoke curling off his jacket like he’d dragged the fire in with him.

There was blood. Soot. The sharp tang of scorched plastic. And a man—mid-twenties, barely conscious, bleeding fast from a shredded leg—half-slumped under Joel’s arm.

You were in the middle of a controlled chaos—three beds full, a psych hold screaming in bay six, and the urgent, endless ping of vitals slipping. But everything in you snapped to attention the second you saw that leg.

You were already moving.

“Over here!” you shouted, waving down the trauma team. “Get him on the table—move!”

Joel didn’t let go.

You grabbed for the gurney, but he was still holding him, like he didn’t trust you.

“I said I’ve got him—let go!”

He finally released his grip, and the rookie slumped into the arms of two med techs.

“Vitals are dropping,” someone called. “Pressure’s tanking.”

“Push fluids, get a line in—hang a unit, now!”

You were halfway through barking orders when you realized he was still there. Standing in the middle of the trauma bay like a goddamn statue. Covered in soot. Eyes locked on the kid being wheeled away.

You turned on him, voice sharp.

“Hey. Outside the bay. Now.”

He didn’t move. Not right away.

“I’m not leaving him.”

You stepped closer—just enough for him to register the authority in your voice.

“You’re in the way,” you said. Low. Firm. “You wanna help him? Let us do our jobs.”

His jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he might argue again. But then his eyes flicked to the team crowding the table, to the rookie fading fast on the monitor, and he backed up.

Just two steps.

You followed. Got him clear of the curtain.

“Are you hurt?”

He blinked. Like he hadn’t even noticed. Then looked down—blood soaked through the arm of his jacket.

“Split it on rebar,” he muttered. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” You gestured toward the empty cot behind you. “Sit. Jacket off.”

He moved stiffly. Shoulders tight, face unreadable.

You grabbed gloves and gauze, snapped a packet of sterile saline, and started cleaning the wound without waiting for permission.

“You always this friendly?” He asked, voice low and flat.

“You always this dramatic?”

That got a huff of a laugh. Not quite a real one.

You wrapped his forearm in silence. Neat, quick, no-nonsense.

When you were done, you looked him in the eye and said, “You’re good to go.”

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t even nod.

Just stood. Walked out the same way he came in—like a storm that hadn’t finished.

And now, he’s back.

You smell him before you see him.

Burned plastic. Charred wood. Sweat and smoke and the unmistakable sharpness of blood just beginning to dry. The scent curls into the trauma bay like a warning, coiling around your ribs before he even rounds the corner.

Your shoulders stiffen on instinct.

You don’t have to look up. You already know.

Joel fucking Miller.

And then—there he is.

Framed in the doorway like he owns it. Same goddamn turnout jacket, open at the chest, the collar dark with soot. There’s blood trickling from his temple, a slow, lazy curl down the side of his face. His shirt’s torn, streaked black with ash and sweat, clinging to the wide line of his chest like it’s holding on for dear life. He’s favoring one side—ribs, probably—but not enough to admit anything’s wrong.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and pretend your pulse doesn’t jump.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says, voice low and dry, like he already knows the answer.

You don’t look up from the chart. “Tell me you didn’t come in here without a run sheet. Again.”

That huff of a laugh. Deep. Rough. The one that always sounds like it’s been dragged across gravel.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You look up slowly, eyes locking on his like a scope lining up a target.

“Miller,” you say flatly.

“That’s my name,” he says with a nod and a crooked little smirk that makes you want to wipe it off his face with a suture needle.

“What happened this time?” You ask, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Fall into a bonfire? Wrestle a flaming raccoon? Light yourself on fire for the insurance money?”

“Roof collapse.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Took a wrong step. Got lucky.”

You eye the way he’s holding his side. The way his jaw’s set too tight, like he’s trying not to breathe too deep. “Define lucky.”

“Didn’t die.”

“Not yet.”

You jerk your chin toward the nearest cot. “Shirt off. Sit down. Try not to bleed on anything important.”

He walks past you—slow, deliberate—and when he passes, your shoulder brushes his chest. Just for a second. Just enough to feel the heat radiating off him, to catch the scent of ash still clinging to his skin.

He eases himself onto the edge of the gurney with a grunt, then peels off his jacket. You hear the rip of Velcro. The shift of heavy fabric. And then, finally, the sound of him hissing through his teeth as he drags the ruined shirt up over his head and lets it fall.

You glance at him.

Big mistake.

There’s a deep bruise blossoming across his ribs—angry, purple, the kind that tells you he probably cracked something and refused to admit it. There’s soot along his collarbone, streaking down over muscle and tension. A cut over his temple, still bleeding. And somehow—somehow—he looks smug about all of it.

“You got a habit of showing up looking like a cautionary tale,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic.

“You got a habit of pretending that doesn’t bother you,” he fires back.

You dab the cloth to the cut on his brow a little harder than necessary.

He flinches.

“Sadist,” he mutters under his breath.

“I told you last time,” you say. “If you keep playing with fire, it’s gonna bite you back.”

“Fire doesn’t bite,” he says, eyes on yours. “It burns.”

You pause.

Only for a second. But it’s enough.

That look in his eyes—you hate it. The way it lingers. The way it makes your stomach tighten and your hands move too fast, like you’re trying to outrun it.

“You need X-rays,” you mutter. “I’m calling imaging.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Same difference.”

You swear softly under your breath and tape gauze into place with more force than is strictly necessary.

“You gonna keep playing nurse or are you gonna lecture me?” He asks, watching you like a man tracking movement in a fire.

You throw the soiled gauze in the bin. “You wouldn’t listen either way.”

“You don’t know what I’d do.”

Your head snaps up.

For a second, neither of you speak. The hum of fluorescent lights. The beep of distant monitors. The faint hiss of a blood pressure cuff inflating somewhere down the hall.

You meet his gaze and there it is.

That thing you don’t talk about. That static in the air when he walks in. That spark between teeth and tongue, between every insult and half-smile. That thread pulled so tight, it’s one breath away from snapping.

But you don’t say it.

You just strip your gloves off, toss them, and step back.

“You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung,” you say. “Go to X-ray. Now.”

He stands, slow. His bare chest rises and falls—slow, even, careful.

He reaches for his shirt.

You stop him with one sharp look. “I’ll get you something clean,” you mutter. “Yours smells like arson.”

He smirks. “Like you’d know what arson smells like.”

“Like you wouldn’t be the one who set it.”

He starts to laugh—then winces, one hand going to his ribs.

You don’t smile—you want to, but you don’t.

He grabs his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. “You know my name yet?”

You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure I had to write it on your discharge forms five times.”

He leans just slightly toward you. Enough that his voice brushes the shell of your ear.

“Use it sometime, sweetheart.”

You don’t watch him walk out, but you hear his boots on the tile, and you feel the heat long after he’s gone.

***

It’s almost midnight when he walks in again.

The trauma bay is quiet. Lights dimmed. Monitors muted. You’re charting under fluorescent hum, legs aching, your scrub top sticking to your back from twelve straight hours of triage, blood, and bullshit.

You don’t expect anyone to come through those doors this late—at least, not on foot.

But there he is: Joel Miller.

Still in uniform pants, but the jacket’s gone. His shirt’s rolled to the elbows, forearms streaked with soot and dried blood. His left hand is wrapped in what looks like a torn kitchen towel, soaked red through the middle.

No escort. No gurney. No paperwork.

Just him.

And that look he always wears when he knows damn well he shouldn’t be here.

You don’t speak at first. Just stare across the bay at him like you’re deciding if it’s worth the breath.

Finally: “Dispatch didn’t bring you in.”

“Nope.”

“Not logged on the board.”

“Nope.”

You sigh, setting your chart aside. “So this is a social call.”

He lifts the bloodied hand slightly. “Brought you somethin’.”

You push up from your stool and nod toward the exam table. “You’re lucky it’s a slow night.”

“Figured you’d still be here.”

The words aren’t soft—but they land that way.

You pretend not to hear them. “Let me guess,” you mutter, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Glass? Metal? Or did you try to punch your way through a flaming wall this time?”

He sits down with a grunt. “Wasn’t flaming. Just hot.”

You give him a flat look.

He shrugs.

You take the towel from his hand carefully, peeling it back from the raw mess underneath. Deep gash across the palm. Jagged. Ugly. No active bleeding now, but definitely a few foreign bodies buried in the flesh.

“You didn’t clean this.”

“I rinsed it.”

You shoot him a look.

“With hose water,” he adds.

You sigh again, louder this time, and begin gathering supplies. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it. Barely.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Just watches as you roll a tray over and start flushing the wound.

The room is quiet—just the hiss of saline, the clink of metal tools, the drag of your breath through your nose.

“You didn’t have to come here,” you say eventually. “Could’ve hit urgent care.”

“They’re closed.”

You glance up. “There are twenty-four-hour clinics.”

“Didn’t want to wait around.”

You pause. Eyes narrow slightly. “So you came here. After hours. Alone. No radio call.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “And?”

Your hands still for just a moment. You look back down. “You always show up broken, you know that?”

“And you always fix me.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before. You keep working—removing the last shard, checking the depth. He doesn’t flinch once. Just watches you, quiet, eyes steady on your face like he’s trying to read something you haven’t written down.

“You need a few sutures,” you say.

“I figured.”

You reach for the lidocaine. “This’ll sting.”

He doesn’t react to the needle. Not the pinch. Not the pull of thread through skin. Not even when you apply pressure to knot it off.

But when your fingers brush the edge of his wrist to adjust the angle, you feel it—that little shift in the air. The tightening of his jaw. The way his thumb twitches.

It lingers.

You finish the final suture and cut the thread. “All done.”

You reach for the bandages, wrapping his hand gently, clean and tight.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Just flexes his fingers once, testing.

“Thanks,” he says.

You look up at him. “Don’t make a habit of this,” you say.

He tilts his head. “Of what? Injuring myself?”

You shake your head. “Coming here when you don’t have to.”

His eyes stay on yours, heavy and direct.

“I did have to.”

And that—that’s the part you don’t have a comeback for.

So you toss your gloves, wash your hands, and turn away before he can see the way your throat tightens.

***

They pull you from the ER just after 3 a.m.

You’re halfway through a stale protein bar when the call comes in—mass casualty, three-alarm fire, structure collapse at a chemical warehouse near the river. EMS is spread thin. Triage is failing on scene. Your charge nurse tosses you a trauma pack and tells you to suit up.

No time to argue. No time to think. You grab your gloves, your gear, your clipboard full of vitals and field protocols. The medic van is already idling at the curb when you climb in. You barely feel the bump of tires hitting potholes. Barely register the sirens howling through the dark.

You don’t realize what you’re walking into until you see the sky.

It isn’t black, it’s orange.

The fire’s still active when you arrive.

Smoke curls into the clouds like something alive. Flames flicker from broken windows. The air is thick—acrid, chemical, heavy enough to choke on. You can taste it on your tongue before you even step out of the van. It burns low in your throat, settles in your lungs like ash.

The street is chaos. Water spraying from hoses. Lights bouncing off metal and glass. Firefighters moving fast, shouting over radios and wind. The sound of cracking steel echoes from somewhere behind the wall of smoke. You can feel the heat radiating off the pavement, even through your boots.

You barely have time to assess your surroundings before the shouting starts.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

The voice cuts through the noise like a knife. Familiar. Rough-edged. Furious. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

Joel.

His boots hit the ground hard as he storms toward you. Helmet pushed back, jacket unzipped, eyes locked on you like you’re the fire he’s supposed to put out.

He looks worse than usual—smeared in soot, sweat clinging to his collar, black streaks along the curve of his jaw. His mouth is a hard, angry line.

You square your shoulders. “Nice to see you too.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he snaps. “This is a live zone.”

You shift the trauma pack on your shoulder and raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, well. Sucks for both of us.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“This isn’t the ER,” he bites. “You don’t have gear, you don’t have certification—”

“And you don’t have enough medics. That’s why I’m here.”

He stops, just in front of you. Not touching. But close enough that you feel the heat coming off his gear. Close enough to see the soot melting into the lines around his eyes.

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying not to lose it.

“You think this is some kind of field trip?”

You glare at him. “I think people are dying. And if you’re gonna waste your time barking at me instead of letting me help, you can answer to the guy bleeding out behind the truck.”

His nostrils flare but before he can speak again, someone shouts across the lot.

“Three pulled from the northwest corridor—one unconscious, two ambulatory. We need help over here!”

Joel looks toward the smoke—then back at you. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word. He just turns and starts running, boots hitting the ground hard and fast. You hesitate for only a second before following.

The scene is chaos.

There’s debris scattered across the asphalt—metal, splinters of glass, a half-melted helmet. The west wall of the warehouse is blackened and skeletal, like something chewed through it from the inside. You can hear the building groaning with every gust of wind.

Joel leads you past a downed ladder, ducking under fallen conduit, motioning for you to keep low. You ignore the sting in your throat. Ignore the sweat already slicking the back of your neck.

Two firefighters are kneeling near the edge of the perimeter, their patients sprawled on burn sheets. One is a teenage girl, barely conscious. Another is coughing violently into a mask. The third is flat on his back, unmoving.

Joel drops to one knee beside him. You drop beside the girl.

She’s pale. Clammy. A nasty burn blooms across her arm, blistered and angry, skin peeling at the edges. Her respirations are shallow. You slip on gloves and call for fluids, reach for your saline, get a vitals check.

Your hands move on autopilot. Triage first. Airway. Burn dressing. You shout orders without thinking, and someone hands you the oxygen tank you asked for before your mouth finishes the sentence.

You hear Joel behind you, yelling for a C-collar. The edge in his voice cuts clean through the haze. He’s snapping orders, coordinating movement—controlling everything.

Except you.

When you reach for a roll of gauze from your kit, the strap on the bag snags. You lean harder, trying to twist free, and your boot slips—wet pavement, blood or water or oil, it doesn’t matter. Your balance goes.

You brace to hit the ground—but you don’t. A hand catches your arm, yanking you back with a force that knocks the breath from your chest. Fingers clamp around your sleeve, hard and unrelenting, like he’s trying to root you in place. Joel’s. You know it before you even look. His grip is tight—too tight—but you don’t pull away. Can’t. His other hand plants against his thigh to steady you both, his body a wall of heat and strength and barely leashed adrenaline. The contact isn’t gentle, but it’s not rough, either. Just solid. Certain. Grounding. Enough to remind you that he’s there. That he saw you stumble. That he didn’t hesitate. You freeze. The space between you crackles with something unspeakable—panic, fury, relief. He doesn’t say a word. Neither do you. The silence hangs heavy, full of everything you’re not ready to face.

Your pulse kicks against your throat.

“I’m fine,” you say quietly.

His fingers twitch once and then release. He steps back, not looking at you again.

A shout rises from behind the firetruck—another firefighter staggering through the smoke, half-dragging an unconscious man.

Joel is already moving.

You catch up just in time to see him ease the man down onto the pavement.

Mid-thirties. Heavy build. Covered in soot. No response to stimuli. Skin cool, lips gray.

Joel’s voice is tight. Controlled. Barely holding it together. “He’s not breathing.”

You’re already moving, dropping hard beside him, fingers searching for a pulse you know you won’t find. “No carotid. Start compressions.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t speak. Just drops to his knees, laces his fingers together, and starts compressions—fast, deep, brutal. Like he’s trying to beat the man back to life with his bare hands.

You kneel across from him, tearing open the airway bag with blood-slick gloves.

“Thirty compressions. One breath. Go.”

He nods, jaw clenched tight, and counts under his breath. Sweat slides down the side of his face, dripping from his temple, his focus unshakable. His shoulders rise and fall in rhythm, harsh and punishing.

You tilt the man’s head back. Seal your lips over his. Breathe.

Once.

Again.

One minute. Two. Time twists, folds in on itself. You lose track. There’s blood on your gloves now—thick and tacky—but you don’t know whose. Joel’s breathing hard, jaw flexing with every compression. His eyes never leave the man’s chest, like he’s willing it to rise on its own.

Then—

A sound. A shift. A cough.

Wet and rattling.

Both of you freeze.

Joel jerks back, bracing on his heels as the man gasps for breath, lungs struggling to remember how to work. You stare, stunned.

“Airway’s back,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He’s alive.

Because of both of you.

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just looks at you. And you look back.

Sirens wail in the distance. People are shouting. The air is thick with smoke and panic. But all of it dulls beneath the weight of that look. His face is filthy—soot-streaked, bloodied, bone-deep tired—but his eyes soften. Just a little. Like something inside him has cracked, and he hasn’t figured out how to put it back together yet.

You don’t say thank you.

You don’t need to.

***

You’re still awake when he knocks.

The shower didn’t help. Neither did the tea. You’ve tried cleaning, pacing, pulling the sheets back and getting into bed, then climbing right back out again. It’s like your body’s still at the scene, lungs full of smoke, hands stained with blood that isn’t yours. The adrenaline wore off, but the buzz underneath your skin hasn’t left.

The knock is soft. Measured.

You almost don’t answer.

But when you open the door, he’s there—shoulders tense, arms crossed, like he hasn’t moved since he watched that man start breathing again. Joel doesn’t look at you right away. He stares past you, like stepping inside might ruin something.

You don’t say a word. Just take a step back, and he follows without asking, crossing the threshold like the decision was made long before he got here. He doesn’t sit. Neither do you. The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence blooms between you—thick and awful, too loud in the quiet. You clear your throat, voice low. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

He sniffs, slow, rubs a hand along his jaw. “Yeah. Well.”

You watch him for a second. The way his mouth moves like he’s chewing on something, jaw tight, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Joel.”

His gaze snaps to yours.

You take a breath, arms folding over your chest. “If you came to tell me I shouldn’t have been there, save it.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m not gonna tell you that.”

“Then what?”

He stares at you for a long time. His voice is quiet when it comes.

“You almost fucking fell.”

You blink. “I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

You shake your head, exhausted. “I was fine. You caught me. We saved him. End of story.”

Joel’s mouth curves—not a smile. Something bitter. “You always say that. Like none of it sticks to you.”

You step closer. “You think it doesn’t?”

“I think you’d rather bleed out than admit something got to you.”

The words hit harder than they should. And maybe you’re too tired to deflect.

“Why do you care?” You whisper.

Joel doesn’t move.

So you step closer. “Why do you show up like this? Why do you follow me home and act like you're still mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“No?”

“I’m—”

He cuts himself off. Jaw flexing.

You press. “Then what? Because if you’ve got something to say, say it, Joel. Otherwise—”

He’s on you before you finish.

The kiss hits hard—open-mouthed, desperate, more teeth than tongue. His hands slide into your hair, tugging, tilting your head just enough for him to drink from your mouth like he’s been dying to.

You gasp against him, one hand fisting in his shirt. He groans when you pull him closer, his thigh sliding between yours. He walks you back until your spine hits the wall, and he keeps going—hip pressed to yours, his body radiating heat.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he mutters against your jaw, hands at your waist, voice cracked and hoarse. “I saw your foot slip and my fucking stomach dropped. You could’ve fell on a piece of metal, or been burned from some debris–”

You try to breathe, but it comes out a moan instead when he rocks into you, his thigh pressing where you need it most.

“I was fine.” You choke out, words getting stuck in your throat.

His hands slide under your shirt, rough palms on soft skin. He doesn’t ease into it—he grabs, pulls, peels fabric back until you’re gasping against the wall. His mouth is on your throat, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“I should leave,” he breathes.

“You won’t.”

He growls—growls, deep in his throat, his hand sliding your panties down, slow and rough, the drag of fabric scraping your thighs as he falls to his knees like gravity doesn’t give him a choice.

You gasp, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders for balance, your back pressed hard to the wall as he drags his mouth along your hip—hot breath, scratch of stubble, the wet swipe of his tongue just above the seam of your thigh.

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s not a warning. It’s a plea.

He doesn’t respond. Not with words.

He lifts your leg, flings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and pushes you open with both hands—his palms flat against the inside of your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. You feel exposed, helpless, trembling against the drywall while his mouth hovers just inches away.

Then he licks you.

A long, slow drag of his tongue from the bottom of your slit to your clit, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s been thinking about this for months and plans to memorize everything. Your hips jerk. He presses harder into you, anchoring you to the wall with his body, mouth sealing over your clit like he means it.

The moan that rips out of you is loud—sharp and raw and wet. He groans in return, the sound vibrating through your cunt as he works his tongue in circles, messy and open-mouthed, like he’s starved for it. His beard is already slick with you, the soft scrape of it catching as he drags his tongue lower again, flattening it against your entrance, then back up.

Your head thumps against the wall. You’re gripping his hair now, one hand tangled in the strands at the back of his neck, the other white-knuckling his shoulder.

“F–fuck, Joel—”

He moans again, louder this time, and moves one hand to your ass, grabbing a handful and using it to pull you harder against his mouth. He’s not slow now. He’s feasting—no rhythm, no restraint. Just sloppy, hungry licks and tight suction on your clit, like he wants to make you come so hard you forget what you were fighting about.

You cry out again, thighs shaking, the leg he’s holding twitching against his shoulder.

His eyes flick up, catch yours, and there’s something wild in them—something proud.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, voice wrecked from the inside of your thighs. “Let me taste you.”

He seals his mouth around your clit again and sucks—hard.

You come like he’s dragged it out of you.

Your legs threaten to give, hips stuttering forward as your entire body locks, spasms, shudders against his face. You choke out a noise that doesn’t sound like yours—high-pitched, desperate—and his grip only tightens, mouth still working you through it like he’s not done yet.

He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering—truly shaking—and trying to push his head away, thighs twitching from overstimulation.

Only then does he pull back, mouth swollen and wet, beard soaked with you.

You’re panting. Glowing. Wrecked.

He looks up at you from his knees, gaze heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s been running.

“Turn around,” he growls.

You blink, still dangling from your high. “What?”

His hands move to your hips, already guiding you. “Get your ass up those stairs.”

“Joel—”

He stands in one smooth motion, towering over you, already hard beneath the press of his jeans. He kisses you—filthy, open-mouthed, wet with the taste of yourself—and you moan into him, dizzy.

Then his hands are on the backs of your thighs, and suddenly your feet are off the ground.

You yelp—latch onto his shoulders.

“You said I wouldn’t leave,” he murmurs, breath hot at your ear. “So now I’m staying. Upstairs.”

He carries you like you weigh nothing.

One hand under your thighs, the other on your back, his mouth at your neck as he takes the stairs two at a time. You cling to him, panting, already squirming in his grip. You feel his cock pressing into you—hard, thick, barely contained behind his zipper—and he grinds up into you once with a groan before tightening his hold.

You reach the top of the stairs. Your bedroom door hits the wall. The sheets haven’t even been pulled back.

He throws you onto the mattress like he’s waited forever to ruin you.

The second your back hits the mattress, he’s on you.

Joel doesn’t bother with your shirt—just yanks it up, shoves it over your chest until it’s bunched beneath your arms, and groans at the sight of you laid out for him. You’re already flushed, skin damp, your cunt slick and shining from what he just did to you against the wall. But that’s not enough for him. Not nearly.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost angry. “Fucking glowing. Can’t even sit still.”

You try to answer, but he’s already climbing over you, already grinding his hips down, and it’s the thick press of denim against your bare core that pulls a gasp from your lips. You’re soaked—dripping—and the friction makes you twitch.

He kisses you hard. Messy and breathless. His tongue slides against yours as he fists your bra and yanks it down to mouth at your tits, teeth dragging over one nipple while his hand works the other. You arch under him, panting, moaning, thighs falling open without shame.

Joel groans into your skin.

“Can feel your pussy through my jeans,” he mutters, grinding slow. “You gonna come again just like this? So fuckin’ needy you’ll soak me through?”

Your hips buck. You gasp—louder now. “Joel—please—”

That’s all it takes. He sits up, rough with the button on his jeans, yanking them down just far enough to free his cock.

And God. You see it for the first time—thick and flushed and dripping at the tip—and your cunt clenches so hard it hurts.

He catches the way your eyes go wide.

“What?” He says, almost smug through the grit of his voice. “Thought about this? Thought about what it’d feel like?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He grabs your thigh, pushes it open wider, and drags the head of his cock through your folds—slow and slick, gathering the mess between your legs like he owns it.

“‘Course you did,” he says, low. “Bet you’d touch yourself after work thinking about this. Thinking about me. Weren’t you?”

You nod, frantic, and he smirks—just a little.

Then he pushes in.

One slow, brutal thrust, stretching you wide, stealing the breath from your lungs. You gasp—high, broken—and his jaw goes tight.

“Jesus,” he grits. “Tight as fuck. Squeezin’ me like you’re not ready.”

He pulls back. Pushes deeper.

You arch, crying out, one hand slamming against the headboard for balance.

“Fuck, fuck—Joel—”

“You take it,” he growls. “You take it like it’s the only cock you’ve ever needed.”

He drives into you—again, again—hips slapping hard, rhythm quick and punishing. The sound of it fills the room. Skin on skin. The wet drag of your cunt every time he thrusts back in. Your breath stutters, sharp and wrecked, as your legs shake around him.

You’re already close again.

“Too much,” you gasp. “Joel—too—”

“No,” he demands, grabbing your jaw, holding your face still so you see him. “You can take it. You’re gonna fuckin’ come again. Look at how good you’re doin’.”

Your whole body trembles. You don’t just feel the build—you ache with it. It coils tight behind your ribs, in your spine, threatening to snap.

He sees it.

He wants it.

He leans in, his mouth right at your ear, voice low and rough:

“Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

You do.

You shatter—violently, with a gasp that turns into a sob, your body locking up around him as your orgasm takes you hard and deep. Your cunt clenches so tight around his cock it pulls a groan straight from his throat, and he fucks you through it—never stopping, not even when your legs shake and you beg with your eyes.

“Too much?” He asks again, tone softer now, taunting but fond. “Then why’s your pussy still begging for me?”

You moan, half-sobbing, and he melts for it—his hand sliding down between your legs to rub tight circles over your clit, still thrusting, still buried deep.

You jerk, try to twist away. “Joel—”

“One more,” he pants, voice tight. “You got one more for me. Wanna feel you fall apart while I come inside you.”

You’re crying out now—overwhelmed, skin buzzing, body wrung out and oversensitive—but you nod.

He keeps going. Gentle now, but deep, cock dragging slow and deliberate, fingers working your clit with practiced precision.

You come again—this time silent, lips parted, tears sliding down your temple.

He groans when it hits you. Watches it take you. Then his rhythm falters, jaw clenching, breath turning ragged as he finally loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna come—inside—Jesus—”

He slams in one last time, burying himself deep with a grunt as he comes, cock twitching, hips grinding to a halt. His body shakes above yours, muscles locking, hands fisted tight in the sheets as he pulses inside you.

You feel full. Marked. Claimed.

It’s quiet for a long moment. The only sound is your breathing—his heavier than yours, both of you wrecked.

Then, finally, his weight sinks down, body folding over yours, face pressing into your neck.

You’re trembling. Sweating. Boneless.

But you feel his lips press once, gently, against your collarbone. “You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispers.

***

You’re not sure how long you lay there—still panting, the sheets twisted beneath you, sweat drying between your breasts—but at some point, you feel his breath slow. His hands soften.

And when he lifts his head, when his eyes finally meet yours, they’re different.

No edge. No fire. Just something warm and wrecked and reverent.

He swallows hard.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse, thumb brushing over the damp skin beneath your breast. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You expect him to leave the room, to tell you to meet him, to retreat into silence now that the heat’s gone.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts you gently—carefully—into his arms like you’re something breakable. His jeans are still hanging low on his hips, your shirt still bunched under your arms, but he moves like none of that matters. Like the only thing he cares about right now is you.

You don’t protest. You melt.

He carries you to the bathroom in silence, the sound of your slowed breath the only thing between you.

The light he switches on is dim. Warm. The water he runs is the perfect temperature. You barely have time to process the steam rising from the tub before his hands are on you again—pulling your shirt over your head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist as he slips off your bra.

“You okay?” He murmurs, soft as silk.

You nod.

He studies you. Then leans in and kisses your forehead—just a breath of contact, but enough to make your chest ache.

You step into the shower, and he follows.

His hands don’t grab this time. They glide. They trace your skin like they’re memorizing it. He starts with your shoulders, your arms, his palms broad and steady as the water pours down over both of you. He soaps you slowly—fingertips pressing gently into the knots along your spine, rinsing you like you’ve got all the time in the world.

When he moves to your hair, you sigh—deep, content, leaning into his touch without thinking. He lathers slowly, careful not to tug. His hands are strong, but tender. He massages your scalp, brushes suds away from your temples with his thumbs. Every once in a while, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, or the top of your spine, or the back of your neck. Not sexual. Just there. Grounding.

He rinses you. Kisses you again.

You turn, wet hair slicked back, face tilted up.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you in a way he hasn’t before. Like something cracked open back on that bed and he’s still trying to understand what came out.

Then he leans forward—foreheads touching, water dripping down your noses—and whispers, “You feel okay?”

You nod and whisper, “Yeah.”

And for the first time since he walked into your home, he smiles.

It’s small. Subtle. But real.

He kisses your mouth—slow and soft and utterly undesperate—and then towels you off with that same kind of devotion. Wraps you in one of your own oversized shirts. Lets his hands linger a little when he pulls the hem down over your thighs. Not greedy. Not teasing. Just… affectionate.

Then he lifts you again—easily, like you weigh nothing—and carries you to bed.

The sheets are still messy, still smell like sweat and sex, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lays you down gently, then slides in behind you, his arm curling around your waist like it belongs there. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm. His breath fans across the back of your neck.

You reach down and guide his hand up beneath your shirt, settling it over your ribs. His fingers flex just once—then go still.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You’re really staying?”

His arm tightens. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

And he means it.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing—slow and even, heart thrumming steady against your spine. His nose nuzzles into your shoulder, one thigh bracketing yours. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe tomorrow the world will come crashing in. Maybe it’ll all get complicated again.

But for now—

You’re full. You’re held. You’re his.

And nothing has ever felt so safe.

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juliettejwnewinesa · 1 month ago

Note

Hi :) may you do a seongje ff where he pulls shy reader into his lap while he’s gaming to calm himself down after slamming a guys head (slight smit plz)

“Stay Right Here.” Seong Je x shy!reader | Soft comfort, possessive undertones, lap sitting, light smut

~900 words Warnings: mild violence (mentions of a fight), emotional tension, soft!dom Seong Je, thigh riding, teasing, light dirty talk, oral (f receiving), slight possessiveness

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The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frames on the wall.

You flinched where you sat cross-legged on the edge of Seong Je’s bed, eyes wide, book forgotten in your lap. His footsteps were heavy — angry. You barely managed to sit up before he walked in, jaw clenched, shirt collar crooked, and a dark smear of blood across his knuckles.

Your mouth opened. “Seong Je—?”

“Don’t,” he muttered, shutting the bedroom door behind him with a controlled click. “Don’t say anything yet. Just—” he ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling, “Just gimme a sec.”

You pressed your lips together, watching him as he tossed his phone and keys onto his desk. His headset was still dangling over his gaming chair. The monitor was glowing faintly, some paused FPS game on screen. But he didn’t sit. Not yet.

His chest was rising and falling fast. He was trying to calm down.

You hesitated, shifting a little on the bed. “…Did something happen?”

Seong Je finally looked at you — and something in his expression softened. Like seeing you dimmed the heat still coursing through him. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared, breathing slow, like you were something worth focusing on.

Then quietly, he muttered, “Guy grabbed Haneul’s arm. Wouldn’t let go.” You blinked. “What?” “I told him once to back off. He laughed. Called her a bitch.” He exhaled harshly, head tilting back. “So I slammed his face into a wall.”

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“You didn’t—” “He’s not dead,” Seong Je said flatly. “But he’ll need dental work.”

The silence that followed was only broken by the gentle hum of his PC.

He dragged his fingers through his hair again, clearly still wound tight. Like the adrenaline hadn’t worn off. You watched as he flexed his bloodied hand open and closed, then finally dropped into his gaming chair with a heavy sigh.

He didn’t start playing again.

He just sat there. Eyes on you.

“…Come here,” he said suddenly.

Your heart skipped. “What?”

“Just—come here.” His voice dropped lower. “Please.”

You stood slowly, padding across the room. When you reached him, he didn’t even give you time to hesitate — just gripped your hips and tugged you down into his lap, facing him. Your knees slid to either side of his thighs, straddling him awkwardly, your face already burning.

“Seong Je—!”

“Shh,” he said, resting his forehead against your shoulder, his hands settling on your waist. “Just sit for a second. You’re warm.”

You swallowed thickly, heart thudding so hard you were sure he could feel it.

This close, you could smell his cologne under the faint scent of blood. His arms wrapped tighter around you, and something in him uncoiled. Like touching you was the only thing that brought him down from that violent place. Like he needed this more than anything.

You whispered, “Are you okay…?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I will be.”

His grip shifted slightly, his hands sliding up your back, resting just under the hem of your shirt. You tensed, just a little — but he didn’t push. Didn’t go further.

Just… held you. Steady.

“I don’t like when people touch what’s mine,” he said quietly. “Even if it wasn’t you. I can’t stand that shit.”

You didn’t know what to say. The possessiveness in his voice sent shivers down your spine. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“Thanks for not yelling at me,” he murmured after a while.

You blinked. “Why would I yell at you?”

“I’m trying not to be like that anymore.” His voice was tight. “But sometimes it just… happens. And I was scared you’d look at me different.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him. His dark eyes searched yours, a little raw.

“You were protecting someone,” you said gently. “And you’re still here. Trying.”

He stared at you for a long second. Then exhaled — slow. His head dropped back against the chair, tension leaking from his body like a popped balloon. He let himself relax completely, legs spread slightly under you, hands back on your waist.

“…Can I keep you here a little longer?” he asked quietly. “Just like this.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

A flicker of something darker sparked in his gaze then.

“You’re really soft,” he murmured, eyes dragging down to your lips. “Can’t think about anything when you’re sitting on me like this.”

You felt your whole body heat up.

“W-we’re not doing anything,” you stammered.

He smirked. “Not yet.”

You let out a squeaky sound as his hands slipped a little lower — to your thighs, then under your ass, adjusting your position so your core brushed against the front of his sweats. He hissed through his teeth.

“Shit… yeah. Just like that. Don’t move.”

You froze, heart hammering.

He smirked again. “Unless you want to.”

You stared at him, lips parted, unsure what to say — but your body moved on instinct, just the slightest grind of your hips against his. His jaw clenched instantly.

“Y/N…”

Your breath caught.

“You wanna help me calm down for real?” he asked, voice thick, eyes darkening. “Come sit on my face.”

You blinked. “W-what?!”

“I’ll feel better if you let me taste you.” He grinned lazily, pupils blown. “Swear.”

You made a tiny sound, already dizzy from the way his voice dropped. But you didn’t say no. Your thighs clenched around his waist, and he felt it — noticed.

Seong Je slid his hands back up your shirt, fingers hot and deliberate.

“Take this off,” he whispered. “And come ride my mouth like a good girl.”

You bit your lip, cheeks on fire, and obeyed.

781 notes · View notes

cloudtransprncy · 6 months ago

Text

Desk

IVE Gaeul x Male reader | 4647 words Part 1 of ? Tags: Oral Fixation, Bratty GF, Teasing, Semi-Public Risk, Deepthroating, Spit Play, Messy, dirty, head.

You're locked into a late-night Valorant grind with the boys, but Gaeul has other plans. With teasing glances, a knowing smirk, and a slow descent under the desk, she dares you to stay focused—except she knows you never win against her.

The monitor’s light spills into the dimly lit bedroom, merging with the deep purple glow from the LED strips running along the ceiling.

The rhythmic clicking of the keyboard mixes with the muffled voices from Discord, filling the room with an ambient hum.

You’re leaned back in your gaming chair, its ergonomic shape supporting you as you shift slightly, adjusting your position. Loose shirt draping over your frame, fingers moving fluidly across the keys, you call out plays with the boys.

The faint scent of fresh linen from your undone sheets lingers in the air, the bed tidy but lived-in, a slight contrast to the sleek, modern aesthetic of the rest of your space.

The game’s reflection flickers across the sleek, minimal art on your walls—fractured neon streaks from a custom Vandal skin shifting with the movement on-screen. Sleek frames devoid of any band posters enhance the modern aesthetic, while a small collection of Funko Pops stands neatly on a floating shelf, their colorful forms a playful contrast to the room’s sharp design.

The match is tense, but the banter is casual—friendly jabs, loud reactions, the usual chaos of a night grinding Valorant.

“Bro, how’d you miss that?!” one of the homies shouts, half-laughing.

“Relax, I got this,” you mutter, adjusting your aim. Your screen flickers with movement, and you line up the perfect shot. “Headshot. Easy.”

The boys erupt in a mix of cheers and mock complaints, but before you can ride the high of the play, the door creaks open, the soft sound barely cutting through the steady hum of your PC fans.

Instinctively, your fingers flick over the keyboard, hitting the hotkey that mutes your mic—just in case.

Gaeul steps in.

Your eyes flick to her, and for a second, your brain lags like a bad connection, your pulse stuttering as if your body is catching up to what your eyes are seeing.

A flush of warmth spreads through your chest, your grip tightening on the mouse as your mind scrambles to register the sudden shift in atmosphere. She’s stealing your breath before you even realize it.

Her black cropped tank top clings to her, spaghetti straps exposing her toned shoulders, the smooth curve of her collarbone, and just enough of her creamy, flawless abdomen to make your throat dry. Her skin glows under the purple LED light, soft and inviting, each inch begging to be touched.

The shorts she wears showcase her long, silky legs, every movement making the light catch the supple smoothness of her thighs, leaving little to the imagination. A pair of simple socks cover only her feet, emphasizing the bare elegance of her form. Her hair is tied up, loose strands falling around her face in a messy yet intentional way, the wisps framing her delicate features. Her full lips slightly parted, painted with a soft hue that catches the dim lighting.

The contrast between the sharpness of her jawline and the smoothness of her skin is striking, making her look effortlessly stunning even in the simplest setting.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She lingers in the doorway, her gaze flickering over you, lips pressing into a playful pout. Then, with a slow, deliberate sigh, she finally flops onto your bed dramatically, stretching like a cat, her arms extending above her head. The motion makes the fabric of her tank top shift slightly, hinting at the tautness of her stomach.

Her movements are relaxed, nonchalant, as if she isn’t trying to draw attention to herself. She rolls onto her stomach, kicking her feet behind her lazily, her cute rear forming soft, tempting hills under her shorts. Her fingers idly scroll over her phone screen, her expression neutral, almost detached. She shifts slightly, her toned legs flexing as she shifts position, before finally speaking up.

“Babe.”

You hum in response, still locked onto the screen.

“I’m horny.”

Your grip on the mouse tightens, but you force a chuckle. “Yeah? Sucks to be you. I’m with the homies right now.”

She groans dramatically, causing you to glance over, and the sight nearly makes you miss your next shot. She's biting her finger absentmindedly, her gaze fixed on her phone, but it’s the way her tank top strap has slipped off her shoulder that catches you.

The loosened fabric barely clings to her, revealing just a teasing glimpse of her collarbone and the soft swell of her cleavage. Her lips part slightly, her teeth grazing the tip of her finger as if lost in thought, though you know better—she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She sighs, getting up from the bed, the movement slow, deliberate. Her sock-covered feet shuffle lightly against the carpeted floor as she makes her way towards you, her presence growing impossibly closer. She drags a hand down her stomach lazily, adjusting her tank top as if unaware of your eyes on her, though you know better.

As she reaches your left side, she leans in, and the familiar, clean scent of cherry drifts over you—subtle yet distinct, a fragrance that clings to her skin, comforting in its familiarity. It mixes with the warmth of her body, the closeness making your breath hitch as she presses just slightly into your space, her presence wrapping around you effortlessly.

“Come on,” she murmurs, reaching up to gently tug your headset back, just enough to expose your ear. She nuzzles against your neck, her lips hovering close, her breath warm as she inhales softly, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, your focus slipping.

She moves fluidly, settling just behind you, her arms draping lazily over your shoulders. One hand trails across your chest, her fingers tracing slow, feather-light patterns, while the other lingers at the edge of your headset, still tilted from her tug. She tilts her head slightly, pretending to check something on her phone again, the glow reflecting on her smooth skin.

You almost think she’s given up—until she suddenly shifts closer, her fingers ghosting over your wrist before she reaches for your headset, her lips curving into a knowing smirk before she glances at you through her lashes, biting her lower lip absentmindedly.

Then, with deliberate ease, she shifts her hips subtly, pressing against you just enough to make you notice. Her lips hover just beside your ear, her voice smooth, teasing, sinking into your skin like warm honey.

“I don’t need much,” she breathes, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, but just before the words slip into your ear, she pulls back slightly, letting the moment hang between you.

Then, suddenly, she leans in closer again, her lips brushing just faintly against your skin as she whispers the last word, the sensation sending a deep shiver down your spine, as if she’s already won.

You inhale sharply, fingers hovering over the keys, willing yourself to stay focused. It’s just Gaeul being Gaeul, you tell yourself. She loves to mess with you. But the warmth of her breath, the way she moves without even trying—it’s getting harder to pretend you’re unaffected. Your fingers hesitate on the keys. Just for a second.

She sees it.

The smile she gives you is soft—knowing, smug, just a little bit spoiled.

Her hands drift down, playing with the hem of your shirt, her nails grazing your stomach lightly, sending a wave of heat coursing through your veins. A sharp exhale escapes you before you can stop it, your muscles tensing under her touch. The sensation is maddening—just enough to tease, to remind you of how easily she can unravel you. Your mind races, fighting between keeping your cool and giving in to the way she’s setting every nerve in your body on fire. The feeling sends an involuntary shiver up your spine.

You try to focus, try to keep your cursor steady, but she’s right there—warm, teasing, a living distraction you can’t ignore. You know exactly where this is going. And you should stop her. You should. But when have you ever been able to tell Gaeul no?

Your character moves erratically on-screen, and one of the guys on Discord notices.

“Yo, what was that flick?”

You clear your throat and adjust your mic. “Slipped.”

Gaeul giggles, her warm breath ghosting over your skin. She nuzzles against your neck briefly, then tilts her head, her lips brushing softly against your cheek instead, a fleeting yet deliberate touch that lingers just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Come on,” she whispers. “I promise I won’t be a bother.”

She shifts slightly, fingers trailing down your chest before gripping the edge of your shirt. ‘Maybe I should just sit here instead,’ she muses, voice laced with amusement. You brace yourself, already anticipating the warmth of her weight on your lap, but she smirks.

You exhale through your nose, but you don’t object.

That’s all she needed —and sinks to her knees instead.

And just like that, she disappears under the desk.

Your heart kicks up a notch.

The second she disappears under the desk, your heart rate spikes. She shifts beneath you, adjusting herself before pausing. No touch, no teasing—just the warmth of her presence lingering between your legs. The lack of contact makes it worse. Your pulse thrums in your ears, waiting, expecting. The seconds stretch unbearably. Then, finally, her fingertips graze your thigh, featherlight, sending a ripple of heat straight to your core. Your breath comes just a little faster, anticipation creeping into every inch of your body. You sit up a little straighter, adjusting in your chair as if that will somehow help you keep your composure.

Her hands, warm and soft, brush along your thighs, fingertips featherlight at first before pressing in with teasing intent. She’s taking her time, letting you feel every little touch, every stroke of her nails against your sweats. Your grip on the mouse tightens as you glance at the screen, trying—failing—to focus on the game.

She palms you slowly, deliberately, the heat of her hand pressing through the fabric in lazy, teasing strokes. It’s maddening. The kind of slow torture only she could get away with. Your jaw clenches, but you force yourself to stay still, barely shifting in your seat as you adjust your headset.

The boys on Discord are still talking, oblivious to the way your body tenses under her touch. One of them cracks a joke, and you let out a forced chuckle, hoping no one hears the slight waver in your voice.

Then, Gaeul pauses, dragging it out. She blows warm air over you first, waiting, making sure you feel the anticipation crawling under your skin. A quiet hum leaves her lips as she rests her cheek against your thigh, her breath steady, unhurried. You feel her smile against you before she finally moves.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she hooks her fingers into your waistband and tugs down—not too fast, not too slow, just enough to make you lose your breath.

Cool air rushes over you for all of a second, and the relief is immediate—skin stretching, blood thrumming as your hardness finally breaks free from its constraint. The sensation is dizzying, your cock pulsing as it fully unfurls, heat rushing straight to your core. Before she does anything else, she pauses, taking in the sight of you—her breath hitching slightly, her fingers ghosting over your length in reverence.

She nuzzles against it, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the side, her warm breath sending another shudder through you. She’s told you many times before how much she loves sucking your cock, but whenever she’s actually doing it, it feels like more than that—like she’s worshiping you, indulging in something she can’t get enough of. She’s savoring every inch before she even begins. A soft hum escapes her, as if just having you like this is enough to satisfy her. Only then do her lips part, and she finally takes you in.

Wet. Warm. Hot.

The first flick of her tongue sends a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine. Her lips wrap around you, slow and firm, dragging along your length with teasing precision. The suction is just right, enough to make your fingers twitch over the keyboard. It starts clean, controlled, but soon the warmth of her mouth deepens, her spit coating every inch. You glance down between ragged breaths, watching as she slowly drags her tongue from the base to the tip, only to scoop up the slickness pooling at your crotch, bringing it back to the top with a slow, deliberate stroke.

Your hand flies to the mute button.

The first few slow, obscene strokes of her tongue make your head tip back slightly, your fingers gripping the edge of the desk. It’s wet, so wet, messy from the start.

She doesn’t hold back. Not today.

Her tongue glides firmly along the underside, tracing every vein, her movements deliberate as she circles the tip before enveloping you again, her lips stretching around your girth with practiced ease. The lewd sound of her lips smacking around you is barely muffled under the desk, but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten.

You will yourself to stay composed, to not give anything away, but it’s a losing battle.

She’s relentless—her mouth hot and soft, taking you deeper each time, her spit slicking every inch of you. She bobs her head with a slow, steady rhythm, a mix of suction and slippery, messy tongue work that makes your breath stutter.

You will yourself to focus, force your fingers to keep moving on the keyboard, but it’s useless. You tell yourself to think about the match, about the callouts, about anything but the heat pooling in your stomach. But then her breath ghosts over you again, and it's like a wire short-circuiting in your brain.

Your grip tightens on the mouse, but the effort is futile—your body betrays you, drawn irresistibly to the way she moves, to the slow, maddening rhythm she’s building beneath you. The second her lips ghost over the fabric, you’re gone. The game, the boys on Discord, the match—it all fades. Your only reality is her, beneath the desk, and the slow, maddening heat pooling in your stomach. Your breathing grows heavier, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Yo, you good?” one of your friends asks.

You clear your throat, forcing a neutral tone. “Yeah, just—uh, adjusting my seat.”

Beneath the desk, Gaeul giggles, and the vibration of it alone makes your stomach clench. Then, she spits, warm and thick, letting it drip down your length before she spreads it with her tongue. A wet, filthy glide.

A sharp inhale rushes through your nose. Your free hand tightens on your thigh. God.

She deepens her rhythm, her mouth molding around you, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks with more urgency, a wet, obscene symphony filling the space beneath the desk. The slick sounds grow louder, more obscene, as spit pools and dribbles from the corners of her mouth, coating your length in a messy sheen.

A soft gag stutters in her throat, and when she pulls back slightly, her breath is ragged, chest rising and falling as she pants through the high. For a brief second, her eyes roll back, dazed, before she collects herself with a quiet, needy hum.

Then, she spits again, slow and deliberate, watching the saliva trail down before she gathers it with her tongue and takes you in once more. Some of it drips onto the chair, smearing across the leather, but you don’t care—your mind too fogged with pleasure to register anything beyond the mess she’s making of you.

Sloppy. Wet. No hesitation.

Her throat clenches around you before she pulls back, eyes fluttering as a garbled moan escapes her, her breath labored. She lets another thick strand of spit fall, her fingers smoothing it down as she strokes you with both hands, her grip greedy, insatiable. Then she goes back in, her nails digging lightly into your thigh, like she’s steadying herself, like she’s getting lost in it.

Your cursor drifts aimlessly on-screen, and the boys notice.

“Bro, what are you even doing? We’re losing.”

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to refocus. “Shut up, I got this.”

But you don’t. Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s ruining you beneath the desk, her tongue flicking, her lips tightening, her throat swallowing around you just enough to make your vision blur.

Your next move is purely instinct. Your hand finds the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as you press her down just a little more. She hums in approval, her lips glistening, strands of spit clinging between them as she lets her drool drip deliberately onto your skin, smearing the mess with slow, deliberate kisses. Then, her throat tightens as you push just a bit deeper, the tip hitting the back of her throat, making her gag around you.

The air around you is thick, tainted with the intoxicating mix of her hot breath, her saliva, and the lingering scent of her cherry perfume. It clings to your skin, seeps into the fabric of your chair, wrapping the space in something primal, something undeniably filthy. It’s overwhelming, making your head swim, as if the very atmosphere is charged with the evidence of everything she’s done to you.

You bite down on your lip, head tipping forward as pleasure crashes through you. Then she pulls back with a lewd, messy gasp, a wet pop breaking the tension as she stares at you, her composure long gone. What started as slow, deliberate control has unraveled into something raw and desperate. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her lips swollen and slick, spit clinging to her chin and trickling down her throat. She blinks, dazed, before a quiet whimper escapes her, her body shivering like she’s addicted to the taste of you. Her eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering as if she’s dazed, drunk on the feeling of having you in her mouth. She pants softly, her breath ragged as she collects herself, a cough slipping out before she snorts, shaking her head slightly like she’s high off it.

A hum of satisfaction vibrates in her throat before she spits on you again, her hand wrapping around your slick length. She strokes you slow, loud, and proud, her fingers working you with a deliberate pace. Looking up at you from under the desk, she looks utterly wrecked—lips swollen and slick, spit trailing down her chin, her eyes glassy and dark with hunger. Drops of saliva dot her chest, some clinging to her collarbone, dampening the fabric of her top. She pants softly, her breath shaky, as both hands work you with slow, messy strokes, her fingers coated in the evidence of her own devotion.

Muted again.

She’s winning. And she knows it.

Your thighs tremble as Gaeul keeps stroking, her grip firm, fingers gliding over your slick length with a slow, almost lazy confidence. Her breath is uneven, hot, little moans slipping past her lips as if she’s lost in the act itself, dazed by the sensation of having you in her hands. Her spit coats every inch, her palm twisting just right as she drags it up and down. Her eyes stay locked on yours, her smirk hidden behind the mess she’s made of you.

She doesn’t just stop there.

Gaeul lets your cock rest against her tongue for a moment, her eyes locked onto yours, dark and hazy with need.

She holds it there, savoring the weight of you, before spitting thickly onto it, her lips parting just slightly as if mesmerized by the sight.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she slaps it against her wet muscle, the obscene sound cutting through the heavy silence between you. The sound is obscene, sticky and loud in the quiet room. She giggles, flicking her gaze up at you from under her lashes, her fingers still stroking steadily as she tilts her head slightly, as if daring you to break.

And then she goes lower. All the way down.

Her lips trail to your base, kissing, licking, before her tongue glides further—dragging along your balls, her breath warm and heavy against your sensitive skin. She pauses for a moment, savoring, letting her lips graze over them before she sucks one into her mouth with a messy, drawn-out slurp. A deep, muffled moan vibrates through you, the sensation sparking along your spine.

You shudder, thighs flexing, your fingers tightening involuntarily as she hums against you, relishing every second, her tongue swirling, teasing. Her eyes flutter closed as if she’s lost in it, indulging herself, her own pleasure evident in the way she sucks greedily, releasing with a wet pop before shifting to the other.

She breathes out a small laugh, breathless, her lips slick as she licks back up, dragging her tongue purposefully before kissing back down, making sure every inch of you is drenched in attention. She doesn’t stop stroking, her grip tightening as she jerks you in slow, deliberate motions, the slick warmth of her saliva spreading over every inch. Her palm glides with a perfect mix of pressure and indulgence, squeezing just enough to make your thighs tense.

The wetness pools, smearing between her fingers, dripping down in messy trails, but she doesn’t slow—if anything, she seems to revel in it. Every stroke makes an obscene sound, every twist of her wrist drawing you closer to losing it.

She releases you with a pop, licking up the entire length before wrapping her lips around you again. This time, she doesn’t tease. She dives in.

Your body tenses as her throat tightens around you, her free hand rolling your balls in her palm as she bobs up and down with an unrelenting pace.

It’s overwhelming.

Her movements are fast, ruthless, each descent pushing you deeper into her throat. She takes you over and over, no hesitation, no mercy. Her moans turn breathier, more frantic, as if she’s unraveling with every greedy suck, every eager, wet drag of her lips, lost in the heady rhythm of it all.

Her thighs squeeze together involuntarily, a faint tremor running through, completely lost in it. Her fingers twitch slightly, gripping your thigh tighter for balance, her breathing faltering between moans, her body responding instinctively, greedily, to the act itself.

Her tongue presses against the underside, rubbing against that sensitive spot as her lips stretch around your girth. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, spit dripping from her chin, but she doesn’t stop.

She can feel it. You’re right there. Your thighs twitch, seizing in tight, instinctive pulses, the tension sparking through you like an exposed wire.

A hushed moan slips past your lips, unbidden, as your breathing catches. Her nails dig into your thigh, her body shuddering, her eyes rolling back for a brief second as she gags around you, spit bubbling at the corners of her lips. It’s filthy, it’s intoxicating, and she looks like she never wants to stop.

She grips your thigh, steadies herself, and swallows you whole, her throat convulsing around you in quick, desperate gulps. The wet heat, the tight pressure, the sound of her gagging and moaning all at once—it shatters you.

Your head tips back, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your hips jerk forward involuntarily. Pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, blinding, unstoppable. Your muscles go taut, your grip tightening on the desk as your breath catches, lost in the sheer intensity of the moment.

Thoughts scatter, dissolve into nothing but the heat of her mouth, the desperate pull of her throat, the way your body surrenders completely to her. The first pulse erupts deep inside her, and she moans around you, swallowing greedily as if she’s desperate for every last drop. The thick warmth shoots down her throat, and she takes it all effortlessly, her lips sealed tight, sucking you through every wave. Her body trembles, her exhale shuddering slightly as she savors the taste, the sensation.

A blissed-out hum escapes her, reverberating through you, her eyes fluttering in a heady trance, completely overtaken by the moment. Even after you’re drained, she stays there, swallowing once more, her lips still wrapped around you as if reluctant to let go. Finally, she pulls back, her tongue flicking out to clean up anything left behind, her lashes heavy, her gaze hazy with satisfaction. Only then do you finally look down, watching her beneath the desk.

She’s on her knees, her body slumped slightly, as if she’s been completely overtaken by the moment. Her hair is a mess, strands clinging to the damp sheen on her flushed skin. Her tank top is a disaster, the thin fabric darkened in places, speckled with spit, barely hanging onto her frame. She looks utterly ruined—stunning in her disarray, a vision of chaos and need, her lips still slick, slightly parted as she catches her breath.

There’s something almost innocent in the way she gazes up at you, juxtaposed with the depravity of what she’s just done. And yet, she’s still hungry, still savoring the taste of you, a soft, breathy hum leaving her lips as she drags her fingers over your oversensitive skin, enjoying how you twitch under her touch.

Your fingers grip the desk like a lifeline, chest heaving, body wrecked.

And when she finally pulls away, a string of spit still connects her lips to your spent length, her expression smug as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

The boys are still talking. The match is still going.

You don’t even know who’s winning anymore.

Your hand is still gripping the mouse, your fingers twitching slightly as you struggle to recover. The warmth of her breath still lingers on your skin, her presence under the desk unmistakable.

Your legs feel like jelly. Your entire body is still pulsing from the aftershocks, and you barely process the sound of your friends in your headset. When you finally force your fingers to move, they don’t feel like your own

You clear your throat, exhaling hard through your nose before unmuting. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Bro, you disappeared for a sec,” one of your friends laughs. “What happened?”

Gaeul leans forward, resting her chin on your thigh, her fingers tracing light patterns against your oversensitive skin. She looks up at you, amused, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Just… needed a breather,” you manage, voice hoarse.

A chuckle from your homies, some light teasing, but they move on, diving back into the game.

Gaeul, however, doesn’t budge. Her eyes remain locked on you, heavy-lidded, her lips still slick and parted as if savoring the moment. A satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, but there’s something else there too—an insatiable hunger, a quiet challenge lingering in her gaze, like she’s not quite done with you yet.

You exhale, still reeling, and finally push your chair back slightly, giving her space. Gaeul stretches out lazily, her body still humming from everything she’s just done, then crawls out from under the desk with slow, unsteady movements.

Her tank top clings to her skin, damp, wrinkled, barely hanging onto her shoulders. With a small, bratty huff, she tugs it back into place, though it does little to fix the absolute mess she’s become.

Before you can react, she leans up and presses a kiss to your cheek, soft and fleeting, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrays the false innocence of it. "Next time, I’m riding you," she murmurs, voice still thick, breathless, her words dripping with amusement. "Let’s see how well you mute then."

Your fingers tighten on the mouse.

Game over.

AN: I was gone and stopped writing and thinking of shit, had some changes in my life, but im back to writing again. Keep an eye out I got some more ready to go

#smut #gaeul #ive #malereader #kpop smut #kpop fic #kpop fanfic #ive smut

1K notes · View notes

matcha3mochi · 1 month ago

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PROTOCOL | II Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: here is a continuation to chapter 1 ehhe! it's pretty lengthy bc i wanted it to be a bit slowburn!! pls enjoy reading this!! 🥰🥰

wc: 6,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

The break room is cold in that quiet, clinical way the Institute has perfected — impersonal, sanitized, almost echoless. The overhead lights haven’t fully brightened yet, casting the room in a blue-toned wash, soft and sterile like twilight filtered through glass. The polished black tables reflect that icy glow, while the vending wall on the far side hums softly to itself, a standby menu scrolling across its touch-sensitive display.

You sit tucked in the back corner, alone.

The chair is angular and unforgiving beneath you. One foot rests flat on the ground, the other curls under your thigh, a habit you haven’t shaken since nursing school. A half-full cup of synth-coffee sits to your right. The steam has faded, but the scent—slightly metallic with that faint bitter burn of artificial mocha—lingers like breath on a mirror.

You stare at the glowing screen of your datapad, but the words blur, bleeding into each other as your focus drifts.

You’re thinking about yesterday.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You were going to let the moment pass, the way you usually do. Swallow it. Move on.

But then your voice left your body in that corridor — a soft, cracked “thank you” that felt like handing him a scalpel with both hands.

And Zayne had taken it.

Without flinching. Without dodging.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence. That includes false accusations.”

The words had echoed through your skull all night, louder than the post-op monitors, louder than the tired thoughts telling you not to think too hard about it.

Because something about it was personal.

And you don't know what to do with that.

The door hisses open.

You don’t look up at first — just sip your coffee out of reflex. Cold now. Awful. Your fingers tighten around the cup.

But then you hear the steps.

Measured. Precise.

Not the soft shuffle of a tired nurse or the clumsy stride of a resident.

Hard soles. Deliberate gait.

Dress shoes.

You glance up.

And your pulse stutters.

Zayne.

Of course.

He walks in like the room was built around him. His coat is immaculate, fastened high against the sharp lines of his navy vest. His dark hair, slicked back, catches the low light in a clean shine. No loose strands. No wrinkles. No rush. His silver-framed glasses rest perfectly across the bridge of his nose, catching a pale glint from the dispenser wall as he approaches it.

He doesn’t glance at you.

Not yet.

His right hand lifts — long, pale fingers tapping the interface with exact precision. The vending screen changes. Options shift. You watch the flick of his eyes as he reads, scrolls, selects.

Then, he pauses.

Just for a second.

His gaze shifts — almost imperceptibly — toward your table.

Toward your cup.

Then back to the panel.

He taps again.

Same coffee.

The same selection you picked.

You freeze, fingers still curled around your own cup.

The machine hums. A faint hiss of steam. The scent sharpens — familiar, acidic, chemical cocoa — and your heart kicks harder for reasons you don’t dare name.

He retrieves the cup, wraps his fingers around it with clinical ease.

Turns.

And walks straight toward you.

Not toward the counter. Not toward the sink or the exit.

You.

Your breath catches. You glance down, adjusting your datapad like that’ll make the moment more casual.

But it doesn’t.

He reaches the table.

Then, without a word, he pulls out the chair across from you and sits.

Effortlessly. Quietly. Like this is normal.

It isn’t.

Zayne doesn’t sit in shared spaces. He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t drink coffee with people like you — like anyone.

But here he is.

The silence is total.

The vending machine slips into standby again. Your datapad dims.

You don’t know where to look.

He rests his coffee on the table. One hand wrapped loosely around the cup, thumb tapping once — slow, absent. His other hand rests on his thigh, fingers lightly curled. He doesn’t cross his legs. Doesn’t lean back. His spine is straight, posture alert even when still.

You watch him from beneath your lashes, suddenly hypersensitive to everything: the low drone of the vent system overhead, the sharp lines of his profile, the way his glasses fog slightly from the cup’s remaining heat.

You’re the first to speak.

You have to.

“Didn’t expect to see you in here this early,” you say softly, voice caught between conversational and cautious.

Zayne doesn’t look at you. He lifts the cup to his lips, sips once, then sets it down again with near-silent precision.

“I’m early every day,” he says.

His voice is smooth. Low. But there’s none of the edge you’re used to. Just… quiet.

You shift slightly in your chair, your foot brushing the floor again.

“You don’t usually sit.”

“There’s no rule against it,” he replies.

You let out a soft huff of breath — not quite a laugh, but close. Typical Zayne.

Then, your eyes fall to the cups. Identical. Still steaming.

And you ask, because you have to:

“Was the coffee a coincidence?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No.”

He turns his head toward you, and his eyes catch the light — that pale, strange, hazel-green that shifts with every blink. They lock onto yours. Direct. Unwavering.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He isn’t smiling. He never does.

But something in his expression has… loosened.

Not relaxed. Just not braced.

You stare at him for one second too long.

Then you lower your eyes.

You pick up your cup again, take a slow sip — still bitter, still bad — and set it down just to give your hands something to do.

The silence grows again, but this time it doesn’t feel like space between strangers.

It feels like waiting.

It feels like noticing.

You glance at the time.

05:56.

You rise first, datapad tucked under your arm.

He stands too.

No word, no signal. Just synced movement.

You both move toward the hallway — the bright, humming artery that leads to Surgical Wing 3 — and fall into step beside each other.

No touch.

No talk.

But your arms swing close enough to brush. Your footsteps mirror.

And in that moment, as the blue-tinted hall stretches before you, you feel it again.

It’s shifting.

And neither of you is stopping it.

The hallway that leads to Surgical Wing 3 is long and silent, its glass walls streaked with faint reflections from overhead lighting that shifts in a subtle gradient from soft blue to white as the morning cycle begins.

The floor panels illuminate faintly with each footstep, lighting up a path that fades behind you as you move, side by side with Zayne, through the sterile stillness of pre-shift hours.

There is no one else in the corridor yet — no distant voices, no patient transport carts squeaking on linoleum, no ambient chatter from medtechs — just the steady rhythm of footsteps, yours and his, falling in perfect unison, echoing softly off metal and glass.

You can hear your own breathing in the hush, feel the quiet hum of recycled airflow through the ceiling vents, and sense the slight change in temperature as you both approach the threshold to OR Prep Bay 3.

When the doors part with a gentle hydraulic sigh, the chill of the prep room brushes against your skin, sharper and more precise than the hallway air, laced with the clean scent of sterilizer, latex, and something faintly chemical — the smell of readiness.

The light inside the prep bay is cooler, harsher — not unkind, but surgical, designed for alertness rather than comfort. Bright white strips embedded in the ceiling cast faint shadows across the sterile metal trays and brushed steel walls, giving everything a slightly clinical glow that feels both otherworldly and exact.

You move toward the sink in silence, your scrubs already folded neatly into the disposal chute, the ID tag at your chest deactivated now that you're entering sterile space.

Your hands begin their familiar rhythm under the hot water — fingers interlaced, nails scrubbed, wrists turned beneath the flow — the sound of water hitting steel the only thing filling the air between you and him.

Zayne is just to your right, slightly behind, though you see him in the mirrored reflection ahead of you. His movements are measured and precise, like everything he does, from the way he folds his sleeves to the way he ties the back of his mask. His posture is impossibly straight, but not rigid — more like control honed down to a molecular level.

You don’t speak.

You don’t have to.

The silence is no longer unfamiliar.

You finish scrubbing before he does, and as you turn to the glove tray, you reach instinctively for your own — but pause when he steps forward, his presence suddenly closer, quieter, different.

Zayne holds out his hand toward you, fingers slightly spread, palm up, offering his glove to you — not in command, not out of impatience, but with something that feels almost... deliberate.

You blink, caught off guard.

He wants you to glove him.

That’s new.

You hesitate only a second, then take the glove from the tray and begin sliding it over his hand. Your fingers skim the inside of his wrist, feel the slight warmth of his skin through the barrier, and though he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch or shift, you feel the subtle stillness in him — not tense, not frozen, just waiting.

You glance up, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you are wearing masks at all.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice low and composed, but lacking its usual sharpness, the edge of precision softened into something almost thoughtful.

You nod, unable to stop yourself from holding his gaze a second longer than necessary, then pull away to glove your own hands with slow, focused movements, your breath caught somewhere between control and something far less professional.

The doors to Surgical Theatre 04 open with a gentle hiss, spilling cold, filtered air into the prep bay. You step through first, and he follows without a word.

Inside, the theatre is fully lit, sterile and silent except for the ambient hum of equipment already online. The overhead operating light casts a white halo directly onto the center of the surgical table, where the patient lies under sedation, chest prepped and draped, vitals steady in pulsing green and white on the monitor to the right.

Your boots click softly as you cross to your station, hands poised at the ready, your position closer to him than usual — not by much, but enough for your right shoulder to nearly brush his left whenever either of you leans in.

He doesn’t reposition you.

You take your place and begin the final checks without needing instruction.

The circulating nurse calls status, logs the procedure start time, and begins the countdown. You barely hear her.

Zayne pulls his mask up, adjusts his gloves, and then meets your eyes with a slight tilt of his head.

“You’re assisting directly today,” he says quietly, his voice audible only to you beneath the drone of equipment.

You feel a rush of something low and warm settle in your chest — anticipation, nerves, pride. Maybe all three.

“Yes, Doctor,” you respond, steady.

He turns back toward the table.

You hand him the scalpel.

Your gloved fingers brush his.

He takes it with quiet grace, then leans in.

The first incision is clean, his hand unwavering.

The surgery unfolds in calm precision.

The tension in the room is different than usual — not the tight, brittle focus that often accompanies complex cardiovascular procedures, but something more fluid, more attuned. Every time he requests a tool, your hand is already in motion. Every time the vitals adjust, you’ve already seen it before he does.

And each time your hands pass close or your arms graze lightly, there’s no tension, no recoil.

Only awareness.

At one point, he leans in to examine the bypass entry point more closely, and you adjust your angle to accommodate without thinking. His shoulder touches yours — a light, barely-there pressure — and for the first time, he doesn’t move away.

“Compensated narrowing,” he murmurs, more to you than anyone else. “Do you see it?”

You lean in, eyes scanning the site. “Yes. Stable rhythm holding.”

“Good,” he says, and when he glances sideways, you catch it — the faintest crease at the corner of his eye, visible even above the edge of his mask.

The procedure ends without complication.

The graft is sealed. The incision is closed.

And in that final moment, as the instruments are cleared and the monitors begin their post-op logoff, you both step back, simultaneously, in a perfect mirror of each other’s movement.

You strip off your gloves. He does the same.

You remove your mask, careful and slow.

He turns toward you.

And then, without warning — without force — his hand brushes gently across your upper arm. A passing touch. A small thing.

But it lingers like a fingerprint burned into the air.

“You handled that flawlessly,” he says.

Four words.

Measured. Clear. Soft.

Your throat tightens around the answer you want to give. Your heart is loud in your ears, and your body — trained for stillness — wants to lean closer, just a little.

But he’s already turning.

Already leaving.

His steps retreat into the prep bay, the door closing softly behind him.

And you stay there, in the quiet, bathed in the afterglow of white surgical light, heart pounding in the echo of something you can no longer ignore.

The line between you didn’t blur.

It moved.

And now, you’re standing on the edge of it — and wanting more.

The walk from Surgical Wing 3 to the central cafeteria is longer than it needs to be.

Every footstep feels too loud on the white-polished flooring, each step echoing slightly down the otherwise quiet corridor. The afternoon shift has already begun, which means the halls are sparse — just the occasional nurse passing by with a datapad in hand, or a lab tech deep in a call, none of them paying you any mind.

Which is good.

Because your thoughts are racing.

You’ve stripped out of your surgical scrubs, pulled on your soft-blue undershirt and coat again, but somehow your skin still feels hypersensitive — like it remembers the brush of gloved fingers along your arm more vividly than it should. Like your body hasn’t yet caught up to the fact that the moment has ended. Or maybe it hasn’t.

You handled that flawlessly.

The words had sounded so simple in the OR. Straightforward. Unembellished. But the weight behind them, the way he said it — quietly, deliberately — made it feel less like feedback and more like recognition. The way someone speaks when they’ve been watching you more closely than you realized.

You press your thumb into the corner of your datapad as you walk, using it like a grounding anchor, but it does little to settle the way your stomach keeps knotting and untying itself.

Zayne had touched you.

It was nothing — a simple brush of the arm. Not clinical. Not commanding.

But deliberate.

And that’s what unsettles you most.

Because Zayne doesn’t do anything by accident.

You sit at the corner table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the quietest part of the cafeteria, away from the soft clatter of trays and the low murmur of conversation that still lingers near the center aisles.

The natural light, filtered through the building’s UV-diffusing glass, casts a cool, sterile wash over the steel-framed furniture and polished concrete floor. Beyond the windows, Akso’s rooftop medical drone pads glint in the gray afternoon haze, veiled behind high-altitude clouds that never quite break.

Your tray sits in front of you with carefully chosen simplicity: one protein-focused meal pack, a ceramic bowl of rehydrated soup—thin and vaguely orange, still steaming slightly—and a hydration vial placed just above the utensils, unopened. The contents of your meal are bland. Standard issue. But your body doesn’t want flavor right now. It wants quiet. It wants something to do with your hands while your mind continues spiraling around everything that happened this morning.

You take a slow spoonful of soup and bring it to your lips, the warmth a temporary distraction. The flavor is muted, barely there, more heat than taste, but you sip it anyway, staring down into the gently swirling broth like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

Your fingers tense slightly around the bowl’s rim. Your shoulders are still drawn tight, your jaw set even though the tension should’ve passed hours ago. But it hasn’t—not since the moment Zayne said “You handled that flawlessly,” and certainly not since the soft, impossible brush of his fingers on your arm as he walked past, unhurried, unaffected, like he hadn’t just upended something inside you with a single, silent gesture.

You hadn't meant to sit alone, but it was the only thing you could think to do—put distance between yourself and the memory of that moment. Breathe. Sort through the rush of emotion threading through your chest like wire: gratitude, confusion, tension, and that quiet pull that had been building between the two of you in ways you’d tried very hard not to name.

You take another bite, slower this time, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth as your gaze unfocuses. The room hums gently around you—conversations a few tables away, the distant hiss of the food dispenser, the occasional soft squeak of shoes on polished tile—but none of it really reaches you.

You’re somewhere else entirely.

You don’t hear him at first.

Not until the sound of a chair scraping against the floor in front of you breaks through your thoughts—not harshly, not jarring, just enough to pull you back to the present with a low, precise sound that seems impossibly louder than it should be.

You lift your eyes.

And Zayne is standing there.

Tray in hand.

Expression unreadable.

Your body freezes before your mind catches up.

He’s still dressed from earlier—no coat this time, just his crisp, fitted charcoal vest and long-sleeve undershirt, sleeves neatly rolled at the forearms, every line of fabric as pristine as it was this morning. His posture is impeccable, as always, but there’s something in his stillness—some subtle suspension of breath—that tells you he’s waiting.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks.

His voice is lower than usual, quiet in a way that feels intentional—like he’s stepping into your space and trying not to break it.

You stare at him, your heart leaping into your throat. For a moment, you can’t answer.

Then you blink, once, and shake your head slowly. “No. Go ahead.”

Zayne nods, then sets his tray down with measured care—just a hydration vial and a sealed nutrition bar, untouched—and eases himself into the seat across from you. Not stiffly. Not with arrogance. Just... present. Purposeful.

You watch him settle, every movement controlled. He doesn’t immediately unwrap his food. He doesn’t speak again. He simply sits, hands resting lightly on either side of the tray, fingers interlaced, as though content to let the silence speak first.

You glance back down at your soup.

Suddenly, your appetite falters.

You stir the surface of the broth with your spoon, aware of how loud the sound seems now—the faint scrape of metal against ceramic, the slight clink as the edge of your spoon taps the side of the bowl. You bring another mouthful to your lips and sip, slower this time, more conscious of the moment than the food.

Across the table, you can feel him watching you.

Not intrusively.

Not assessing.

Just… watching.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set the spoon down. You fold them together, fingertips pressing lightly against the back of your wrist to steady yourself.

You’re not used to this version of him.

You’re not used to being seen like this by him—unarmored, unguarded, off-shift, soup steaming quietly between you and the man who, until recently, barely acknowledged you unless it was to correct something with clinical detachment.

But now—he’s here.

Just present.

And something inside you stirs with that realization, warm and unsteady.

Zayne shifts slightly in his seat, one elbow resting loosely against the table’s edge as he lifts his hydration vial and unscrews the cap with the same methodical ease he brings to surgery — no wasted movement, no sound beyond the soft click of the seal breaking.

He doesn’t drink from it yet.

Instead, his gaze flicks toward your tray again, eyes narrowing just slightly.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until his voice breaks through the quiet space between you, measured and low, not sharp, but direct.

“You’ve barely touched your food.”

You blink, startled not by the observation itself — he’s always been hyper-aware of his environment — but by the fact that he said it aloud.

You glance down at your tray, then at your hands, one resting on the edge of your bowl, the other idling near your hydration pack, fingers curled against the table. You hadn’t noticed how still you’d gone, how your spoon has been resting in the soup for minutes now, the surface gone still and glossy.

You lift your eyes to meet his.

He isn’t staring.

He’s watching.

There’s a difference.

You shrug once, trying to make the gesture feel casual. “Wasn’t that hungry.”

His brow furrows — just slightly, just enough to crease the skin between his eyebrows — but he doesn’t push.

He’s silent for another breath.

Then, quietly, he sets the hydration vial down again. The soft plastic clinks lightly against the tray.

His hands rest loosely on either side of it, fingers long and still, as though weighing whether to speak again. You expect him to drop the subject — deflect, return to silence, maybe shift back into professional mode and let the moment dissolve between you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward slightly.

Barely a tilt.

But enough.

“You haven’t had a full break since pre-op,” he says. “Not during the procedure. Not after.”

It’s not a reprimand. There’s no judgment in his voice. If anything, it sounds like something closer to concern — but filtered through the only lens Zayne allows himself to speak from: observation, fact, precision.

You lower your gaze to your bowl again, then lift your spoon with a quiet sigh and take another small bite — more for his sake than yours.

The soup is lukewarm now.

Still bland.

Still forgettable.

But you swallow it, and when you glance up, you catch the faintest shift in his expression — something soft at the edges, as if the act of you eating, however reluctantly, has eased a knot in his chest that he hadn’t realized was there.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity. “Are you keeping tabs on me now?”

The words aren’t accusatory. There’s no heat in them — just a quiet teasing edge, barely audible beneath your fatigue.

Zayne’s gaze flicks up to meet yours again, and for the first time in this conversation, his eyes don’t feel unreadable. They feel intentional.

“I observe everything in my environment,” he says.

“But not everyone,” you reply.

There’s a pause — full, stretching — and then he does something you’ve never seen him do so openly:

He exhales. Slowly.

Not out of frustration.

Not out of impatience.

But release.

And when he speaks again, his voice is softer still.

“I notice when people push themselves past the point of usefulness,” he says. “When they forget they’re human first.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Not right away.

Because there’s something about the way he says forget they’re human that sticks to your ribs. Something that feels less like a statement and more like a quiet confession — like he’s not just talking about you.

You study him carefully now — the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the way his collar sits perfectly pressed against the curve of his throat, the line of tension that still coils in his shoulders even now, even here, in a moment that’s supposed to be restful.

He never rests.

Neither do you.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Maybe that’s why he’s here.

“I’m eating,” you say at last, voice low, half a breath above a whisper. “See?”

You take another spoonful, slower this time.

He watches you eat it.

Not with skepticism.

Not with scrutiny.

Just... watching.

And when you glance up again, you see something unspoken settle into his expression — not approval.

But ease.

Relief.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t shift his tone.

But something in him relaxes.

And for the next few minutes, neither of you speak.

You eat in quiet intervals.

He drinks his hydration vial.

And the space between you — this fragile, tentative thing — begins to stretch open, just enough to hold something neither of you are ready to name.

The hallway stretches ahead of you in cold symmetry — long, white-paneled walls interrupted by glass doorways and mounted vitals screens, each one flickering with pale green and orange readouts. Nurses cross in measured steps, carts hum as they pass, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic, recycled air, and the trace of fresh gauze.

You move through the space with your arms full — seven patient files in total, three datapads, and two hard-copy charts that required a physical signature, all stacked against your chest with surgical gloves tucked between pages, and a capped marker balanced precariously on your thumb. The edge of one clipboard digs lightly into your forearm. The datapads are beginning to slip. One tilt, one wrong step, and the whole stack is going down.

You should’ve made two trips.

But you didn’t.

And now, as your shoulder bumps lightly into the corner of a console and the top datapad slides half an inch, you bite down a soft curse and try to adjust your grip without losing everything.

Your steps slow as you approach the central junction — a bright, open space between wings where staff tend to cross paths. The lighting overhead shifts here, warmer in tone but harsher in intensity. The ceiling is higher. The footsteps louder.

You round the corner.

And stop.

Because he’s there.

Zayne.

Standing with one hand tucked loosely into the pocket of his white coat, the other wrapped around a closed folder, spine straight, posture as exacting as ever. He’s speaking to another physician — someone you don’t recognize — and his tone is low, focused, his head tilted slightly as he listens.

He hasn’t seen you.

Not yet.

You debate turning back. Just for a moment.

Then the datapad on top slides again, and you snap your arm upward to stop it. Your pen clatters to the floor.

The sound echoes more than you expect.

Zayne’s head turns.

And his eyes land on you.

You freeze, one foot forward, the files braced awkwardly against your ribs.

There’s a pause — not long, just the length of a single breath — and then, without breaking rhythm, he finishes whatever sentence he was in the middle of, closes the file in his hand, and steps away from the conversation.

He walks toward you with that same precise cadence — calm, unhurried, but direct — the way he walks toward an operating table. Like he knows exactly what he’s going to do when he gets there.

You straighten instinctively, arms tightening around the stack, not sure what to expect. You’ve worked with him long enough to know he notices everything, but you’re not prepared for what happens next.

He stops in front of you.

His eyes flick down to the overloaded files.

Then, without a word, he reaches out.

One hand slides under the stack, fingers brushing yours only briefly — a whisper of contact, warm through your glove — as he lifts half the files from your grip and settles them against his own chest, perfectly aligned.

You blink.

Your fingers curl tighter around what’s left, heart skipping a beat not from the weight you’ve lost, but from the weight of the moment.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away.

Instead, he adjusts the edge of a slipping datapad with his thumb, his face unreadable as always. Then his gaze lifts — sharp, pale, and steady.

“You were going to drop them,” he says, as if this explains everything.

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re aware, suddenly, of the eyes on you — two nurses lingering near the supply cabinet, one technician pretending to review a vitals chart a few feet away, all of them caught in that rare phenomenon:

Zayne Li, helping someone.

Not ordering or correcting. Just helping.

You force yourself to speak, even though your throat is dry.

“I had it,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He raises one eyebrow, faintly — not in mockery, not even in doubt. Just a flicker of expression. The most subtle I don’t think so you’ve ever seen written across someone’s face.

“You had too much,” he replies simply.

And with that, he turns.

Begins walking toward the central station.

Your feet move to follow before your brain catches up.

You trail beside him, heart pounding, fingers still tingling faintly where they’d brushed his. Your thoughts are racing — trying to make sense of what just happened — while behind you, the whispers begin.

You pretend not to hear.

At the main terminal, he sets the files down gently, aligns them with the edge of the station. He doesn’t linger and doesn’t speak again.

But as he straightens, his hand brushes the edge of the chart — yours — and with a subtle motion, he pushes it slightly closer to you.

Your eyes flick to his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Something that says: I saw you struggling. I stepped in. And I don’t want you to say thank you.

You don’t.

But your chest feels full.

You nod once, silent.

And he turns, disappearing back down the corridor without another word.

But this time, you don’t need one.

Because he spoke clearly enough without saying anything at all.

You’re walking down Corridor 7B in the recovery wing, the overhead lights casting long diagonal shadows across the clean floor tiles — a cool gray intercut by slow-moving vitals monitors rolling past. Outside the sealed patient doors, quiet beeping pulses in steady time, each one another heartbeat of someone just barely held together.

But your mind is somewhere else.

It’s still with him.

Zayne.

Three days have passed since he took the files from your arms without ceremony, walked beside you like it was nothing, and handed off half your load without saying anything more than “You had too much.”

And maybe he meant the charts.

Maybe he didn’t.

You’d thought about it more than you wanted to. You hadn’t mentioned it to anyone — not when a junior nurse asked what he said, not when you caught him glancing at your chart during rounds, and definitely not when you caught yourselfwaiting for it to happen again. For something to break the glass of how things used to be.

But it didn’t.

Not exactly.

Instead, it just kept happening in smaller, quieter ways.

The way his eyes would flick toward you first in the briefing room, even if he was addressing the group. The way his posture relaxed just slightly when you entered the same space. The way he stood a fraction of a step closer than before — not close enough for anyone else to name it. But enough for you to feel it.

It was a shift.

And like all things with Zayne, it was precise, quiet, and intentional.

Now, as you step into the surgical wing, your gloves snap into place with a soft, satisfying stretch. The prep nurse hands you your mask, and you pull it up as you push through the double doors of Surgical Theatre 05, the room already prepped and sterile under the white flood of focused overhead light.

The theatre is cold, as it always is — a sterile kind of cold that sinks into your arms, your collarbone, your breath. The table in the center gleams beneath the surgical lamp, already set for the vascular repair ahead. Vitals monitors to your left scroll patient data across translucent screens, glowing faintly blue and green. The faint scent of antiseptic and powdered latex clings to the air, sharp and familiar.

He’s already there.

Standing at the head of the table, reviewing the patient’s history on a suspended holodisplay, the text casting pale light across the sharp lines of his jaw. His mask is still tucked beneath his chin, gloves already on, eyes scanning the data with the same ruthless focus that’s made him infamous across three wings.

You step up to your station, opposite him.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

But you know he knows you’re there.

You feel it in the subtle pause in his hand.

The quiet shift in his stance.

The change in the air.

You adjust the tray beside you, fingers curling briefly around the surgical scissors, your breath steady, your pulse not.

You’re supposed to focus.

But all you can think about is that moment in the hallway. His hand brushing yours. The silence that followed. The way he didn’t explain it — because he didn’t have to.

And then the door slides shut behind you.

The nurse calls time.

And the procedure begins.

Zayne stood calm and composed as always, his surgical gown crisp, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his gloves fitted perfectly—but you felt his attention on you, steady and unrelenting, even when he wasn’t looking directly.

The procedure was clean and efficient, every movement practiced, but there were moments—subtle, unmistakable—where his arm brushed yours and didn’t pull away, where your hands passed a tool and lingered a fraction too long, where his voice dropped slightly when he said your name, low and deliberate, like it wasn’t just a cue but a tether.

And when the final suture was placed and he peeled off his gloves with that same fluid control, he looked at you—not a glance, not a scan, but a look that held for half a second longer than it should have, enough to make your heart stutter in your chest and your breath catch behind your mask.

He left the room without another word, and you let yourself exhale only once the door slid shut behind him.

The silence didn’t last.

Kira, one of the surgical nurses, leaned in under the hum of the post-op sterilizers, her voice pitched low, but not low enough to feel casual. “Okay, I have to ask,” she said, not looking at you as she wiped down the tray.

You didn’t stop moving, but your pulse ticked upward.

“Ask what?” you said, too flat.

She glanced sideways. “Does Zayne like you or something?”

The words dropped like a scalpel onto your chest—sharp, clean, surgical. Your hands slowed on instinct, your fingers tightening slightly around the metal edge of the tray.

“What? No,” you said, too fast, too soft.

She gave a low laugh, not mocking, just incredulous. “He doesn’t even make eye contact with most people, but with you? He’s practically magnetic.”

You tried to scoff, to redirect your focus, but the heat was already creeping up your neck beneath your collar, because you’d been thinking the same thing every night since that first quiet brush of his hand on yours.

You turned back to the counter, stripping off your gloves and rinsing your hands under cool, sterile water, watching the way your reflection shifted in the steel panel above the sink—how your own eyes betrayed you, wide and uncertain, remembering every look, every almost-touch, every moment he stood beside you without saying anything but somehow saying everything.

Kira joined you, her tone softening. “He looks at you like you’re not just another nurse on rotation. And I’ve worked with him long enough to know that’s not how he treats anyone.”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because everything she said echoed what you’d been avoiding, pressed tight against the inside of your chest.

You whispered, “I don’t know what it is,” but the words felt like a lie the second they left your mouth.

Because whatever was happening between you and Zayne—it was quiet, yes, and subtle, always—but it was real, and it was changing everything, whether you were ready to name it or not.

taglist: @destinysrequiem @sylusgirlie7 @lalaluch @januke

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v6quewrlds · 5 months ago

Text

imagine joe coming home to your baby.

author's note⠀⁎⠀the vibes are so sinister on here so here's some fluff. part two to this blurb that y'all screamed at me for.

The click of the garage door echoed through the quiet house as Joe's car pulled in. She looked up from her book, the dim light of the bedside lamp casting shadows on her face. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table; surprised to see that it was already past midnight. The Bengals' first road game had gone late into the night, and Joe had texted her that the team plane was delayed.

Her heart fluttered as she heard his key in the lock and the gentle thud of the door closing. She set the book aside and sat up, her eyes searching the darkness for a glimpse of him. Joe appeared in the doorway, his broad frame outlined by the moonlight spilling through the window. He looked tired but there was a softness in his eyes that spoke volumes about his relief to be home. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of him, his backpack slung over his shoulder, the scent of his shower gel still lingering faintly in the air around him.

"Hey, babe," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion.

"Welcome home," she answered back, her voice low and warm.

Joe dropped his bag and shuffled over to the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned in to kiss her, the tips of his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. "Did she go down easy?" he asked, nodding towards the baby monitor.

She nodded, her smile pulling at the corners of her lips. "Yeah, I could tell she missed you though. She was glued to the TV, bouncing around in her jumper, babbling every time she saw you with your helmet off."

Joe chuckled, the sound warm and comforting in the stillness. "Yeah, my mom sent me a video. How was she with my parents?" The mattress dipped slightly as he sat down, the weight of his weariness seemingly lifting off him. She shifted her position, her arms wrapping around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder.

"You know she loves them," she said, her voice filled with affection. "They had a blast. She even tolerates being held by other people when you're not around." She kissed his jaw lightly before adding, "But she definitely prefers her daddy."

Joe leaned into her touch, his eyes drifting over to the baby monitor. He could see Amara's chest rise and fall rhythmically, the little angelic face a picture of peace. "I thought we'd be back in time," he said with a sigh. "Wanted to tuck her in, tell her goodnight."

"I know," she soothed, her hand moving to the back of his neck, her fingers gently massaging the tension there. "You can go check on her if you want? Make sure she's okay?"

Joe nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. He turned his head to kiss her once more before standing up and making his way to the nursery. The door creaked open softly, Amara's little face illuminated by the solar system nightlight on top of the dresser. He stepped in, the plush carpet muffling his footsteps. She looked so tiny in her crib, her tiny hands balled into fists, her eyes scrunched shut in a deep sleep. He leaned over the rail, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. Her skin was warm and soft, and she smelled faintly of baby powder and vanilla.

He lingered for just a minute more, adjusting her purple onesie as gently as he could before turning to leave. She was waiting for him in bed, her eyes closed but her breathing not yet even. He slipped under the covers, pulling her closer into his arms, and whispered, "Goodnight." Her response was a sleepy mumble, her body immediately curling into him.

He wasn't sure when he drifted off, but the sudden shrill of the baby monitor jolted Joe awake. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 AM, a stark red in the darkness. She stirred beside him, mumbling something incoherent. He nudged her gently. "I got it," he whispered, slipping out of bed and into the hallway.

The nursery door was slightly ajar, and the light from the monitor cast a soft glow across the room. Amara's cries grew louder as Joe approached, his heart swelling with a mix of concern and love. He picked her up, her tiny body wriggling in his arms, and sat down in the rocking chair. He cradled her close, her warmth seeping into him, and began to rock back and forth, whispering soothing words into her ear.

"What's going on, pumpkin? Did you have a bad dream?" Joe's voice was low and gentle. He rubbed her back in slow, circular motions, his thumb tracing the line of her spine as he waited for her sobs to subside. Amara's cries grew quieter, turning into hiccups before she sniffled and nuzzled into his chest. He could feel her tiny heart beating against his own, a rhythm that never failed to soothe his own racing thoughts.

"That's better," Joe murmured, kissing the top of her head. He held her close, the rocking chair squeaking softly in the quiet room. Amara's eyes searched his face in the dim light, and he offered her a small smile. "I missed you, princess," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the post-game fatigue. "I'm proud of you for being so good for Mommy. She told me you didn't give her any trouble while I was gone."

She woke to the sound of Joe's hushed speech, her sleep-heavy eyes focusing on the empty space beside her. She glanced at the baby monitor and saw Joe rocking Amara in the nursery. A warmth spread through her chest, watching him in that moment, soothing their baby girl with such tenderness. She slid out of bed and tiptoed down the hallway, the soft glow from the nursery guiding her.

As she approached the nursery, she caught the sound of her daughter babbling softly, and Joe's soothing whispers. She could see his profile in the moonlit room, the love, and dedication etched into the lines of his face as he rubbed Amara's back, pressing soft kisses to her cheeks and forehead between his words. The scene was so intimate, so beautiful, that she almost felt like an intruder, despite it being her own family. She leaned against the door frame, taking in the sight of her husband and daughter, their bond strong in the face of the brief separation.

Amara's eyes grew heavy, and her breathing evened out as she drifted back to sleep in Joe's arms. She stepped forward, watching as Joe carefully set her down and made sure she was snug in her crib. He took a moment, his hand hovering over her tiny chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breaths.

#&. joey b.#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joey burrow #joey b #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fan fic

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myboykillme · 5 months ago

Text

Fuck man, I had a busy last week but here it is! Long story short, Ren breaks into your house and finds you masturbating on your bed... So yes. Hope you all like it!

Word count: 2.6k

Tw: Stalking, obsessive yandere behavior, dub-con, smut!

Minors don't fucking interact

Smut under the cut :3

Ren slipped out of his cheerful persona, after a full day of entertaining your little fantasy he had to return to himself. He carefully put the wig onto the stand next to his desk, glancing at the collection of cutesy clothes. Scoffing at the sight of them, he was mad at the world for not letting him be exactly what you wanted…

It's all alright tho, it's fine, he loves you, you love him too right? He loves you so much, he doesn't even mind changing himself for your pleasure, you must love him after all this effort… You have to, there is no other choice.

After a bit of spacing out, the turtle neck was also removed, letting his tattooed skin breathe in the chill of his room. Now there's only one thing left to do, the piercings. The jewels glinted in the room of his monitor, your sleeping form illuminating the room as he started screwing them back in. The little spikes fell a few times as he struggled, this practice getting a bit tiring after a while, but alas the snake bites and septum took their place on his face.

You looked breathtaking as you slept, hugging the plush he brought you while wearing his hoodie. The definition of perfection was before Ren's eyes, oh you, he loves you so much. Warmth went through his entire body as he watched you toss and turn, god he has to see it in real life. Hurriedly, he threw on a black hoodie and a mask. Anticipation made his heart beat faster, wonder if you minded if he took a pair of panties for later, you wouldn't mind right?

His angel…. With quick and practiced steps he soon arrived, in front of your apartment, for now. The hallway was dark and quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city that never truly sleeps. Ren crept silently down the dimly lit hallway of the apartment building, his heart pounding in his chest as he approached the door to your unit. He had been thinking about this moment all day, the thrill of sneaking in to admire your divinity, to see you in the privacy of your own space. With a deft hand, he picked the lock, the mechanism clicking softly as the door swung open.

The apartment was dark, but Ren could make out some things from the moonlight seeping in through the window. He slipped further inside, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of his heartbeat deafened him for a while as he got closer to your door, but something caught his attention. A sweet sweet moan of his name, oh you want him here watching you, right? You must have known he was coming, and you're putting on a show just for him. What a sweet angel you are. As he crept closer, he heard even more of the soft, rhythmic sound - the unmistakable sound of self-pleasuring. His cock twitched in his jeans at the thought of you, lost in your own world, unaware of his presence.

He approached the bedroom doorway and he could feel himself getting lightheaded, kneeling down to look through the keyhole. There you were, sprawled out on the bed, wearing nothing but his hoodie. Just for him, just for Ren… The sight of you in his clothes, the fabric clinging to your frame, sent a surge of possessiveness through him. One hand was buried between your thighs, moving in a steady rhythm as you pleasured yourself, lost in your own world, occasionally whimpering his name. His angel wouldn't mind if he continued watching, maybe even touching himself… This is all fine since you're all his.

Ren watched, transfixed, as your back arched off the bed, a soft moan escaping your lips. He couldn't take it anymore, he had to palm his cock as you did this for him. His cock was rock hard now, straining against the confines of his jeans, wanting to be set free. He wanted to touch himself, to stroke his aching flesh as he watched you, and probably that's what you want him to do too. Why else would you wear his hoodie and touch your sweet sweet cunt? As quietly as humanly possible he freed his aching cock, covering his mouth as his hand went up and down, relieving a bit of his tension.

More and more, Ren just wanted to feel your delicious nectar flow down his cock as he fucked you silly. This is fine too, it's all fine, what he's doing is fine since it feels so good. His poor cock is leaking onto the floor from the sight of you playing with yourself, his grip getting harder. How can someone like you even exist? So gorgeous, an angel just for him. Faster and faster, his hand now starts to match the pace of your fingers. The hazy pleasure started clouding his judgment, a good boyfriend never leaves traces. But before he knows it he cums on the floor, like a pathetic (stalker) lover groaning your name.

He watched, your eyes fluttered open, and you let out a scream of shock, shutting your legs. “WHO ARE YOU?” Ren moved quickly, zipping up, opening the door, covering your mouth with his hand, muffling the sound. Poor little angel, you're a bit confused, aren't you? Now trying to scream even more as he held you down with one arm. So beautiful, the cum on his hand dripping down, decorating your skin, it's getting on your lips. He pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence as he climbed onto the bed, hovering over you.

"Shhh, I won't hurt you," he whispered, his voice low and rough with desire. "Don't be scared Angel” You struggled even more beneath him but didn't dare to talk, the vulnerability of this situation making you shake. But as you looked up at him, you saw the hunger in his gaze, the way his eyes raked over your body, taking in the sight of you splayed out beneath him, wearing his hoodie and nothing else. You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions cursing through you now. He looked almost like your boyfriend, Ren but your sweet boy would never do that to you.

"Who are you?" You tried speaking, but your voice echoed through his head, making it sound like whiny begs and pleads. Your brain was telling you to fight him, but his familiarity made you feel scared and turned on at the same time. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" He ignored your questions, his attention focused on your spasming pussy, begging for him to touch it. "You look so fucking hot, angel," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I have to…” You wanted him to touch the aching heat between your legs. Didn't you?

With that, he pushed his filthy cum stained fingers into your mouth, wanting you to taste him as he helped you. Your chest rising up and down fast, so needy for more… His fingers trailed down your stomach, then lower and lower, finding your slick, swollen flesh. Ren wanted to be inside you as much as you craved the release, but this was about you. He paused there, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your mound. Your hips bucked up, seeking more contact, more friction. You're such an insatiable little angel, greedy for pleasure. Ren's eyes flashed with triumph at your reaction.

You could feel the heat of his gaze, the intensity of his want. A part of you screamed to run, to push him away. But another part, a darker part, thrilled at the allure of this handsome man. After all, the two of you were meant to be, you can feel that.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his voice cracking at the need he was feeling, Ren's eyes looking into yours for affirmation. He only wants the best for you, for you to feel as good as he did, a reward. "Tell me you want my fingers inside you, filling you up. Beg me… “ His obscene words sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to your core, a mysterious stranger offering to relieve your horniness. Your walls clenched around nothing, aching to be filled, to be stretched, to be used for his pleasure.

You were trembling now, your body burning up with a fever only he could quench. You needed his help, there was no use resisting even if it disgusted you a bit on the inside. All you could do was say your answer breathlessly, a broken, desperate sound that echoed in the charged silence of your bedroom. "Please..." The word slipped out before you could stop it. A plea, a prayer, a demand.

You didn't know what you were begging for anymore. All you knew was that you needed something, needed him, with a desperation that consumed you whole. Ren's fingers flexed against your mound, his thumb pressing down on your clit with just enough pressure to make you see stars. "Please what, angel?" he taunted, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Tell me what you need. Beg for it like a good girl."

His other hand slid from your mouth to wrap around your throat, his thumb and forefinger encircling your delicate neck. Not squeezing, not yet. Just... holding. Claiming. Owning. A toy. You were trapped. Trapped under him, trapped in his thrall. Trapped in a web of fear and desire so intense it bordered on pain. And still, you couldn't look away. It's disgusting how despite the fear your body and mind still craved the sweet release.

"Please..." you whimpered again, your voice breaking on a sob. "Please, I... I need... I need..." The words died in your throat as Ren's fingers pushed past your folds, sinking knuckle-deep into your soaked, aching heat. A squelching sound could be heard, and a relieved moan when Ren began giving you what you asked for. Such a delicious sound your cunt makes, for the man it belongs to.

Ren's breath hitched as he watched you, transfixed by the erotic sight before him. Your desperate whimpers and the slick sounds of your fingers plunging into your dripping cunt filled the room, stoking the flames of his desire. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the lewd display, his cock throbbing almost painfully in the confines of his pants

"Fuck, angel," he growled under his breath, his voice rough with lust. A pussy made for him to ruin, to claim, as much as he wants. "You look so fucking hot like this, letting a stranger touch you like the slut you are. Have you been imagining someone taking advantage of you like this? Thinking about a strangers fingers buried deep inside this greedy little pussy, fucking you hard and fast just like you need."

His other hand tightened slightly around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel like his little toy. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers, and he felt a surge of overwhelming obsessiveness drowning his own senses. He knew the pleasure, the pain was mixing inside you into a delicious poison. "Tell me, angel," he demanded, Ren's eyes zoning in at your face that had a stupid expression stupid, what a whore, dumbed out on lust. "Tell me what you need. Beg. For. More." His thumb pressed down even harder on your clit, assaulting your senses with a simple touch. He needed you to be his, his goal was to consume you, as a whole.

Ren's eyes flashed with triumph as he felt your body respond to his touch, your hips bucking up into his hand, seeking more friction, more pleasure. He knew he had you right where he wanted you - desperate, needy, and completely at his mercy. "That's it, baby," he purred, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't fight it. I can give you everything you need. I can make you feel so fucking good." His fingers plunged deeper, curling inside you, stroking that special spot that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back in your head.

"Please..." you whimpered again, your voice breaking onto a small scream. The word tumbled from your mouth involuntarily, anything for him, for pleasure. You didn't know what you were begging for anymore, only that you needed it. Needed him. Needed something, anything, to quench the fire burning inside you. Ren's grin widened, his eyes glinting with dark promise as he felt your body tremble beneath him. "Please what, angel?" he taunted, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Tell me what you need. Beg for it like a good girl."

His fingers pumped faster, harder, the obscene sound of your wetness filling the room as he fingered you with wild abandon. Ren's breathing was getting harder and harder, only he deserved to see you like this. He was claiming you, marking you, branding you as his in the most primal way possible. The urge to fill you up with his cock and seed was overwhelming, but he had to resist. His greediness can't overwhelm his devotion to your eternal figure. "So fucking tight and wet, like this greedy little pussy was made for my cock." His thumb rubbed mercilessly over your clit, the rough pad circling and pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves until your vision started to swim.

Ren leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he panted hotly, his breath mingling with your own ragged gasps. "I'm going to fill this hungry cunt," he promised darkly, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Gonna stuff you so full of my thick, hard cock that you'll forget your own name. You'll be screaming it, begging me to fuck you harder, deeper, until the only word you remember is mine." His other hand slid up your side, cupping the soft swell of your breast through the thin fabric of his hoodie. He could feel your nipple stiffen under his touch, poking into his palm as he squeezed the supple mound roughly. Rolling and pinching the hardened peak between his fingers, he tugged on it, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

"Please..." you whimpered again, your voice breaking on a sob as your body writhed beneath him. "Please, I... I need..." The words dissolved into incoherent babble as Ren's fingers pounded into you, his thumb rubbing your clit with brutal intensity. Your hips bucked wildly, fucking yourself back onto his hand, chasing the release you so desperately needed. "That's it, angel," Ren encouraged, his voice rough with lust. "Fucking take it. Take my fingers like the needy little slut you are." He could feel your body tensing, your walls starting to quiver and clench around him as your climax approached. "Cum for me," he demanded, his eyes boring into yours with fierce intensity. "Cum all over my fingers like a good girl."

With a final, brutal thrust and a hard press of his thumb on your clit, he sent you hurtling over the edge. Your body convulsed, back arching sharply as a scream tore from your throat, your pussy clamping down on his fingers like a silken vise. Ren groaned, feeling your release gush around his hand, your juices dripping down his wrist as he worked you through your orgasm, drawing it out, making it last as long as possible. "That's my good girl," he praised, his voice a low, approving rumble. "So fucking perfect, cumming so hard on my fingers like this." He brought his soaked digits up to his mouth, sucking your essence from them with a low moan of appreciation.

"Delicious," he purred, his tongue swirling around the digits, cleaning them of every last drop. The taste of you was a nectar, only for him. His other hand slid down to grip your hip, squeezing the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises as a claiming gesture. "I'm going to devour you as a whole, until there's nothing left" he promised darkly, knowing he needs you to fill the hole in his soul.

#ren 14dwy #14 days with you #14dwy ren #x reader #ren x reader #minors dni #smut #choking #dubious consent #tw stalking #yandere #reader insert #poll results

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sophsbookstore · 5 months ago

Text

New Beginnings

Quinn Hughes x reader ｡･:*˚:✧｡

Word Count: 3225

A/N: HE'S HERE!! Shout out to the anon who gave the name idea, and thank you to everyone who sent ideas (I wrote them down for future use, don't worry!)

also I wanted to get this out fast so apologies for no banner, but enjoy this gif!

Masterlist can be found here!

The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound breaking the quiet stillness of the hospital room. The small room, once sterile and impersonal, had transformed into something so much warmer in the hours since your son had arrived. The windows let in a gentle stream of moonlight, casting a calming glow over the room. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the small bottle of essential oil you’d brought from home, a small comfort in this strange, sterile place. The bed, with its crisp white linens and worn quilted blanket, was a far cry from the chaos of labor, but now it was filled with love.

Quinn sat beside you, his large frame almost swallowing the space beside you as he held your newborn son in his arms. His baby boy. His son. The words still felt surreal, even hours after the birth. The emotions that coursed through you—the love, the overwhelming sense of joy, the tender affection for the little being Quinn was gently cradling in his arms—were beyond words.

Quinn looked down at his son with such tenderness, his eyes full of awe as he gazed at the tiny life in his arms. His son, with a head of soft, dark hair and tiny hands that seemed too small to belong to such a big world. Quinn couldn’t stop smiling, and neither could you, though you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell in your chest as you watched him.

"He's perfect," Quinn whispered, his voice barely more than a soft breath. His fingers gently stroked the baby’s cheek, a movement so tender it almost felt like he was afraid to touch him too much, as if he were afraid of breaking something so precious.

You could only nod, your eyes brimming with tears as you took in the sight of your family—your little family—finally together. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this. You thought you understood love, you thought you understood what it meant to have someone in your life who mattered more than anything else. But this? This was something else entirely. Your son was here, and with him, a whole new world had opened up.

“I can’t believe he’s finally here,” you whispered, your voice raw with emotion. The pain of labor still a distant memory now that your son was in your arms, but the rush of feelings that came with becoming a mother, of seeing Quinn as a father, was all-consuming.

Quinn’s eyes flickered toward you, his gaze soft and full of admiration. He shifted, making sure your son was safe in his arms as he leaned closer to you. “He’s so small. I can’t believe we made him.”

You smiled, your hand reaching out to rest on his arm, the touch gentle and comforting. “He’s perfect, Quinn. Just like you.”

He chuckled softly, though there was no real humor in the sound. Instead, there was awe. “You really think so?”

You nodded, the smile not leaving your face. “I do. He looks just like you, you know.”

Quinn let out a soft laugh, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders relax even more as the moment between the three of you felt almost too perfect to be real. “I don’t know about that. He’s so small, I don’t know if he even has a chance of looking like me. But I hope he gets your smile.” He paused, his eyes falling to the baby in his arms. “I hope he gets your kindness too.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you turned your head to look at Quinn. “You’re going to be such an amazing dad.”

He met your gaze, his eyes soft and full of warmth. “We’re in this together, right? I know I’m gonna screw up sometimes, but I’ll do everything I can to make sure he has the best life possible. Just like you’re gonna be the best mom.” He paused, looking back at the little bundle in his arms, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s lucky to have you.”

The lump in your throat returned, but you swallowed it down, wanting to savor this moment. “He’s lucky to have both of us.” You looked back at your son, his tiny face scrunched up as he slept peacefully in Quinn’s arms. “I can’t believe he’s ours.”

Quinn’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the world outside the hospital room seemed to disappear. It was just the three of you, tucked away in this quiet, safe place. The bond between the two of you had always been strong, but now it felt like it had deepened in a way neither of you had expected. Your love for each other, for this little life you’d created, was unlike anything you’d ever known.

“I’m just so happy he’s here,” Quinn whispered, his voice full of sincerity. “So happy we’re finally parents. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my whole life.”

And in that moment, as you all huddled together in the soft glow of the hospital room, surrounded by the love you’d created, you knew that this was just the beginning. The beginning of a whole new chapter in your life—one that would be filled with challenges, but also so much joy. Because, as Quinn had said, this little one was yours. Your family. And nothing would ever be the same again.

The peaceful calm of the hospital room was disrupted by the sudden buzz of Quinn's phone vibrating on the bedside table. He glanced down at the screen, a small frown of concentration crossing his face as he saw the name flashing across it.

"It's Jack," Quinn murmured, his thumb swiping the screen to answer the text.

You watched as Quinn quickly read the message, his eyes scanning the words before a wide grin slowly spread across his face. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, and you saw the excitement in his eyes. "Jack says everyone’s on their way. My parents, your parents, and Luke. They’re all coming to meet him."

You smiled softly, your heart fluttering in your chest. “That’s so sweet. I’m so glad they can be here.”

Quinn nodded, still smiling as he typed back a quick response, then placed his phone back down. He turned to look at you, his hand resting on your knee. “I’ll let them in when they get here, but we need to put him down for a second, okay? You need to rest for a bit.”

You nodded, though you didn’t want to let go of your baby, even for a moment. But you understood. Quinn had been so gentle, so attentive with him since he was born, and you knew he’d want to be the one to greet everyone and show them the little one.

Carefully, Quinn shifted the baby from his arms, cradling him gently as he placed him in the small bassinet beside your bed. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the momentary separation, but it was fleeting. You could already feel the warmth of your little family growing stronger with every passing second.

Quinn leaned down and kissed your forehead, squeezing your hand. “I’ll be right back, I just want to make sure everyone’s settled and they don’t overwhelm you.” He gave you one last reassuring smile before walking to the door, opening it just as your parents and his came into the room.

The air in the room shifted as soon as the door opened, the sound of footsteps and the low hum of excited conversation filling the small space. You watched as Quinn's parents, your parents, Jack, and Luke all filed into the room all carrying various blue balloons and baby toys, their faces lighting up as they caught sight of the two of you. It was like a wave of warmth washing over you—this was your family, all here to celebrate the new life you had just welcomed into the world.

Quinn’s mom was the first to reach the bed, her arms open wide as she enveloped you in a tight hug. "Oh, sweetie," she whispered, pulling back to look at you with bright eyes, “I’m so proud of you. He’s beautiful.”

You smiled warmly, hugging her back as she ran a hand over your hair. "Thank you," you replied softly, “we’re so happy he’s finally here.”

Quinn’s dad, standing behind her, stepped forward next, a proud smile plastered across his face as he leaned down to give you a hug. “You both did great. He’s lucky to have parents like you.”

Your own parents were close behind, both of them visibly overwhelmed with emotion as they approached. Your mom was already tearing up as she gave you a gentle hug, holding you a little longer than usual. “He’s so perfect. I can’t believe I’m a grandmother now.”

You giggled softly, feeling a surge of happiness in your chest. “I know, it’s so surreal, but in the best way.”

Your dad, who had been standing back a bit, gave Quinn a hearty slap on the back before coming over to give you a warm hug. “You’re gonna be amazing parents, both of you. We’re so proud.”

Quinn gave his parents a brief hug as well, before turning to Jack and Luke. Jack, who had been practically jumping up and down, immediately pulled Quinn into a bear hug. “Congrats, man,” he said excitedly, clapping his brother’s back. “You’re a dad. Holy crap, I can’t believe it.”

Luke, standing behind Jack, offered a knowing smile and gave you a nod of approval. "Congrats," he added, his voice low but warm.

Jack, after finally letting go of Quinn, immediately moved toward the bassinet where their son lay, his eyes locked on the tiny figure. “Let me see him!” he said, his excitement clear in his voice. The rest of the group followed suit, gathering around the bed, their eyes on the little boy.

“Everyone, this is our son,” you said softly, your voice full of love as you gestured to the baby in the bassinet. “This is Casey Jack Hughes.”

There was a brief pause as everyone took in the name, the soft sounds of admiration filling the room. Then, Jack’s face lit up in pure delight, his eyes wide with happiness as he leaned closer to the baby. “Casey Jack?” He practically shouted. “Oh my God, that’s awesome!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Jack’s excitement. Quinn, standing beside you, wrapped an arm around your shoulders, his eyes warm as he shared a quiet smile with you. You both had kept the name a secret for so long, but now, hearing Jack’s reaction, you couldn’t be more happy with your choice.

“You like it?” you asked, your voice full of affection.

“Like it?” Jack repeated, beaming. “I love it! I’m so honored. Casey Jack—CJ. That’s what I’m gonna call him. CJ, what do you think of that, buddy?” Jack looked down at the baby with a huge grin, his voice turning soft as he spoke to the tiny life in front of him. “Yeah, CJ’s got a nice ring to it.”

You laughed, the warmth in the room filling your heart. “You’re gonna spoil him, aren’t you?”

Jack winked at you, his excitement palpable. “I’m gonna be the best uncle ever. You’re both lucky to have me around.” He looked down at CJ again, his fingers gently brushing the baby’s tiny hand. “What do you think, little guy? You gonna remember me as the coolest uncle when you grow up?”

Quinn, his own heart swelling with joy, leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead before giving his brother a side-eye. “Easy there, Jack. We’re gonna have to make sure he gets some sleep, too, you know?”

Jack just grinned, completely undeterred. “I’ll be gentle, promise. But CJ’s gonna know who his favorite uncle is, right?”

“Definitely,” Quinn said, rolling his eyes fondly. “But let’s give him a minute. He’s still brand new.”

Your parents smiled, their eyes filled with warmth as they took a step back to let Jack have his moment. “You’ve got a great name, little Casey,” your dad added softly, his voice full of pride. “We can’t wait to watch you grow.”

It was overwhelming, in the best way possible—the amount of love that surrounded you and your new family. The world outside felt distant now, as if everything had fallen into place in this tiny hospital room. There would be challenges ahead, but in this moment, you felt at peace. You were surrounded by family, you had the love of Quinn, and your son, Casey, was already so deeply cherished by everyone.

Quinn squeezed your hand, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “This is just the beginning,” he whispered. “Our family, it’s perfect.”

—

The morning light filtered through the windows of your home, casting a soft glow over the living room as Quinn carefully stepped inside, carrying the baby carrier in one hand. Your heart swelled as you watched him—your strong, gentle Quinn—carrying your son into the house for the first time. It felt so surreal, but in the best possible way.

After a long night in the hospital, full of excitement and happy tears, you’d finally arrived home. Your legs were still a little unsteady, but the warmth and comfort of being in your own space made everything feel a little easier. There was something so peaceful about being home with your family—your new family—and you couldn’t wait to settle into this new chapter of your life.

Quinn glanced over at you, his eyes soft as he set the carrier down on the couch. “Alright, babe. Get some rest. I’ll take care of everything with Casey while you recharge.”

You smiled tiredly, nodding. “I’m not that tired, I promise. I just need a minute.”

“Hey, I know how you’re feeling,” he said, his voice gentle as he placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot. I’ll handle this part, you take the time you need.”

Your eyes softened as you looked up at him. You could see the quiet pride in his face as he looked at your son in the carrier, his hands hovering over the little one as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. It was still amazing to see Quinn, the man you’d loved for so long, now in this role—the role of a father. It felt like everything had fallen into place.

You nodded, though you didn’t immediately walk away. Instead, you stayed where you were, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Quinn carefully lifted the baby carrier, cradling it with one arm while the other held onto the handle. His movements were slow and deliberate, careful not to disturb the baby.

The way he looked at Casey, so full of awe and tenderness, made your heart ache with love. It was as if, in those moments, the rest of the world didn’t matter. There was only Quinn, only your little boy, and only the home you’d created together.

He turned toward the hallway and glanced over his shoulder, catching your eyes. “Come on,” he said softly. “I’m going to show Casey his new room.”

With a small sigh, you pushed off the counter and walked toward him. The sight of Quinn gently carrying the carrier through your house, as if he was guiding his son into the world, was one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. And as much as you wanted to rest, you couldn’t help but want to be there, to be a part of this moment.

You followed him quietly down the hallway, your steps light as you took in the sight of your home. The walls you had carefully chosen, the pictures you’d hung together, the quiet space you’d made for this family of three. It all felt so much more real now.

Quinn reached the nursery door and stopped just outside, holding the baby carrier steady. He turned to you with a soft smile, his eyes gleaming with pride. “This is it. His room.”

You peered inside, your eyes scanning the soft blue walls, the crib tucked in the corner, and the shelves lined with tiny stuffed animals. Everything about the room felt peaceful and full of love, just like the rest of the house. It had been a labor of love, carefully decorated with the anticipation of this very moment.

“He’s going to love it here,” you said, your voice a little thick with emotion. It felt like this room was made just for him, and somehow, seeing it all come together made the reality of being parents feel even more overwhelming.

“I think so, too,” Quinn murmured, gently setting the carrier down on the changing table. “I can’t wait to watch him grow up here. I can’t wait to see all the milestones—his first steps, his first words…everything.” He turned back toward you, a little sheepish. “I know it’s going to be a lot of work, but I’m ready for it. I want to be there for every little thing.”

You walked into the room, standing next to him as you both looked down at the carrier, the tiny figure of your son peacefully asleep inside. The sight of him, so small and perfect in his new world, made your heart swell with pride.

“We’re going to be great parents,” you said softly, your hand brushing against his arm. “We’re doing this together.”

Quinn smiled, his expression softening. “I’m so glad you’re with me through all of this. We’ve got this, right?”

“Absolutely,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Together. Always.”

Carefully, Quinn unbuckled the straps of the baby carrier, lifting Casey gently into his arms. The baby stirred slightly but didn’t wake, his small body relaxing against Quinn’s chest. You couldn’t help but admire how natural it all looked, how Quinn seemed so comfortable in this new role, how Casey fit perfectly in his arms as though he had always belonged there.

You stepped forward, guiding Quinn toward the crib. As he gently lowered Casey into the soft blankets, you watched in awe, your heart overflowing. Quinn stood there for a moment, just gazing down at their son, his expression full of love and admiration.

“He’s perfect,” Quinn murmured quietly, almost to himself, as he stood beside the crib, his hand resting on the edge.

You smiled, your hand finding Quinn’s as you joined him by the crib. “He really is.”

The two of you stood there in silence for a long moment, just looking at your son, feeling the weight of this beautiful new chapter in your lives. Everything had changed in an instant—your world now revolved around Casey, and in so many ways, it felt like you were living in a dream.

But as you stood there, hand in hand, watching your little boy peacefully sleep in his new room, you knew one thing for sure: This was only the beginning.

And with Quinn by your side, there was nothing you couldn’t face.

#dad!Quinn hughes x reader #Quinn hughes x mom!reader #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic

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callsigns-haze · 7 months ago

Text

What ruined this Christmas so quickly? Lies.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x wife!reader

Summary: Just a few weeks before Christmas all goes downhill. You're left taking care of the kids and leaving work early and now your husbands brings up the topic of moving as soon as possible to San Diego. You're overwhelmed but he's willing to go no matter the lies he told.

Warnings: Mentions of throwing up, mentions of sickness, lies, overwhelmed reader, arguments

Word count: 8.4k

The soft hum of Bradley’s Bronco pulling into the driveway was a familiar sound, one that always made your heart skip. You glanced at the clock on the wall—6:45 PM.

He was home right on time.

The winter sun had already set, leaving the house bathed in the warm glow of lamplight. The faint scent of chicken soup wafted from the kitchen, where you'd left a pot simmering, just in case Judy's cold appetite returned.

Anna was perched on the couch, her tiny legs swinging as she clutched one of her plush animals to her chest. "Daddy's home!" she exclaimed, leaping up and running to the front door with the kind of uncontainable excitement only a four-year-old could manage.

You heard the front door creak open and then Bradley’s voice, deep and familiar, “Where’s my Anna Banana?”

Anna squealed with delight, her laughter echoing through the house as she threw herself into his waiting arms. Bradley lifted her easily, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Did you save me any trouble today, or were you full of mischief as usual?”

“Full of mischief!” Anna giggled, resting her head on his shoulder as he stepped inside and kicked the door shut with his boot.

"Of course you were," he teased with a smirk, glancing at you over her head. “Hey, hot stuff.”

“Hey,” you greeted, a soft smile spreading across your face as you leaned against the archway leading to the living room. “Dinner’s on the stove if you’re hungry.”

“Perfect. I’ll grab a bite after I check on Judy.” He set Anna down gently, ruffling her curls before heading toward the living room, where Judy was sprawled on the couch.

Your oldest was curled up under a blanket, her nose a little red and a tissue box within arm’s reach, vomit bowl to the side. Her favourite Real Madrid hoodie hung loosely on her small frame, the oversized sleeves nearly swallowing her hands. Her eyes lit up, though, when she saw her stepdad walk in.

“Hey, Jude,” Bradley said softly, kneeling beside the couch. It always warmed your heart the way he said her nickname, a perfect blend of affection and playfulness.

“Hi, Roo,” she croaked, her voice raspy from the cold. She reached up to tug on the front of his uniform shirt. “Real Madrid won today. Bellingham scored again.”

Bradley chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I heard. Kid’s on fire, huh?”

Judy nodded weakly but managed a small grin. “I told you he’s the best. But he still takes weird pictures sometimes.”

That made Bradley laugh, a deep, warm sound that filled the room. “Weird pictures or not, I think your dad would’ve loved hearing you talk about Real Madrid like this.”

Judy’s face softened, her smile widening slightly at the mention of her biological dad. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said firmly. “Now, how about we make sure you’re taking care of yourself so you can get better and keep watching him score goals?”

Judy nodded, leaning into his touch as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Deal.”

From the hallway, Anna peeked in, clearly feeling left out. “Can I sit with Judy, too?”

Bradley turned his head and grinned. “If Judy’s okay with it, sure.”

Judy nodded, patting the spot beside her, and Anna climbed up eagerly, snuggling under the blanket with her big sister. Bradley stood, stretching slightly before heading back to you.

“How’s Theo?” he asked, his voice lowering so he wouldn’t wake the baby.

“Asleep, for now,” you replied, tilting your head toward the baby monitor on the counter. “He went down about thirty minutes ago. Let’s hope it sticks.”

Bradley grinned and leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips. “You’re too good, you know that?”

You laughed softly, brushing a hand along his arm. “Sure. Now, go eat before the soup gets cold.”

As Bradley settled into his chair at the dining table, you brought him a steaming bowl of soup. He murmured a quiet thanks before picking up his spoon, glancing at you as you moved to lean against the counter.

“How was work today?” he asked between bites, his warm brown eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Everything okay with you leaving early?”

You hesitated for just a moment, your hand brushing over the edge of the counter. “It’s fine,” you said casually, offering a small shrug. “Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

Bradley frowned slightly, setting his spoon down for a moment. “You sure? That’s, what, the third time this week? Last week you had to take a couple of days off because of Anna, too.”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Bradley, it’s no big deal. It’s not like we’re behind on anything. I had everything under control before I left.”

He tilted his head, studying you carefully. “That doesn’t mean you can't call me, you know.”

You pushed off the counter with a small laugh, brushing past him to gather up Anna’s pyjamas from a nearby basket. “I’m fine, Rooster. Seriously. It’s not like I’m doing it alone—you’ve been pulling your weight, too.”

His lips quirked up in a small, understanding smile, but he didn’t push. Instead, he returned to his meal, watching as you disappeared briefly into the living room to remind Anna about her bedtime routine.

“Annabelle,” you called, leaning over the back of the couch. “Fifteen minutes until you’re brushing your teeth. No nap today means an early bedtime, remember?”

“Okay, Mommy,” Anna replied with a sigh, snuggling closer to Judy under the blanket.

“And Judy,” you added, brushing a hand over Judy’s head, “I didn’t forget our deal—you can stay up a little later tonight, but only if you rest here for now, okay?”

Judy nodded with a tired but satisfied smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

You returned to the kitchen just as Bradley finished his bowl, pushing it aside with a satisfied sigh. “That hit the spot,” he said, standing to place the empty dish in the sink.

“Glad you liked it,” you said, leaning against the counter as he moved closer to you.

Bradley turned, placing his hands on either side of your waist, and gave you a thoughtful look. “Once all the kids are down for the night,” he said softly, his voice dipping to that warm, familiar tone he used when something was on his mind, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Your brows knit together in curiosity. “Oh?”

He smiled, brushing a stray hair out of your face. “Yeah. Nothing bad, I promise. But… let’s get through bedtime first.”

Your lips curved up in a small smile as you leaned into him for a moment. “Alright, Bradshaw. But now you’ve got me wondering.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Patience, sweetheart.”

With that, he turned back toward the living room, his voice playful as he called out to Anna, “Alright, Bananas, let’s get those teeth brushed before your mom tells me I’m slacking.”

Anna’s giggles filled the house as she bolted from the living room, her tiny feet pattering up the stairs as Bradley’s playful growl followed closely behind.

“Anna Banana, you get back here!” he called, his boots thudding against the hardwood as he gave chase. “We’re brushing those teeth whether you like it or not!”

“You can’t catch me, Daddy!” she yelled between bursts of laughter, the sound so joyful it made you smile despite the exhaustion lingering from the day.

Shaking your head, you turned back to the kitchen and grabbed Bradley’s empty bowl from the table, rinsing it under warm water before adding it to the dishwasher. The soup pot still sat on the stove, its comforting aroma hanging in the air. You ladled the leftovers into a container, snapping the lid on before slipping it into the fridge.

Judy wouldn’t be eating any tonight—you knew her appetite was still weak from the cold. You sighed softly as you wiped down the counter, taking a moment to glance toward the baby monitor. Theo was still sound asleep, his soft snores faintly audible through the speaker. At least one of your kids was making bedtime easy tonight.

With the kitchen clean and quiet, you dried your hands and made your way to the living room, where Judy lay nestled under the blanket. Her Real Madrid hoodie was slightly bunched up, and her face was still flushed from her cold, but her eyes brightened when she saw you approaching.

“Hey, Judy bug,” you said gently, sinking down beside her. “You feeling okay?”

She nodded, scooting closer to you. “I’m just tired,” she admitted softly.

“I know,” you said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into your side. She fit perfectly against you, her small body warm and familiar. “But remember, we made a deal. You’re allowed to stay up a little longer, as long as you take it easy.”

Judy smiled faintly, leaning her head on your shoulder. “Thanks, Mom.”

You pressed a kiss to her temple, brushing some hair away from her face. “Anytime, Judy.”

For a few minutes, the house was quiet except for the distant sound of Bradley trying to wrangle Anna into brushing her teeth. You chuckled under your breath as Judy let out a small laugh.

“Rooster’s not very good at catching Anna,” she murmured, her voice raspy but amused.

“Nope,” you agreed, squeezing her gently. “But he’s trying his best.”

Judy’s giggle was soft but heartfelt, and you cherished the moment, knowing it wouldn’t be long before all three kids were asleep and the house finally settled into peace for the night.

Judy shifted against you as you tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her small hand reaching for the remote on the coffee table. The soft thud of Anna’s bedroom door closing upstairs brought a sense of relief; Bradley had clearly won the bedtime battle. You smiled to yourself, imagining how he’d probably managed to wrangle her into bed with one of his goofy voices or a quick rendition of a lullaby she insisted he sing.

From above, you heard the bathroom door open and the unmistakable sound of the shower turning on. That man earned his fifteen minutes of peace after chasing Anna around.

“What do you say we watch something before bed?” you asked, glancing down at Judy.

Her eyes lit up slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Can we watch The Grinch?”

“You’re still in a Christmas mood, huh?” you teased, but you didn’t mind. Judy had always loved the story, and it had become a tradition to watch it at least ten times every December.

She nodded, snuggling closer to your side as you leaned forward to grab the remote. It only took a few clicks before the familiar opening notes of The Grinch filled the room, and the glow of the television bathed the two of you in soft light.

As the movie started, you glanced down at Judy. Her eyes were focused on the screen, though you could tell she wasn’t quite as energetic as usual. Her cold was still zapping her strength, but she looked content, nestled under the blanket and leaning into you for warmth.

The two of you sat quietly, watching as the Grinch made his first grouchy appearance. Judy chuckled faintly at his antics, her laugh muffled by the blanket she’d half-pulled over her face.

Upstairs, you could still hear the shower running, the steady hum of water a comforting backdrop to the cozy moment. It was one of those rare evenings where, despite the chaos of the day, everything felt peaceful—just you and your daughter, sharing a quiet moment together while Bradley unwound upstairs.

You let out a soft sigh of contentment, wrapping your arm a little tighter around Judy. Nights like this, you thought, were what made all the hard days worth it.

As the Grinch grumbled on screen about Christmas cheer, your phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a call from work. You sighed, glancing at the number. It wasn’t unusual for work to call after hours, but it still pulled you out of the cozy moment with Judy.

Judy turned her head toward you, her brows furrowing. “Mom, do you have to go?” she asked softly, her voice still scratchy from her cold.

You gave her a reassuring smile and smoothed her hair back. “No, bug, I’m not going anywhere. I just need to take this call, okay? Roo will be downstairs in a couple of minutes. Can you hold tight until then?”

She nodded, though she still looked a little disappointed. “Okay.”

You kissed her forehead before standing and grabbing your coat from the rack by the door. Wrapping it around your shoulders, you stepped onto the front porch, the cold night air biting against your skin. The faint scent of pine from the wreath on the door lingered, and you pulled your coat tighter as you tapped to accept the call.

“This is YN,” you answered, your breath puffing in the chilly air.

The person on the other end quickly launched into their reason for calling—some minor crisis involving a data set that had apparently gone haywire. You listened intently, nodding even though they couldn’t see you, while mentally sorting through solutions.

As you paced the porch, the front door opened, and Bradley stepped out, fresh from his shower. His damp hair was tousled, and he’d pulled on a well-worn hoodie and sweatpants. He glanced at you curiously, then stepped back inside, letting the door click shut behind him.

A few moments later, you wrapped up the call, offering quick instructions and assurances that you’d look at the problem first thing in the morning. You hung up and exhaled deeply, allowing the crisp night air to clear your thoughts.

When you stepped back inside, Bradley was in the living room, crouched next to Judy. He’d wrapped an arm around her, his other hand resting on the blanket tucked snugly around her. Judy looked a little brighter already, smiling up at him as she pointed something out on the screen.

Bradley looked up as you closed the door, his warm eyes meeting yours. “Everything okay?” he asked, his voice soft so as not to disturb the moment.

You nodded, offering him a tired smile. “Crisis averted. Thanks for stepping in.”

“Anytime,” he said, patting the spot next to him on the couch. “Come sit. We saved your spot.”

The warmth in his voice and the sight of your little family waiting for you melted the tension from your shoulders. You slipped off your coat, letting it fall onto the back of a chair, and joined them, ready to soak in the rest of the evening.

As the Grinch continued plotting on the screen, you noticed Judy start to rub her eyes. Her head had begun to droop a little, and not long after, she let out a soft yawn.

Bradley, ever observant, caught it instantly. A teasing grin spread across his face as he looked down at her. “Uh-oh,” he said dramatically, “sounds like someone’s ready for bed. What do you think, Judy? Time to head upstairs?”

Judy’s head shot up, her tired eyes narrowing as she frowned at him. “No, it’s not! My bedtime’s 8:30, and it’s only 8!”

“Hmm,” Bradley drawled, tapping his chin in mock contemplation. “I don’t know. That yawn says otherwise.”

“It doesn’t count!” Judy protested, sitting up straighter and fixing him with her best determined glare. “I’m not tired. I can stay up for The Grinch. You promised!”

Bradley chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’ve got until 8:30. But if I catch you yawning again, we might have to renegotiate.”

Judy crossed her arms, trying to look serious but failing as a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re so dramatic, Rooster.”

“Me? Dramatic?” he asked, feigning offense. “I’m just concerned about your beauty sleep, Jude. I’m looking out for you.”

Judy rolled her eyes, but you could see the playful affection in her expression. “You’re such a weirdo.”

Bradley laughed, pulling her close and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “That’s me. But you love me anyway.”

She snuggled back against him with a small huff, her earlier defiance fading as she relaxed into his side. You watched the exchange with a smile, your heart full at the sight of their bond.

Bradley caught your gaze and gave you a wink, his hand resting gently on Judy’s shoulder. You could tell he was savouring the moment as much as you were.

Judy had just settled against Bradley’s side, her eyes fluttering back toward the screen, when he lightly placed his hand on her forehead. The smile on his face faded slightly, replaced by a look of concern.

“Hey, Jude,” he said softly, tilting his head to get a better look at her. “You’re feeling a little warm. Are you okay?”

Judy blinked up at him, her brows furrowing as if she hadn’t noticed it herself. “I think so,” she murmured, but then a raspy cough escaped her, and her body tensed.

You immediately perked up, your eyes scanning her face as she began coughing harder. “Judy?” you asked, worry creeping into your tone.

Before she could answer, her hand shot to her mouth, her face paling. Instinct kicked in, and you grabbed the bowl you’d left on the floor beside the couch earlier, knowing her appetite had been off all day.

“Here, sweetie,” you said gently, holding the bowl just in time as Judy leaned forward, the cough turning into a small heave.

Bradley’s arm stayed securely around her, his other hand moving to rub her back as she threw up into the bowl. His voice was soft and steady as he murmured, “It’s okay, Jude. Just breathe, baby girl. We’ve got you.”

You crouched beside them, one hand resting on Judy’s knee as you watched her closely. It didn’t last long, but her little body trembled with the effort, and when she finally leaned back, her face was flushed, and her eyes glassy with exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered weakly, her voice barely above a rasp.

“Oh, baby, you have nothing to be sorry for,” you assured her, brushing a hand over her hair as Bradley wiped her mouth gently with the tissue you handed him.

“She’s burning up,” Bradley said quietly, concern etched into his voice as he pressed another hand to her forehead.

You nodded, already moving to grab a cool cloth from the kitchen. “Let’s get her cooled down and check her temperature again,” you said, your mind shifting into problem-solving mode.

Judy leaned heavily against Bradley’s chest, her small frame dwarfed by his protective embrace. “Daddy,” she croaked, her voice barely audible, “I don’t wanna be sick anymore.”

She rarely called him dad, but that was something else.

“I know, Jude,” Bradley said softly, his hand brushing over her hair. “I know. We’re going to take care of you, okay? Just rest for now.”

Judy’s little body eventually gave out from the exhaustion, her head lolling against Bradley’s chest as her breathing evened out into soft snores. You exchanged a quick glance with Bradley, nodding silently toward the stairs.

“I’ll grab the bucket,” you whispered, standing up and heading to the bathroom while he carefully adjusted Judy in his arms.

Bradley lifted her as if she weighed nothing, his large hands supporting her back and legs as he rose from the couch. He cradled her close, his steps slow and deliberate as he started up the stairs, making sure not to jostle her. The soft sound of her breathing mixed with the creak of the floorboards, and it tugged at your heart how small she looked in his arms.

By the time you reached Judy’s room, Bradley was gently laying her down on her bed, taking care to arrange her blankets so she was snug but not too warm. He brushed a hand over her hair, his thumb grazing her forehead again as he sighed quietly.

“She’s still a little warm,” he murmured.

You nodded, setting the bucket beside her bed within easy reach. “I’ll check her temperature again in a couple of hours, just to be sure.”

As you adjusted the bucket, Bradley glanced back at you, his brow furrowed. “She got sick last night too?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I thought it was because she decided to have hot chocolate fifteen minutes before bed. She didn’t even tell me until after she’d already made it.”

Bradley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I didn’t hear a thing. She got sick, and I didn’t wake up?”

You smirked, placing a hand on your hip as you teased, “Roo, you’d sleep through a literal earthquake.”

He let out a soft chuckle, though there was a flicker of guilt in his expression. “Guess I need to work on that. I hate that you were dealing with this by yourself.”

You shrugged, brushing it off lightly. “It wasn’t too bad. Besides, the real fun was earlier today.”

Bradley straightened, his concern sharpening. “What happened?”

You sighed, leaning against the doorway. “She got sick at school. They called me about an hour after I got to work, so I had to come home early to pick her up. She’s been pretty out of it since. I tried feeding her soup earlier, but that didn’t go well either.”

Bradley exhaled deeply, his hands on his hips as he glanced back at Judy, who was now sound asleep, her face still slightly flushed. “Poor kid,” he murmured, running a hand through his damp hair. “She’s had a rough day.”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly, stepping closer to him. “But at least she’s getting some rest now.”

Bradley nodded, reaching out to give your arm a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been handling all of this like a champ. Seriously, YN.”

You smiled at him, leaning into his touch. “We’re a team, remember? You’ll take the next round if she wakes up again tonight.”

“Deal,” he said with a small smile, his eyes flicking back to Judy one last time before wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

As you walked back downstairs with Bradley, the weight of the evening’s events still hung in the air, but your mind wandered back to his earlier words—I have something to tell you. You gave him a curious look as you both stepped into the kitchen, where he leaned casually against the counter, though there was an unmistakable tension in his posture.

“So,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the opposite counter. “What’s this big thing you wanted to talk about?”

Bradley exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that instantly made you wary. He was stalling. “Alright, don’t freak out,” he started, his eyes flicking to yours. “But there’s a chance we might be moving again… before the end of December.”

You stared at him, utterly floored. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, his lips pressing into a tight line. “I wish I was.”

“Bradley,” you said, your voice rising slightly in disbelief, “we’ve only been in this house for three months. Three months! And it’s almost Christmas! How are we supposed to pack up and leave—again?”

He winced at the exasperation in your tone, holding up his hands defensively. “I know, I know. Believe me, I’m not thrilled about the timing either. But I think this might be the last time. I mean it.”

You raised a sceptical eyebrow. “That’s what you said the last two moves. And the time before that.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “I know. But this is different. I got a call about going back to Top Gun—to San Diego. They need me there, and they’re offering some stability. A more permanent position, YN. I’d be working with my old crew again, the same people I did the uranium mission with.”

You blinked at him, your mind spinning. “San Diego?” you echoed, trying to process the implications. “Bradley, we’ve moved five times in the last four years because of your job. Every time, it’s been the same story—‘this is the last one, we’ll settle down here.’ How can you be sure this time?”

“I can’t be sure,” he admitted, his voice soft but steady. “But I know how much we’ve been through, and I know what I’m asking isn’t easy. But Top Gun feels like home to me. The team, the work—it’s different there. It’s something I know I can grow with long-term.”

You stared at him, still feeling blindsided. “And you think we can do this in the middle of the holidays? We’d have to uproot the kids—again. Judy’s been sick, and Anna just started getting comfortable here.”

“I know it’s asking a lot,” he said, stepping closer and placing his hands on your arms. “But I think San Diego could be a real chance for us. The base there is more stable, and I wouldn’t be deploying as much. I’d be home more—for you, for the kids.”

Your shoulders sagged as you took in his words. You wanted to believe him, but the exhaustion of endless moves, the packing, unpacking, and constant uncertainty weighed heavily on you.

“And this is all happening before the end of December?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Bradley nodded, his expression apologetic. “There’s still a lot to figure out, but yeah. They need me soon. I just… I wanted to talk to you about it first. I wouldn’t make this decision without you.”

You let out a long breath, running a hand through your hair. “Bradley, this is a lot. I don’t even know where to start.”

He nodded again, squeezing your arms gently. “I know it is. Take some time to think about it, okay? We’ll figure it out together.”

You bit your lip, your thoughts still racing, but you couldn’t ignore the sincerity in his eyes—or the hope. Despite the upheaval it would cause, he truly believed this could be the fresh start you both needed. But whether or not you were ready to believe that too, you weren’t so sure.

You stared at Bradley, the frustration rising in your chest as the weight of his words truly sank in. Shaking your head, you stepped back from his grasp and crossed your arms tightly.

“Bradley, I’m going to say this right now—I’m not moving until after New Year’s,” you said firmly, your voice steady but resolute. “I refuse to spend Christmas in some lousy halfway spot, surrounded by boxes, trying to keep the kids from falling apart. It’s not happening.”

His brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to respond, but you kept going, your emotions spilling out in waves.

“This constant moving isn’t just exhausting—it’s unhealthy for the kids. Anna’s finally settling in here. She’s starting to make friends, and she’s getting used to the house. Judy’s already switched schools enough for a lifetime. It’s not fair to her to have to keep doing this over and over. She’s nine, Bradley! I thought mine and her fathers job at the start would make her need to move so much but truly it didn't. She needs stability, not a new classroom every year.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly as he tried to meet your gaze. “I know it’s hard, YN—”

“No,” you interrupted, holding up a hand. “You don’t know how hard it is, Bradley. You’re not the one managing school forms, paediatricians, or trying to help Judy settle in after every single move. You’re not the one cleaning up puke when she gets so stressed she makes herself sick. And on top of that, I have my own job to think about. Do you have any idea how much of a nightmare it is to move space labs? Or how hard it is to get rehired in the same field every time we relocate? What if they don’t even take me this time?”

He frowned, guilt flickering in his expression. “I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem, Bradley,” you said, your voice softening but still firm. “You didn’t think. You’re chasing stability for yourself, and I get that. I do. But what about us? What about the kids? What about me?”

Bradley ran a hand down his face, clearly grappling with your words. “I thought this would be a good opportunity for all of us,” he admitted quietly. “I thought… maybe it could finally be the place where we can put down roots.”

You let out a shaky breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “If you want to go, fine. Go set things up. But I’m not uprooting this family in the middle of the holidays. The kids deserve a Christmas in a real home, not in a house we haven’t even unpacked yet. And I’m not putting them—or myself—through another rushed move until we know this is going to work.”

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he absorbed your words. “Okay,” he said finally, his voice low. “We’ll wait until after New Year’s. I’ll talk to them, figure out a timeline that works.”

Relief washed over you, though it was tempered by the uncertainty still lingering in the air. You reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I need you to understand, Bradley. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s all of us. And I can’t keep putting the kids—and myself—through this. And I will go insane if I'll be in another motel for weeks.”

“I get it,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I do. I just… I want to make this work. For all of us.”

You nodded, your gaze steady. “Then let’s figure it out. But after the holidays.”

Bradley’s arms stayed wrapped around you, but as you rested against him, he gently pulled back, his eyes scanning your face with quiet concern. He tilted his head slightly, his voice soft but pointed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, his tone both curious and insistent.

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to the floor before meeting his again. You’d been holding back, trying to push through for the sake of the evening, but he clearly wasn’t going to let it slide.

“Honestly?” you said, exhaling deeply. “It’s not fine with me that you’re thinking of leaving so soon—especially after I had to miss work last week. I’ve already taken so much time off between Anna being sick, Judy needing to come home early, and everything else. I’m exhausted, Bradley. I’ve had enough.”

His brow furrowed as he stepped closer, his hands resting lightly on your arms. “Then why didn’t you just say that when I asked earlier?”

You bit your lip, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Because I wasn’t about to argue in front of Judy and Anna,” you said sharply. “They’ve already been through enough tonight. Judy doesn’t need to hear us going back and forth on top of being sick with cruel stomach décor, and Anna’s finally getting settled. I didn’t want to add more stress.”

Bradley sighed, running a hand through his hair as he took in your words. “I get that,” he said softly. “But, YN, I need you to tell me these things. You don’t have to hold it in just to keep the peace.”

“I know,” you replied, your voice quieter now, “but I’m just… tired, Bradley. I don’t feel like moving again. Not until March at the earliest. I’m not ready to pack up, to sort through everything, to start over—again.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes softening as he processed your words. “You feel like you’ve hit your limit,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“Exactly,” you admitted, your shoulders sagging. “I’ve hit my limit. The idea of boxing up this house, pulling the kids out of their routine, and throwing myself into another round of uncertainty—it’s exhausting just thinking about it. I’m not bothered to pack up again right now. I need time.”

Bradley was quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your arm as he considered his response. “March,” he repeated, nodding slowly. “Alright. We can make that work. I’ll let them know we need more time.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

“I’m sure,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to push you into something you’re not ready for. If March feels right, then that’s what we’ll aim for.”

Relief washed over you, though a small part of you still felt the weight of what lay ahead. “Thank you,” you murmured.

He pulled you back into his arms, holding you close. “We’ll figure this out,” he promised.

Before you could fully relax into Bradley’s embrace, your phone buzzed again on the counter, cutting through the quiet. You sighed, reluctantly pulling away to check the screen. It was another call from work.

“I should take this,” you muttered, already swiping to answer.

Bradley leaned against the counter, watching you closely as you murmured into the phone, your tone professional but clearly laced with frustration. He caught snippets—something about deadlines, a meeting you couldn’t miss, and some last-minute chaos that had you pinching the bridge of your nose.

When you finally hung up, you turned back to him, running a hand through your hair. “Looks like I’ll be driving down overnight,” you said with a resigned sigh. “I’ve got an early morning meeting anyway, and at this rate, I’ll barely get any sleep if I wait until tomorrow to leave.”

Bradley straightened, his brows knitting together. “Overnight? YN, that’s going to be rough. Are you sure that’s the best idea?”

You shrugged, already mentally planning the drive. “It’s easier this way. I’ll get there before the day starts, and I won’t have to stress about being late.”

He crossed his arms, his concern clear. “I’ve got the day off work tomorrow. I’ll stay here and take care of the kids. You focus on work.”

You blinked at him, a little surprised. “You have the day off?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, stepping closer. “I’ll handle everything here. Judy’s already home sick, so I’ll keep an eye on her and make sure Anna and Theo are good too. You don’t need to worry about anything on this end.”

The tension in your shoulders eased slightly, and you nodded, grateful for his support. “Okay,” you said softly. “Thanks, Bradley.”

He gave you a small smile, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Just drive safe, alright? And text me when you get there.”

“I will,” you promised, leaning into his touch for a brief moment before pulling back to start gathering your things. As much as you hated the overnight drive, knowing Bradley would hold down the fort at home made it a little easier to handle.

Bradley climbed the stairs quietly, his mind still on your late-night drive and the conversation the two of you had just shared. But as he passed Judy’s room, a soft, raspy voice caught his attention.

“I don’t mind moving,” she said, her tone small but clear.

He stopped in his tracks, leaning slightly toward the open doorway. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he stepped inside, spotting Judy sitting up in bed, her blanket pulled up to her chest.

“Well, well,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Sounds to me like someone’s been eavesdropping.”

Judy’s cheeks flushed a little, but she gave him a defiant look, crossing her arms over her blanket. “It’s not eavesdropping, Roo. It’s overhearing. There’s a difference.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow, fighting back a chuckle as he walked over to her bed. “Oh, there’s a difference, huh?” he teased, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. “Pretty sure your mom wouldn’t see it that way. She’d probably have my head if she knew you were listening.”

Judy smiled slyly, leaning back against her pillows. “Good thing she’s not here to find out.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re a smart one, Jude, I’ll give you that. But seriously—what are you doing awake? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

She shrugged, fiddling with the edge of her blanket. “I just… I heard you guys talking, and I wanted to know what was going on. Are we really moving again?”

Bradley sighed, his teasing expression softening. “It’s a possibility,” he admitted. “But nothing’s set in stone yet. Your mom and I are still figuring things out.”

Judy looked down at her hands, quiet for a moment. “I don’t mind moving,” she said again, her voice softer now. “I mean, I like it here, but… if it makes you and Mom happy, I’ll be okay.”

His heart swelled at her words, and he reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

She smiled shyly, her eyes still on her lap. “I try.”

Bradley leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Now get some sleep, okay? And no more overhearing—or eavesdropping—or whatever you want to call it.”

“Fine,” she murmured, already snuggling back into her blanket. “Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Judy,” he said softly, standing and turning off her bedside lamp before heading to the door. As he glanced back, she was already drifting off, her little body relaxed and peaceful.

Bradley stepped quietly into Theo’s room, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a warm hue over the small space. Theo was curled up in his crib, his chest rising and falling in the rhythmic breaths of deep sleep.

Bradley leaned over the crib, brushing his fingers lightly over Theo’s soft hair. Despite his hesitation, he decided it might be best to have him closer tonight, especially with you driving through the night. Carefully, he slipped his arms under Theo and lifted him, cradling the boy against his chest. Theo stirred slightly but didn’t wake, settling back into his father’s embrace with a soft sigh.

Bradley carried him down the hallway to your shared bedroom. The portable baby mattress was already set up near the bed, and he gently placed Theo down, adjusting the blankets around him. The little boy stretched briefly, then fell back into his peaceful sleep.

Bradley crouched for a moment, watching him, his expression soft with affection. He reached out, tucking the blanket a little more securely before standing.

Moving quietly, Bradley made his way to the small desk tucked into the corner of the room. He sat down heavily in the chair, his elbows resting on the desk as he ran a hand down his face. The day—and the conversations—were catching up with him.

As Bradley sat at the small desk, the quiet hum of the house surrounding him, he pulled out his phone. The group chat with the Dagger Squad lit up with unread messages, the notifications buzzing intermittently.

Payback: So, Rooster, you coming back after New Year’s or what?

Coyote: Yeah, man, don’t leave us hanging. You know Hangman’s already bragging about how he’ll outfly all of us again.

Hangman: Correction, Coyote. I will outfly you all. Don’t need Rooster to confirm that. But hey, Rooster, don’t be scared now—you coming or not?

Bob: It’d be good to have you back, Rooster.

Fanboy: Yeah, you’re part of the team, man. We’re counting on you to bring the mustache magic.

Bradley smirked, shaking his head at their banter. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating how to respond.

Phoenix: Give him a break, guys. He’ll let us know when he can.

He hesitated. Phoenix was the only one who knew about his life outside the Navy—his wife, his kids, the constant balancing act he’d been navigating. He hadn’t told the others, not because he didn’t trust them, but because it never felt like the right time. Now, with their texts pressing him for a commitment, the weight of his promise to you settled heavily on his shoulders.

He’d agreed to wait until after the New Year to move the family, but they didn’t need to know that. If he got sent to Top Gun temporarily for a few days, it wouldn’t disrupt the plan too much—would it? He could handle a few days away, fulfil the request, and be back before you’d even finished packing the decorations away.

But then again, keeping this from you didn’t sit right with him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he considered his reply.

Rooster: I’ll let you guys know soon. Still working a few things out on my end.

The responses came quickly.

Coyote: Come on, man, you know you wanna fly with the big boys again.

Hangman: “Working things out” sounds like code for chicken. You scared, Rooster?

Fanboy: Ignore him. We’re looking forward to having you back.

Bradley stared at the screen, his mind torn. He knew how much they wanted him back—and if he was honest, he missed flying with them, too. But you had made your stance clear. You didn’t want the chaos of a rushed move or the disruption to your family’s routine, and he couldn’t ignore how much you’d already sacrificed for his career.

The only one who truly understood the bind he was in was Phoenix, and as if on cue, another message from her popped up in the group chat.

Phoenix: Don’t rush it, Rooster. We’ve got time.

Bradley sighed, grateful for her subtle support. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation when the time came to tell you he’d been sent down for even a short stint. For now, though, he tucked the phone away, deciding to deal with it when—and if—it became official.

As you parked your car outside the lab, the faint buzz of your phone caught your attention. You glanced at the screen, seeing a text from Bradley pop up.

Rooster: Hey, just got an email—orders came through. I have to head back to Top Gun the day after New Year’s. Just for a few days to test some equipment.

You frowned, your fingers lingering over the steering wheel. He’d softened the blow, but the sting of his words remained. After all the back and forth, the long conversations, and the arguments about waiting until the New Year to avoid uprooting everything again, this felt like a sudden change. Still, you trusted him—if it was orders, there wasn’t much he could do.

A follow-up text arrived moments later.

Rooster: How was the drive? Everything okay? All the kids are down for the night. Theo didn’t even wake up when I brought him to our room. Judy’s still coughing a little but sound asleep. Let me know when you get a moment.

You sighed, the tension from the late-night drive mingling with the unresolved frustration of the past few days. Pushing it aside for now, you texted back quickly.

You: Drive was fine. Thanks for holding down the fort. I’ll call you in a minute.

Pulling your coat tighter, you stepped outside the car and dialled him. The phone rang twice before his familiar voice answered.

“Hey,” Bradley greeted, his tone warm but careful. “How’s it going? You get there okay?”

“I’m fine,” you replied, your voice steady. “Just parked. You said you got orders?”

There was a pause, just a fraction too long to go unnoticed, but he recovered quickly. “Yeah, it came through just a little while ago. Email straight from command,” he said, keeping his tone light. “It’s not a big deal, just a quick trip to test some new equipment. A few days, tops.”

You pressed your lips together, glancing up at the dimly lit lab building. “Funny how that just popped up, considering we were arguing about moving a couple of hours ago.”

He sighed, the sound crackling faintly through the line. “I know the timing sucks, but this isn’t about the move. It’s just work. You know how it is—they send orders, I follow them. It’s out of my hands.”

You leaned against the car, the cold seeping through your coat. “And it couldn’t wait until after we decided?”

“Apparently not,” he replied, his tone still soft. “They want it done now to prep for upcoming missions. It’s not permanent, YN. Just a few days, and then I’ll be back.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. His explanation was logical, but a part of you still bristled. “It just feels sudden, that’s all,” you admitted. “After everything we talked about, it feels like the Navy’s always pulling the rug out from under us.”

“I get it,” he said gently. “I really do. But I promise I’ll make it as smooth as possible for you and the kids. And hey, once it’s done, we can refocus on everything here. I’ll help with the packing, with the kids—whatever you need.”

You exhaled slowly, the initial frustration easing slightly. “Alright,” you said finally. “If it’s orders, it’s orders. Just… don’t keep me in the dark about anything else, okay?”

“I won’t,” Bradley said quickly. “Promise.”

“Okay,” you murmured, glancing toward the building. “I should head in. Thanks for calling to let me know.”

“No problem,” he replied, his voice warm again. “Drive safe when you head back, alright? And don’t work too hard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said with a faint smile before ending the call.

As you walked into the lab, a flicker of doubt lingered in the back of your mind, but you pushed it aside. He wouldn’t lie about something like this—or so you believed.

Bradley sat back in the chair at his small desk, the glow of his phone screen casting a faint light across the darkened room. The group chat with the Dagger Squad had gone quiet for now, but his mind was racing. He hated lying to you, especially after the hard conversations you’d had tonight, but what unsettled him more was the creeping realization of how deep this would go.

A soft creak at the door pulled his attention, and he looked up to see Anna standing there, her favourite blankie draped over her shoulder and her teddy bear clutched tightly in her small hands.

“Daddy?” she whispered, her voice soft and sleepy.

Bradley immediately put his phone down, his heart squeezing at the sight of her. “Hey, Anna Banana. What’s wrong, baby girl?”

She padded over to him, her bare feet barely making a sound on the floor. “I had a bad dream,” she said, her bottom lip sticking out just a little as she rubbed her eyes.

“Come here,” Bradley said gently, holding out his arms. Anna climbed onto his lap without hesitation, curling against his chest as he wrapped his arms securely around her. Her blanket and teddy got squished between them, but she didn’t seem to mind.

He swayed gently in the chair, rubbing her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

Anna nodded sleepily, her head resting against his shoulder. “Are you going away again, Daddy?” she asked suddenly, her voice muffled.

The question hit him like a punch to the gut. He swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice thick. “But only for a little while, baby. Just a few days. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Anna pulled back just enough to look at him, her big, earnest eyes shining in the dim light. “But why? I don’t like when you go away.”

Bradley forced a small smile, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face. “I know, Banana. I don’t like leaving you either. But it’s part of my job, and I promise I’ll be home really soon.”

“Promise?” she whispered, holding up her pinky.

He hesitated for only a second before linking his pinky with hers. “Promise.”

Anna seemed satisfied with that, her little hand relaxing as she tucked herself back against his chest. He held her close, guilt gnawing at him. He hated that he was lying to her, too—that he wasn’t going because of orders but because of his own decision to go back to Top Gun for reasons he hadn’t fully shared.

Her small breaths began to even out, and Bradley knew she was falling back asleep. He carried her to the bed you both kept in your room for when the kids had restless nights, tucking her in with her blankie and teddy. She didn’t stir as he pulled the covers up around her.

As he returned to his desk, he stared down at his phone, the unanswered questions and unspoken truths weighing heavily on him. For a moment, he considered calling you again—coming clean about everything—but the fear of how you’d react kept his finger from pressing the button.

Bradley sat back down at his desk, the soft glow of his phone screen illuminating his conflicted expression. He glanced over his shoulder at Anna, curled up peacefully with her blankie and teddy in the bed. Her tiny chest rose and fell in a soothing rhythm, but the weight in his own chest didn’t lift.

He turned his gaze back to the group chat with the Dagger Squad, their earlier messages still sitting there, waiting for his response. He could hear their voices in his head—Payback's good-natured ribbing, Hangman’s cocky taunts, Phoenix’s steady, knowing tone.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard, hesitation coursing through him. You trusted him. Anna trusted him. But here he was, about to step back into the world he thought he’d left behind for good.

With a deep breath, he began typing.

Rooster: I’ll be there.

The replies were immediate, the chat lighting up in a flurry of responses.

Coyote: Knew you couldn’t resist!

Payback: Finally, the squad’s back together.

Hangman: About time, Bradshaw. I was starting to think you’d gone soft.

Phoenix: Good to have you back, Rooster.

Bradley leaned back in his chair, letting their messages blur together. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt as he reread his text. He hadn’t even said it out loud yet, but sending that message felt like crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.

He locked his phone and rubbed his hands over his face, the quiet of the room pressing down on him. This decision wasn’t just about him—it was about you, the kids, the life you’d built together. And yet, here he was, making a choice that might shake the foundation of it all.

For now, he’d focus on the days ahead. He’d handle the fallout later, even if it meant confronting the disappointment in your eyes when you found out.

Part 2

A/n: Maybe this is a mini series concept....

#bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #rooster fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

Text

3rd October, Again | Bangchan

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Word count: 10,415 words ; Reading Time: 37-ish mins

Trope: Time Travel AU | Second Chance | Soulmates | Angst to Comfort Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, emotional distress, implied past trauma, bittersweet themes, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: Ten years after losing Chan to a tragic accident, you wake up in your teenage body—with the date showing October 3rd, 2015. Days before it all went wrong. You remember everything. The fight. The accident. The bitter goodbye. This time… you won’t let him go.

Author’s Note: This one’s for the hopeless romantics who believe in fate giving you one more try. I cried writing this—so if you tear up too, we’re in this together <33

The digital clock on your monitor stubbornly flashed 20:47, each insistent blink a stark reminder of the relentless march of time – a time that had continued its indifferent crawl long after his had abruptly stopped.

Outside, the sprawling city of Sydney hummed with a restless energy, a symphony of distant horns, the murmur of unseen conversations, and the ever-present thrum of traffic. But within the sterile confines of your late-night office, a heavy silence reigned, broken only by the soft click of your keyboard and the shallow rhythm of your own breathing.

It was a silence thick with unspoken grief, a silence that had become your unwelcome confidante over the past decade.

Your focus, usually sharp and unwavering, fractured tonight, the intricate lines of code on your screen blurring into meaningless symbols. An invisible cord, woven from memory and regret, tugged your gaze away, pulling it inexorably towards the small, silver frame perched precariously on the edge of your cluttered desk.

Bang Chan. His smile in the captured moment was incandescent, a radiant beacon from a time when your world felt brighter, lighter. His head was thrown back in unrestrained laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners, those familiar lines etched so deeply into your heart that you could trace them with your fingertips even now, in his absence.

A ghost of a smile, fragile and fleeting, touched your lips, a bittersweet echo of a joy that had been so brutally extinguished. It was always followed by the inevitable plunge into the icy depths of loss.

Best friend. The words felt like a cruel understatement, a flimsy label for the profound connection that had once bound your souls. He had been more than a friend; he was your other half, the unspoken understanding in a crowded room, the unwavering support during turbulent storms, the ridiculous humor that could always pull you back from the edge. He had been the vibrant, beating heart of your teenage years, the sun around which your world orbited. 2015.

The year the music stopped, the laughter faded, and a gaping hole was torn in the fabric of your existence. The year he was stolen, not by illness or old age, but by a senseless, random act of violence, a cruel twist of fate dealt by a faceless stranger who vanished into the indifferent sprawl of the city, leaving behind only shattered lives and an unfillable void.

And then there was October 2nd, 2015. The day before. The date was seared into your memory, an open wound that refused to heal. The fight. A petty, utterly insignificant argument, fueled by the volatile cocktail of teenage emotions – pride, insecurity, a desperate yearning to be seen and understood.

You had been so consumed by your own trivial drama, so utterly oblivious to the preciousness of the time you had left, that you had allowed anger to fester, sharp words to fly like poisoned darts. You had been selfish, wrapped up in your own world, blind to the quiet anticipation that shimmered around his upcoming birthday.

Now, ten years later, the memory played on an endless loop in the theater of your mind, each harsh syllable, each cutting remark, a fresh stab of self-reproach. The last words you had spoken to him, laced with irritation and impatience, echoed in the suffocating silence of your present, a constant, agonizing reminder of your failure. If only… The two most brutal words in the human language, a relentless mantra of what could have been, what should have been.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, a sound that seemed to carry the accumulated weight of ten years of unshed tears and unspoken regrets. You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly, and turned the silver frame face down. The cool, smooth metal offered a momentary, physical distraction, a small, grounding sensation in the swirling vortex of your memories. But the guilt, a constant, unwelcome shadow, clung to you, a bitter taste that no amount of time could wash away. It was a heavy cloak you wore every day, a constant reminder of your last, bitter interaction with the person you loved most.

You tried to drag your attention back to the glowing screen, to lose yourself in the intricate patterns of code, the logical precision a stark contrast to the chaotic mess of your emotions. But the letters swam before your eyes, each character morphing into the ghost of his smile, the echo of his laughter.

The silence of the late office, once a comforting space of focused work, now felt oppressive, amplifying the deafening absence of his voice, his presence. Finally, the sheer weight of the day, compounded by the decade of unspoken grief you carried, became unbearable. A bone-deep weariness settled over you, a weariness that transcended mere physical fatigue and seeped into the very marrow of your being.

With a final, defeated exhale, you leaned back in your chair, the image of Chan’s vibrant face, now hidden from view, still burned behind your closed eyelids. You surrendered to the relentless pull of sleep, a desperate yearning for oblivion, unaware of the extraordinary, impossible shift that awaited you in the labyrinth of your dreams – a shift that would offer a terrifying, exhilarating chance to rewrite the past, or perhaps, merely plunge you deeper into the abyss of what might have been.

The transition from the familiar, dull ache of loss that had become your constant companion in your 2025 Sydney apartment to the jarring, disorienting reality of your teenage bedroom felt less like a natural progression of sleep and more like being violently ripped from one dimension and thrust into another. One moment, the weight of a decade's worth of grief pressed down on you, a suffocating blanket woven from regret and absence; the next, you were suspended in a sensory void, a terrifying expanse of nothingness where the lingering echoes of your present life warred with the burgeoning, impossible truth of the past. It wasn't the hazy, abstract landscape of typical dreams, those fleeting, nonsensical narratives your mind conjured in slumber. This was stark, almost hyper-real, a disorienting emptiness that left you gasping for air, your heart pounding with a primal fear you hadn't felt since childhood nightmares. Then, the abrupt, almost brutal return of sensation – the subtle, yet undeniably familiar, scratch of worn cotton against your skin, the faint, lingering scent of lavender and something vaguely sweet, the ghost of a long-forgotten air freshener – and finally, the agonizingly familiar yet utterly alien sight of your childhood bedroom, a space you believed existed only in the fragmented corridors of your memory.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat, a strangled gasp that did little to ease the suffocating pressure building in your chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs with a frantic, desperate urgency, a trapped bird beating against its cage. For a terrifying, disoriented span of time, your mind refused to reconcile the visual input with the reality you knew, the life you had lived for the past ten years. It was like stepping through a shattered mirror, the reflections both intimately recognizable and grotesquely, impossibly distorted. The ceiling above you, a mundane expanse of cracked plaster you hadn't consciously registered in years, now loomed with an unsettling, almost menacing familiarity. Had you truly forgotten the intricate spiderweb of hairline fractures that snaked across its surface, a testament to a long-ago earthquake scare? A disquieting sense of déjà vu, sharp and insistent, pricked at the edges of your awareness, a ghostly whisper from a time you believed was relegated to the dusty, bittersweet archives of your memory.

Slowly, with a hesitant reluctance bordering on dread, the blurry shapes around you began to sharpen, to solidify into the undeniable, almost mocking authenticity of your teenage haven. It wasn't just a vague, dreamlike resemblance; it was a meticulous, painstaking resurrection of a space you had long outgrown, a perfect replica down to the smallest, most insignificant detail. The walls, once adorned with the carefully curated art prints and minimalist shelving of your adult life, were now plastered with the grinning, airbrushed faces of boy bands whose music hadn't graced the airwaves in over a decade, their youthful, carefree exuberance a jarring, almost cruel contrast to the leaden weight of grief that had become your constant companion. Strings of fairy lights, their tiny bulbs long since surrendered to the darkness, still clung precariously to the ceiling, gathering dust like forgotten wishes and unfulfilled dreams. And then there were the photographs. An overwhelming, dizzying profusion of them, tacked haphazardly to corkboards with faded pushpins, their edges curling with age, crammed into overflowing shoeboxes on your cluttered desk, spilling out from beneath forgotten textbooks and half-finished art projects. Each faded image was a captured fragment of a life lived, a life inextricably intertwined with his. Chan. His infectious, unrestrained smile, his easy, booming laughter, the comfortable, unspoken intimacy of your shared youth – all frozen in time, each snapshot a fresh, agonizing stab of memory, a tangible ghost of a joy that now felt impossibly, achingly distant, a phantom limb that still throbbed with a phantom pain.

A wave of nausea, sharp and insistent, churned in your stomach, a visceral rejection of the impossible reality unfolding around you. This had to be a dream. A particularly insidious, cruelly elaborate nightmare, meticulously crafted by your subconscious to prey on your deepest vulnerabilities, to resurrect the past in vivid detail only to cruelly snatch it away once more, leaving you to relive the agony of loss anew.

Your breath hitched in your throat, a strangled gasp that did little to ease the suffocating pressure building in your chest, a pressure that felt as though the very air in the room was thick with unspoken sorrow. You sat bolt upright, the worn, familiar texture of your old comforter, its faded floral pattern a relic of a past aesthetic you now found almost childishly naive, scratching against your skin, a sensation so acutely real, so undeniably there, that it sent a fresh tremor of icy unease snaking down your spine.

You looked around the room, your gaze darting frantically from one long-forgotten object to another – the chipped ceramic mug on your nightstand, still bearing the faint, permanent stain of countless late-night study sessions fueled by lukewarm tea; the precarious stack of dog-eared manga overflowing from your bookshelf, their spines cracked and pages softened from repeated readings, each dog-eared page a testament to shared moments and whispered conversations; the faded band posters you had painstakingly saved your allowance to acquire, their edges softened and corners dog-eared with the passage of time, now seeming like relics from an entirely different lifetime. It was all there, every insignificant detail meticulously preserved, a terrifyingly authentic snapshot frozen in a time you believed was gone forever, a past you had mourned and, in some ways, tried to bury.

Your fingers, clumsy and trembling with a burgeoning sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm you, fumbled for the reassuring weight of your phone, a desperate, almost primal need to connect with the tangible reality of your adult life, to ground yourself in the solid, predictable world of 2025, the world where you had built a life, however shadowed, without him. But your hand closed around something cold, hard, and undeniably… different. An iPhone 6s. Your way old iPhone. The one you had meticulously backed up, its digital ghost a faint echo in the cloud, before relegating it to the dusty oblivion of a forgotten drawer years ago, a technological fossil from a bygone era. The smooth, rounded edges felt alien and unsettling in your palm, the smaller screen a jarring, almost insulting contrast to the expansive, edge-to-edge display you had grown accustomed to, a stark reminder of a time before the world felt so vast and empty. You stared at the outdated interface, the familiar icons arranged in a layout you had long since optimized for efficiency, a ghostly reminder of a simpler, perhaps more innocent time, a time before loss had cast its long, suffocating shadow over every aspect of your existence.

Disbelief warred with a rising tide of icy terror, a cold dread that seeped into your bones, chilling you from the inside out, leaving you trembling and breathless. This couldn't be real. It was a hallucination, a stress-induced break from the relentless grip of grief, a cruel, elaborate trick of a mind pushed to its breaking point, desperate for some kind of escape, however twisted. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself back to the familiar comfort of your own bed, the muted sounds of your 2025 apartment, the soft, reassuring glow of the city lights filtering through your window. But when you opened them again, the posters still leered down with their youthful, oblivious optimism, the polaroids still grinned with a joy that now felt like a cruel, mocking reminder of what you had lost, and the archaic phone still lay heavy and undeniably real in your trembling hand. You pinched the back of your hand, hard, the sharp sting a fleeting, insignificant sensation against the overwhelming, suffocating tide of unreality. The room remained, stubbornly, terrifyingly tangible.

Just as the suffocating grip of fear threatened to crush you, to send you spiraling into the black abyss of utter despair, the door creaked open, the familiar sound echoing in the unnerving silence like a ghostly whisper from a time long past. And there she stood. Your mom. But not the woman whose face now carried the gentle lines of worry etched by the years, the deeper furrows of shared grief that had become a permanent fixture in her expression. This was your younger mom, her features softer, her eyes brighter, the heavy weight of the years that followed – the worry over your quiet sadness, the shared tears, the unspoken understanding of your enduring loss – noticeably absent. Her smile, though tinged with early-morning sleepiness, held a lightness, an untroubled quality you hadn’t witnessed in what felt like an eternity, a stark, painful reminder of a time before loss had cast its long, suffocating shadow over your entire family.

“Honey, you’re up early,” she said, her voice soft with a mother’s gentle concern. “Did you sleep okay? You seemed a little restless last night, tossing and turning. Did you have another bad dream?”

Your own voice felt distant, a fragile, unfamiliar whisper that seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a younger, more vulnerable version of yourself. “What… what year is it?” The question tumbled out, a desperate, almost involuntary plea for an anchor in this swirling vortex of unreality, for any shred of logic in this impossible, terrifying scenario.

Your mother’s brow furrowed, her eyes widening with a worried tenderness that mirrored the utter confusion churning within you. “2015, sweetie. What’s wrong? You look… pale, almost… scared to death. Did you have a bad dream?”

You could only nod, a heavy, suffocating lump forming in your throat, choking back the torrent of panicked questions and the utter, disbelieving terror that threatened to erupt in a torrent of hysterical tears. You needed to see it for yourself. You needed irrefutable, undeniable proof that this wasn't some elaborate, torturous delusion conjured by your grief-stricken mind. You stumbled out of bed, your legs feeling strangely weak and uncertain beneath you, as if they belonged to a younger, less burdened version of yourself, and your gaze, like a moth drawn to a flickering flame, locked onto the familiar calendar hanging by your desk, the one with the embarrassingly cheesy landscape photography you had always meant to replace but somehow never got around to. The date circled in bright red ink, a childish marker of a significant day you had long since associated with a different kind of significance – the last birthday you would ever celebrate with him – stared back at you with brutal, undeniable clarity: October 3rd. Chan’s 18th birthday.

The impossible, terrifying reality slammed into you with the force of a physical blow, leaving you gasping for breath in the suffocating grip of utter, disorienting confusion. Was this a dream? Had you somehow fractured the very fabric of time? Or was your entire life since that horrific October day in 2015 the elaborate, heartbreaking fabrication of a grief-stricken mind, a desperate attempt to create a future where the unbearable loss hadn't occurred? The questions swirled, a dizzying, nauseating vortex that threatened to pull you under into the black abyss of utter incomprehension.

A maelstrom of emotions – disbelief so profound it bordered on the surreal, a fragile, flickering ember of hope that dared to ignite in the desolate landscape of your grief, and a chilling, primal terror of the unknown – churned within you, a tempestuous storm threatening to tear you apart.

The simple act of showering felt utterly bizarre, the warm water cascading over your skin a stark contrast to the icy dread gripping your heart. Your reflection in the fogged-up mirror was a stranger, a younger version of yourself with wider, more innocent eyes that hadn't yet witnessed the brutal hand of fate. Dressing in the clothes from your past – familiar t-shirts that felt strangely small, jeans that sat higher on your waist than you were now accustomed to – only amplified the disorienting sense of displacement. It was like inhabiting the skin of a ghost, a specter revisiting a life that was supposed to be irrevocably gone.

With trembling hands, you reached for the archaic iPhone, the cold metal a stark reminder of the technological chasm that now separated you from your own time. The simple act of navigating the outdated interface felt like deciphering an ancient language, each tap and swipe a hesitant step into the bewildering reality of 2015.

After several frustrating attempts, the screen flickered to life, and his messages flooded the display – a string of casual greetings, playful banter, and the innocent anticipation of his upcoming birthday, all frozen in time, radiating a warmth that now felt both comforting and utterly devastating. He was alive. Really, truly alive. The reality, however improbable, resonated with a visceral certainty that sent a jolt of both exhilaration and profound unease through you.

The 19th of October… was that horrific memory just a nightmare, a twisted figment of a grief-stricken imagination? Or was this jarring, impossible present the true reality, and the past decade a horrifying premonition, a glimpse into a future you were now inexplicably thrust back to prevent? Your mind reeled, a chaotic whirlwind of questions with no easy answers. You had to see him. You had to touch him, to hear his voice, to confirm with your own senses that he was truly there.

A sense of urgent purpose, a desperate need to break free from the suffocating confines of your own confusion, propelled you out of the room. "Mom, Dad, I'm going over to Chan's," you called out, your voice sounding strangely high and unfamiliar in the quiet morning air.

They nodded absently, their usual weekend routine undisturbed, accustomed to your almost symbiotic bond with their son. The familiar walk to his house felt both achingly nostalgic and profoundly surreal, each landmark – the overgrown hedges of Mrs. Kim's garden, the chipped paint on the community center fence, the familiar curve of the sidewalk – a tangible link to a past you now inhabited once more.

His house stood just as you remembered, the familiar scent of his mother's baking wafting through the open windows. The cheerful chime of the doorbell echoed through the quiet morning, a sound that had been absent from your life for far too long. His mom opened the door, her smile radiant, genuinely happy to see you. It had been an eternity since you had witnessed that unrestrained joy in her eyes, a stark contrast to the quiet sorrow that had become her permanent expression in the years that followed.

She ushered you in with a warm hug, her familiar scent a comforting anchor in this sea of unreality, telling you that Chan was still asleep, the lazy yet had working young-adult you remembered. You exchanged quick, slightly awkward greetings with Hannah and Luca, his younger siblings, their youthful energy a stark reminder of the vibrant life that had once filled this house, a life that had been so tragically altered.

The familiar creak of the stairs accompanied your ascent, each step a hesitant journey back in time. Your hand trembled slightly as it hovered over his bedroom door, the worn wooden surface familiar beneath your fingertips. And then it hit you with the force of a physical blow. Today. October 3rd, 2015. Today was the day. The day you had forgotten his eighteenth birthday, lost in your own teenage drama. The day the seed of that stupid, inconsequential fight had been sown, a fight that now carried the unbearable weight of your deepest regret. Had you somehow been given a second chance? Had this bizarre twist of fate granted you the opportunity to rewrite the past, to erase the chain of events that had led to his death? Or was this the true, unaltered timeline, and the past decade a horrifying premonition, a glimpse into a future you were now powerless to escape? The swirling vortex of questions threatened to pull you under once more. You pushed the terrifying thoughts aside, a desperate instinct for self-preservation kicking in. You had to see him. You had to be near him. With a deep breath, you quietly pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room was exactly as you remembered – everything in proper place arranged correctly…..he was the organized one, the posters of his favorite bands adorning the walls. And there he was, lying peacefully asleep in his bed, the soft morning light illuminating his still, youthful face. He looked younger, somehow more innocent in sleep, the carefree boy you had taken for granted.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of trepidation and an overwhelming surge of emotion. You approached the bed, your steps soft and hesitant, as if afraid to shatter the fragile illusion. You reached out a trembling hand and gently shook his shoulder, the familiar feel of his soft t-shirt sending a jolt of both relief and profound sadness through you. He was real. He was here.

A low, rumbling groan, laced with the comfortable lethargy of deep sleep, emanated from the figure sprawled on the bed as your trembling hand gently shook his shoulder. Sleep-heavy eyelids, the lashes dark against his still-youthful skin, fluttered open, revealing the familiar warmth of his brown eyes, though clouded with the lingering remnants of slumber.

A slow, sleepy grin, the kind that always crinkled the corners of his eyes and tugged at your heart, spread across his face as recognition, slow and hazy, finally dawned. "Y/n? What are you doing here so early?" he mumbled, his voice still thick and rough with sleep, the syllables blurring together in a way that was both endearing and achingly familiar.

Without waiting for a coherent reply, a playful glint, a spark of the mischievous energy you had always adored, entered his eyes. A strong arm, surprisingly firm even in his sleepiness, shot out, hooking around your waist with practiced ease and pulling you down onto the soft mattress with a suddenness that stole your breath.

The abrupt shift from nervous anticipation to unexpected physical closeness sent a jolt of pure, visceral shock through you. One moment you were hovering, a hesitant supplicant at the altar of his still-present life, a ghost revisiting a world that had moved on without him, and the next you were sprawled beside him, the solid, comforting weight of his body pressing down on you, his warm breath ghosting across your cheek, his face mere inches from yours.

A surge of surprise, so potent it bordered on the surreal, coursed through you, a dizzying mix of disbelief and a raw, untamed joy. This was him. Real. Warm. Solid beneath your touch. Alive. The stark, almost brutal contrast to the cold, unyielding memory of his absence, the years of imagining this very moment only to have it remain a phantom limb of your heart, sent a tremor that shook your entire being.

Before you could process the overwhelming sensory input, before your mind could even begin to string together a coherent thought, an overwhelming, tidal wave of emotion crashed over you. It was a potent cocktail of relief so profound it felt like a physical weight, a leaden burden you hadn't even realized you were carrying, suddenly lifting from your chest; a desperate, almost frantic joy at his tangible presence, the solid reality of him beside you; and a raw, visceral fear, sharp and primal, that this fragile, impossible moment could shatter as quickly and inexplicably as it had appeared.

Without conscious thought, driven by an instinct more profound than reason, you reacted. You wrapped your arms around him, clinging with a fierce, almost desperate intensity that surprised even yourself, a primal need to anchor yourself to the one constant in the bewildering chaos of your current reality.

It was a desperate embrace, a lifeline thrown in the churning ocean of your confusion, a silent plea for reassurance that he was truly, irrevocably there. You held him tighter than you ever had before in your shared past, burying your face in the soft, slightly rumpled cotton of his favorite t-shirt, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of sleep and boyish warmth – a scent you had mourned, a phantom fragrance that haunted the empty spaces of your memory for a decade.

"Happy 18th, idiot," you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips in a choked sob, the endearment laced with a raw, unguarded emotion that had been building for ten long, agonizing years, a lifetime of unspoken grief finally finding a voice. The hug was unlike any you had ever given him in the past. You, the person who had always maintained a careful, almost clinical distance, who had avoided physical touch with an almost pathological aversion born from a deep-seated fear of loss, were now clinging to him as if he were the only solid, unwavering thing in a world that had suddenly and inexplicably tilted on its axis.

Confusion, thick and palpable, radiated from him. He stiffened slightly beneath your fierce embrace, a bewildered frown creasing his brow, the sleepiness in his eyes slowly being replaced by a bewildered concern. Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled back just enough to look down at you, his strong hands gently resting on your shoulders, his warm brown eyes searching yours with a mixture of amusement that was quickly fading and a genuine, burgeoning concern. "Y/n? Woah. What's gotten into you?" he mumbled, his voice still rough around the edges with sleep. "You're… you're hugging me like… like I'm leaving for some long trip or something. Or like its my last birthday dummy"

The innocent, offhand remark, uttered without a hint of its devastating irony, struck you like a physical blow, a cruel twist of the knife in your already raw heart. Your grip on his t-shirt tightened involuntarily, a fresh, icy wave of terror washing over you, constricting your chest and stealing your breath. "Don't," you choked out, the word a raw, ragged sound that tore from your throat, cutting him off instantly, the sharpness in your voice surprising even yourself. "Don't ever say things like that." The words were raw, stripped bare of any pretense, filled with a desperate urgency and a pain that he couldn't possibly comprehend.

He blinked, taken aback by the vehemence in your tone, the raw emotion that contorted your face. The playful grin vanished completely, replaced by a look of genuine, worried concern. He sat up, gently but firmly disentangling himself from your fierce embrace, his brow furrowed deeply as his eyes remained fixed on your face, searching for an explanation in your tear-filled gaze, in the frantic energy that seemed to vibrate around you. He reached out, his hand hovering hesitantly near your cheek. "Hey," he said softly, his voice now fully awake, laced with concern. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

You shook your head, unable to meet his gaze, the tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill over. How could you explain? Where would you even begin? "No," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Nothing… nothing happened. I just… I missed you." The lie felt heavy on your tongue, a betrayal of the profound truth that was tearing you apart.

He frowned, his confusion deepening. "Missed me? But… I saw you just yesterday. We were… wait." His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of realization crossing his face. "Oh, right. My birthday. I… I thought you forgot." A shadow of hurt, a familiar pang of the argument that had been the precursor to so much pain, flickered in his eyes. "You were kind of… distant yesterday."

His innocent accusation, a gentle echo of the fight that had been the catalyst for everything, sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you. "I… I'm sorry, Chan," you choked out, the tears finally spilling down your cheeks. "I was… I was stupid. Happy birthday." The belated wish felt hollow, inadequate, a pathetic offering after ten years of silence.

He reached out, his thumb gently brushing away a tear that traced a path down your cheek. "Hey," he repeated, his voice softer now, laced with genuine worry. "What's going on, Y/n? You're acting really weird. Did something happen at home?"

You shook your head again, the lie becoming heavier with each utterance. "No. Everything's… fine. I just… I'm really happy it's your birthday." The words sounded hollow, even to your own ears.

The two weeks that followed your bewildering reawakening in the familiar yet alien landscape of 2015 were a disorienting tightrope walk, each day a precarious step between the comforting familiarity of your teenage past and the crushing, inescapable weight of your future knowledge.

You navigated the echoing hallways of your high school, the carefree laughter of your classmates a stark, almost mocking contrast to the heavy silence that often enveloped your thoughts, a silence punctuated only by the frantic beating of your own terrified heart.

The teachers, younger and less jaded than you remembered, droned on about algebraic equations and historical dates, subjects that now seemed laughably trivial in the face of the life-and-death stakes you carried within you. Even the once-unquestioning comfort of your family home felt subtly, yet disturbingly, alien, the easy banter around the dinner table, the shared jokes and familiar routines, now tinged with a bittersweet nostalgia and a profound, suffocating fear for the unimaginable pain that awaited them.

You moved through these spaces like a ghost, a specter revisiting a life that was supposed to be irrevocably lost, armed with a terrible, world-altering secret that threatened to shatter the fragile peace around you at any moment.

Every night, as you retreated to the perceived sanctuary of your old bedroom, surrounded by the faded posters of boy bands whose popularity had long since waned and the cherished, now heartbreaking, polaroids capturing fleeting moments of shared, unburdened joy with him, a cold, visceral knot of dread would tighten in your stomach.

Sleep offered no true respite, your dreams often a chaotic, terrifying collision of fragmented memories from the future – the sterile white walls of the hospital, the hollow echo of your own sobs, the crushing weight of his absence – colliding with the vivid, tangible reality of the past, leaving you waking in a cold sweat, your breath catching in your throat, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

You half-expected, half-feared, to jolt awake back in the sterile silence of your 2025 apartment, the impossible events of the past weeks dismissed as nothing more than an elaborate, grief-induced hallucination, a cruel trick of a mind desperately seeking solace in the impossible. But morning always arrived, and the tangible, undeniable evidence of your altered reality remained – the posters of his favorite bands, their youthful rebellion now carrying a poignant, almost unbearable irony; the polaroids capturing moments of shared, unburdened laughter, now laced with the sharp, agonizing sting of what was so brutally lost; and the archaic iPhone, a constant, unsettling reminder of the technological chasm that separated you from your own time, a cold, hard physical manifestation of your displacement in the very fabric of reality.

The days crawled by with an agonizing, almost torturous slowness, each one dragging you inexorably closer to the looming, inescapable shadow of October 19th. The date hung over you like a suffocating shroud, a constant, visceral reminder of the senseless tragedy you were desperate to avert, the event that had irrevocably shattered the trajectory of your life and cast a long, dark, all-consuming shadow over the past ten years. The weight of knowing, of carrying this crushing, almost unbearable burden of future knowledge, pressed down on you, isolating you in a profound and terrifying way.

You yearned to confide in someone, to unburden yourself of the impossible, bewildering truth that consumed your every waking moment, but the words felt too fragile, too unbelievable, too likely to be met with pity, concern for your sanity, or outright dismissal, trapped behind a formidable wall of fear and the crushing weight of their potential disbelief.

It was the late evening of October 17th. You and Chan were in your room, ostensibly huddled over a school project – a presentation on the American Civil War, the irony of studying history when you were living in a rewritten version of your own not lost on you – the textbooks lying open and untouched between you, their pages filled with words that now seemed utterly insignificant in the face of the impending life-and-death stakes you carried within you.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your gaze fixed on the faded floral pattern of the comforter, your fingers tracing and re-tracing the outline of a long-forgotten stain, a small, insignificant mark that had somehow become a focal point for your swirling, anxious thoughts, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself to something familiar in this bewildering sea of unreality.

Chan sat opposite you, perched precariously on your worn desk chair, his brow furrowed with a deep, unwavering concern, his warm brown eyes searching your face with a growing unease that mirrored the tumultuous storm raging within you. He could sense it – the subtle but unmistakable shifts in your demeanor over the past two weeks, the haunted, faraway look that often clouded your eyes, the abrupt silences that would descend upon you, leaving him feeling adrift and disconnected, a palpable chasm widening between the easy camaraderie you once shared.

"Y/n," he finally said, his voice low and hesitant, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between you like a suffocating blanket. "What's been going on with you? You've been… different lately. Distant. Like you're here, but you're not, you know?" He reached out, his hand hovering tentatively near yours, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter the fragile, almost invisible thread that still connected you. "You've been acting… weird. Even more than usual," he added with a weak, almost apologetic attempt at a joke, but the humor fell flat, dissolving into the tense atmosphere like a drop of water on parched earth.

The dam broke. The carefully constructed walls you had erected around your raw, festering emotions, the desperate, exhausting attempt to maintain a semblance of normalcy in the face of the impossible, crumbled under the weight of his genuine, unwavering concern. The words, pent up for so long, came pouring out of you in a frantic, disjointed torrent, a chaotic jumble of fragmented memories and desperate pleas for understanding, a confession so unbelievable it sounded like the ravings of a madwoman, even to your own ears.

"I'm from the future," you blurted out, the words hanging in the air, heavy with the impossible, unbelievable truth, a statement so outlandish it felt like a physical weight pressing down on the already tense silence.

His expression morphed through a rapid succession of emotions – initial confusion, followed by a dawning disbelief that widened his eyes, a flicker of genuine, worried concern for your sanity, and finally, utter, unadulterated bewilderment that settled into a stunned, almost comical disbelief. He recoiled slightly, pulling his hand back as if you had physically struck him, his body language radiating a mixture of shock, alarm, and utter incomprehension.

"What the… what are you talking about?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes wide and searching, desperately trying to find some semblance of logic, some familiar anchor, in your bizarre pronouncement. "The… the future? Like, flying cars and stuff?" A nervous laugh escaped his lips, a clear indication of his utter disorientation.

And so you told him everything. The words tumbled out of you in a desperate, chaotic rush, a jumble of fragmented memories and frantic pleas for understanding. You told him about forgetting his birthday, the stupid, meaningless fight that had been the catalyst for so much pain and regret, his death on October 19th in a senseless, random accident, the decade of crushing grief and the hollow ache that had become a permanent, unwelcome resident in your heart, the years spent haunted by the ghost of what might have been. You spoke of a future he couldn't possibly imagine, a world irrevocably shaped by his absence, a world where you had grown into a shadow of your former self, forever marked by the indelible scar of his loss.

Chan listened in stunned, absolute silence, his initial shock slowly giving way to a pensive, thoughtful quiet that was unsettling in its intensity. He didn't interrupt, didn't dismiss your unbelievable claims as the ramblings of a lunatic, didn't try to offer a logical explanation for the impossible reality you were describing. He simply listened, his gaze fixed intently on your face, his expression a complex, unreadable mixture of disbelief, dawning concern, and a flicker of something akin to morbid curiosity.

When you finally fell silent, exhausted and emotionally drained, the weight of your confession hanging heavy in the air, the only sound in the room was the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing, punctuated by the occasional hiccuping sob that still wracked your body. Several long, agonizing moments passed, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken questions and the immense, almost unbearable weight of the unbelievable truth.

"Were you… were you okay in 2025?" he finally asked, his voice soft, barely above a whisper, the simple question cutting through the tangled web of your frantic confession, striking directly at the raw, exposed nerve of your pain.

You shook your head, unable to meet his gaze, the memories of your grief-stricken future too raw, too vivid to articulate. The image of his mother's tear-streaked face at his funeral, the empty chair at countless family dinners, the milestones he had missed, the dreams he would never fulfill, the constant, gnawing absence that had permeated every aspect of your life – all of it flooded back, a tidal wave of sorrow threatening to drown you in its crushing depths.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a strange, unsettling mixture of disbelief, profound concern, and a dawning, heartbreaking empathy that mirrored the pain etched on your face. "But… you did wish me happy birthday," he said, his brow furrowed in deep confusion, his voice laced with a hesitant uncertainty. "You were here that morning. You even… you hugged me really tight. You were acting… really weird, but you were here. And you said… you said 'happy 18th, idiot.' "

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat, thick with unshed tears. "I… I think I changed something. By being here, by remembering, by… by hugging you like that, maybe I altered the immediate course of events, at least a little. But on October 19th, 2015… you and another classmate… you were both killed. That means… the killer will still be out there. He'll still try to hurt him." The chilling realization hit you then with renewed force, the terrifying implication of your presence in the past. You might have altered the immediate circumstances of his birthday, but the underlying threat, the darkness that had claimed him, still lurked, unseen but undeniably present.

"We have to save him," Chan said, his voice suddenly firm, resolute, the easygoing, sometimes goofy demeanor of the past two weeks replaced by a steely determination that mirrored the gravity of your words.

"No!" The refusal was instinctive, visceral, a primal scream of protest against the very idea of putting him in harm's way again, of risking the fragile second chance you had somehow been granted. "No, Chan! I can't lose you again. I won't. I can't go through that again. I can't bear it." Your voice broke, raw with unspeakable pain, the dam of your carefully controlled emotions finally shattering, tears streaming freely down your face.

He reached out, his strong hands gently cupping your face, his warm thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that streamed down your cheeks, his gaze intense and unwavering, locking onto yours with a fierce protectiveness. "You won't lose me, Y/n," he said, his voice low and steady, a soothing balm to your raw, exposed fear. "We'll warn him. We'll be careful. We'll figure this out, together. I won't let what happened in your… future… happen here. I promise you."

Skepticism gnawed at you, a bitter, insidious voice of doubt whispering in the back of your mind. The thought of risking his life again, of deliberately putting him in the path of a potential killer, even with the fragmented knowledge you possessed, sent a shiver of icy dread down your spine. "No… please, Chan. I can't…" you pleaded, your voice breaking, the tears flowing freely now, hot and desperate. "If I lose you again, I don't know if I can survive it. I won't forgive myself. Ever."

He stroked your hair, a comforting, familiar gesture he had used to soothe your childhood tears. "It won't happen, Y/n," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, filled with a conviction that wavered slightly but ultimately held firm. "I promise you. We're going to fix this. We're going to change things. We have to. Who was it? Who else died?" His question was sharp, direct, cutting through your fear with a sudden urgency.

You hesitated, the name a bitter taste on your tongue. "His name was… Minho. Lee Felix."

Chan's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "Felix? I know Felix. He's… in our English class. What… what happened to him?"

The reality of involving another innocent person in this terrifying situation hit you with the force of a physical blow. "He… he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," you whispered, the words heavy with the weight of the future. "We have to warn him, Chan. We have to try."

He nodded, his initial disbelief seemingly replaced by a grim determination. "Okay," he said, his voice firm. "Okay, we warn Felix. And we go to the police. We tell them… what you told me."

Fear coiled in your stomach. "They won't believe us, Chan. I sound crazy."

"Maybe," he conceded, his grip on your hands tightening. "But we have to try. We have to do something. We can't just… wait for it to happen." He looked at you, his eyes filled with a fierce, unwavering resolve. "We're in this together, right?"

You looked back at him, at the determined set of his jaw, the unwavering light in his eyes, and a fragile seed of hope began to bloom in the desolate landscape of your fear. "Right," you whispered, your voice hoarse but firm. "Together."

October 19th, 2015. The date had hung over the past two weeks like a guillotine blade suspended by a fraying thread, each tick of the clock an agonizing countdown to a tragedy etched in the deepest recesses of your memory, a memory that felt both intensely real and impossibly distant.

Now, however, a sliver of fragile hope pierced the suffocating darkness, a desperate gamble on a different outcome, fueled by the unwavering, if slightly bewildered, presence of the boy beside you, his nervous energy a tangible comfort in the face of the unknown. The air in the sterile police waiting room of the Sydney station was thick with a nervous tension that mirrored the frantic, erratic beat of your own heart.

Beside you, Chan fidgeted, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a tight-lipped unease, his hand occasionally brushing yours, a silent reassurance in the face of official skepticism that felt as thick as the humid Sydney air outside.

Your carefully rehearsed story, a bizarre tapestry woven from future knowledge and desperate warnings, had landed with the thud of utter incredulity. The officers, their expressions a carefully constructed mask of polite concern, had exchanged weary glances, their questions probing yet laced with a subtle condescension, treating you both like well-meaning teenagers caught in the throes of an overactive imagination, their words a gentle dismissal waiting to be uttered, a dismissal that would seal a fate you desperately sought to avoid.

Just as Inspector Smith, a burly man with a skeptical glint in his eye and a sigh already forming on his lips, leaned forward, about to deliver the final, dismissive blow – something along the lines of needing to focus on your upcoming exams and perhaps lay off the late-night internet conspiracy theories – a sudden, bloodcurdling yell ripped through the otherwise quiet hum of the station, a sound that echoed off the linoleum floors and sent a flock of pigeons fluttering nervously outside the window.

It was a raw, desperate cry for help, a sound that clawed at the silence and sent a shard of ice straight through your veins, a sound that chillingly mirrored the phantom screams that had haunted your sleep for years. Felix. The name screamed in your mind, a horrifying echo of the future you desperately sought to erase, a future where that cry had gone unanswered, swallowed by the indifference of a world that moved on.

Instinct, sharper and more primal than any conscious thought, took over. You and Chan locked eyes, a silent, terrified understanding passing between you, a shared jolt of adrenaline surging through your veins, overriding the polite constraints of the situation.

His hand found yours, his grip surprisingly firm, a silent promise of solidarity in the face of the unknown, a tangible anchor in the swirling vortex of your fear. You both surged to your feet, propelled by a shared, desperate urgency that overrode the bewildered shouts of the officers. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Inspector Smith called out, his voice laced with annoyance and a hint of authority. You ignored him, bursting through the waiting room doors and into the chaotic scene unfolding in the dimly lit hallway. There, struggling violently with a smaller, clearly petrified figure – Felix, his face contorted in a mask of sheer terror, his eyes wide with a desperate plea that mirrored your own silent scream – was a man whose face, though partially obscured in the frantic struggle, sent a jolt of sickening recognition through you. The killer. His eyes, even in that brief, horrifying glimpse, held a chilling emptiness, a void that spoke of a darkness that had haunted your nightmares for a decade, a darkness you now knew was terrifyingly real, a darkness that had almost extinguished the brightest light in your life.

Chaos erupted. The initially dismissive officers sprang into immediate, albeit belated, action. Shouts of "Police! Freeze!" filled the air as they converged on the struggling figures. You and Chan instinctively recoiled, pressed against the cool, unforgiving tile of the wall, his hand never leaving yours, watching the terrifying tableau unfold, your breath caught in your throats, your hearts pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs.

The scene unfolded in a horrifyingly compressed moment – the glint of a long, slender blade flashing in the harsh fluorescent light, Felix's choked cries for help, the guttural snarl of the attacker, the sudden surge of uniformed officers, the shouted commands, the swift, brutal takedown. The attacker, subdued and cuffed, his face a mask of thwarted rage and chillingly cold fury, was dragged away, his eyes briefly locking with yours, a flicker of something dark and knowing passing between you that sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated fear down your spine, a silent threat that lingered in the air long after he was gone.

Felix, visibly shaken and bleeding from a nasty gash on his arm, was being attended to by paramedics, his sobs echoing in the sudden, relative quiet, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the thin line between existence and oblivion. "Oh my god," Chan whispered, his grip tightening on your hand, his face pale and etched with shock. "Did… did that just happen? We… no…you were right."

A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled your knees, washed over you, leaving you weak and trembling, Chan's steadying grip on your hand the only thing keeping you upright. He was alive. They were both alive. You and Chan stood there, unnoticed in the lingering commotion, your hands clasped tightly together, a silent, terrified testament to the impossible victory you had just witnessed, a victory that felt fragile and terrifyingly close to utter devastation. "We… we were right," you choked out, tears welling in your eyes, your voice trembling. "They almost didn't believe us. If we hadn't… if we hadn't come…"

Later that evening, back in the familiar, comforting chaos of Chan's bedroom, the air still thick with the unspoken trauma of what you had witnessed, the scent of his familiar Axe body spray a small comfort in the lingering fear, after a quick, shaky text to your parents about a familiar last-minute sleepover, you closed the door, the immense weight of the past two weeks, the crushing fear and desperate hope, finally beginning to lift, replaced by a shaky, fragile sense of… survival, and the profound relief of being safe, together.

You turned to Chan, your legs feeling like jelly, and without a word, collapsed into his arms, clinging to him with a fierce, desperate gratitude that words could never truly express. He held you tightly, his own relief palpable in the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your ear, his strong arms a much-needed anchor in the still-stormy sea of your emotions, his presence a tangible reassurance that the nightmare was, for now, over.

Then, with a triumphant grin that didn't quite reach his still-wide eyes, a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration flickering across his face, he spun you around, a dizzying arc of pure, unadulterated joy tinged with the lingering shadow of terror. "We survived," he exclaimed, his voice a shaky mixture of relief and lingering fear, his embrace tightening around you. "We actually survived. You… you saved us. Both of us."

As he gently set you back down, his hands lingering on your waist, his gaze locked with yours, and the raw, unspoken emotions of the past weeks – the shared terror, the desperate hope, the impossible bond that had formed between you in this bizarre, terrifying twist of time – surged to the surface, demanding release.

Without conscious thought, you reached out, your hands cupping his still-pale face, your thumbs tracing the sharp angle of his jaw, the warmth of his skin a comforting contrast to the lingering chill of fear, and pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn't the tentative exploration of teenage affection, but a desperate, clinging embrace, a kiss filled with years of unspoken emotions, of shared grief that now held the shimmering promise of being unlived, of a fierce, protective love forged in the crucible of an unimaginable experience.

It was a kiss that spoke of survival, of gratitude, and of a connection that had defied the very laws of time and fate. "Thank you," you whispered against his lips, tears pricking at your eyes. "Thank you for believing me. Even when it sounded completely insane."

He kissed you back, a tender, lingering touch that spoke volumes of the bond you now shared, then pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his eyes filled with a warmth that slowly began to melt away the last vestiges of your paralyzing fear. "Hey," he murmured, his voice soft and slightly husky, a hint of his usual teasing tone returning, a small sign that the easygoing Chan was still there beneath the surface of the trauma.

"You're worth believing, even if you are a crazy time traveler." He pulled you close again, burying his face in your hair, his arms a comforting cage around you. "Just… don't ever scare me like that again. Promise me. And… what exactly is the future like? Do we get flying cars?"

"No flying cars, idiot," you whispered, clinging to him, the scent of his familiar Axe body spray a sudden wave of comfort. "But we… we have some pretty amazing things. And I promise," you pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, your own filled with a love that transcended time itself. "Never again. Not if I can help it."

-- {Currently: 2025}

The decade that followed unfolded in a beautiful, unexpected way, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring, almost magical power of a love that had somehow defied the very laws of time. You still couldn't fully explain the shift, the bizarre, inexplicable jump in time.

Was it a dream? A glimpse into a possible future that you had somehow managed to violently alter? A genuine, improbable tear in the very fabric of reality? You tucked the unanswered, and frankly terrifying, questions away, choosing instead to embrace the precious, tangible reality you now shared, a reality where he was alive and by your side, a constant reminder of the impossible second chance you had been given.

Last summer, surrounded by your loved ones, you and Chan stood before them, exchanging vows, a profound testament to a love that had somehow transcended the boundaries of time itself, a love forged in fear and tempered by an impossible victory.

Career success followed, individual dreams intertwining to create a shared, vibrant life, a life filled with laughter, unwavering support, and an enduring affection that had been forged in the crucible of an unimaginable experience. You were, by all accounts, an amazing couple, a testament to resilience and the extraordinary, time-crossed bond you shared.

Tonight was your first wedding anniversary.

The soft click of the apartment door turning was a familiar, comforting melody, a sound that always heralded the arrival of your best friend, your confidant, the enduring love of your life. You stood in the kitchen of your Sydney apartment, the last meticulous touches of your anniversary ensemble – a flowing emerald silk dress that shimmered like captured moonlight in the soft, strategically placed lighting – finally complete.

A delicate silver necklace, a cherished gift from Chan on your first anniversary in this precious, reclaimed timeline, nestled perfectly against your collarbone, catching the subtle gleam. Your attention was momentarily stolen by the illuminated screen of your phone, a quick scroll through a cascade of congratulatory messages from friends and family scattered across various time zones, their warm wishes a tangible reminder of the beautiful life you had painstakingly built, brick by improbable brick.

Suddenly, a familiar warmth enveloped you from behind, a solid, comforting presence molding against your back, the familiar contours of his body a silent language you knew by heart. Strong arms, toned from years of early morning runs along the tree-lined avenues of Sydney and impromptu, playful wrestling matches in the living room that often ended in fits of laughter, wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you close until you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your spine.

A soft, lingering kiss, filled with the quiet intimacy of years spent side-by-side, landed on the sensitive curve of your neck, sending a pleasant shiver dancing down your spine. You leaned back into the embrace, a contented sigh escaping your lips, a smile already blooming, knowing without even a glance who it was. The familiar, comforting scent of his signature sandalwood cologne, a fragrance that had become inextricably linked with the feeling of home, filled your senses, a subtle reminder of the man who held your past, present, and future in his capable hands.

Chan turned you gently to face him, and even after a decade of shared mornings and whispered goodnights, your breath still hitched, a testament to the enduring power of your attraction. In his hands, held with a careful tenderness that belied his often-teasing nature, was a breathtaking bouquet – a magnificent explosion of one hundred dark red roses, their velvety petals unfurling like secrets whispered in the twilight, their rich, intoxicating fragrance filling the air with a heady sweetness that spoke of passion and enduring love.

He gently guided you to sit on the edge of the cool, sleek granite countertop, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he stepped between your legs, his tie slightly askew, a hint of the day’s work still clinging to him in the faint lines etched around his expressive eyes, a reminder of the dedicated architect he had become.

You giggled, reaching out to straighten his slightly crooked silk tie, your fingers lingering on the smooth fabric, enjoying the familiar texture, the subtle warmth radiating from his chest beneath his crisp white dress shirt. “You’ve certainly gotten buff over a decade, Mr. Bahng,” you murmured, your eyes tracing the familiar, well-defined contours of his arms beneath the impeccably tailored sleeves, a silent appreciation for the man who had grown alongside you, his strength both physical and emotional a constant source of comfort.

You leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck, deliberately leaving a smudge of your favorite ruby lipstick behind, a playful mark of your unwavering affection.

He smiled, a warmth that always melted the carefully constructed walls around your heart radiating from his eyes, a warmth that spoke of shared laughter and quiet understanding, of a love that had weathered a storm most could never imagine.

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment, a silent promise of forever etched in that gentle touch, before he carefully handed you the magnificent bouquet. The sheer extravagance of it made your heart flutter with a joy that was both familiar and wonderfully new.

You set it aside on the counter, its deep, passionate red a stark and beautiful contrast to the cool, pale stone, your eyes filled with a love that deepened with each passing year, each shared sunrise and sunset in this precious, reclaimed timeline. “You didn’t have to,” you said softly, your voice thick with a tenderness that always surprised you with its depth, a love that had blossomed against the odds.

You reached out, cupping his beloved face in your hands, your thumbs gently stroking the familiar angles of his cheekbones, the slight stubble a comforting roughness beneath your touch, a reminder of the man who was both your anchor and your wings. “You are my pride, my strength, my everything, Chan.” The words were simple, heartfelt, a testament to the enduring bond you had forged through time and adversity, a bond that had been tested by the impossible and emerged stronger than ever.

His grin widened, a flash of the mischievous boy you had first fallen for in a chaotic high school hallway, that spark of playful rebellion still flickering in his eyes, seamlessly blending with the confident, loving man he had become, a man who held your heart in the palm of his hand.

“I wanted to,” he said, his voice low and husky, sending a familiar thrill dancing along your nerve endings, a promise of the intimacy you shared. He leaned in, his lips finding yours in a tender kiss that deepened with a shared history, a kiss that tasted of whispered secrets and the comfortable silence of shared dreams, a kiss that held the promise of countless more anniversaries to come, each one a precious milestone in your improbable journey.

Then, before you could fully savor the quiet intimacy of the moment, the kitchen suddenly charged with his playful energy, a familiar glint in his eyes that always heralded mischief. He swept you up in his arms with surprising ease, a familiar strength that always made you feel safe and cherished, throwing you playfully over his shoulder. You gasped, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as the world turned upside down, your flowing emerald dress swirling around you like a vibrant cloud. “Chan! What in the world are you doing?” you exclaimed, your voice a mixture of mock indignation and genuine amusement, the familiar banter a cornerstone of your enduring relationship.

His voice, muffled slightly by the fabric of your dress, was filled with playful mischief, a familiar spark in his tone that always made your heart skip a beat. “I think our dinner date can start in the bedroom, sunshine. I’ve waited all day to have you all to myself. Besides,” he added with a chuckle, a playful squeeze to your backside that made you giggle, “I have a feeling those roses look even more spectacular scattered across our bed, don’t you think?”

The End

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