#who needs plans those are boring

[broke-on-books]

One thing I often find irritating and unnecessary is the format of story ending where you have a timeskip epilogue especially & specifically when it comes following a really long story with a proceeding chapter that ends with hope for the future and hints on what steps the major characters want to take next. And then cue the unnecessary timeskip epilogue! Like just ugh when is that ever necessary. It scores emotional points sometimes of course but often those just feel cheap too, especially when compared to the open "the future is bright and i get to choose my next steps" ending. Like that IS the happy ending right there. You don't need to skip 3 or 5 or 10 years to show the characters having happy families and remembering the past or something. By doing that you necessarily have to choose where everyone ends up in XYZ years, even if it follows the directions laid out before it always takes the oomph out of the choice ending for me. Like the bonus of the choice ending is that they don't have to be characters anymore in the central conflict but instead get to be as close to actual people as they can be and the timeskip epilogue just ruins that effect. It also doesn't help that it's often such a slog to get though, especially if the chapter itself is long or comes at the end of a long saga. Like then you get bored I just want it to be DONE!!! who cares what ship A names their future child I literally don't gaf and even if I do and its reminiscent somehow I care more about the whole cast having the freedom to more forward into a better future after the main conflict than I do about whatever that future may actually entail in the mind of the author

[chainsawworld]

Thinking about jason my friend jason I fucking love this guy he is just completely unstoppable when he decides to be my guy knows what he wants to do and he does it. Respect.

[elegyofthemoon]

IF YOU COULD be at any airport in the world rn which one

the bangkok one i wanna go home but also to look at this cool statue :)

[lakesandquarries]

i could make one of those cute interactive threads on twitter just with stuff from my own life and the thought is making me feel really good about myself lol

[teaboot]

Yeah Mr. Darcy’s proposal was a complete turd and a half but you gotta understand. You got your life together. A good career, stable income, retirement plan, all that shit together. And you meet this girl. And she’s everything. Clever, outspoken, funny, calls you on your bullshit. Grade A cutie, right? And she doesn’t go out of her way to spend time with you but she’s nice, and sometimes you catch her looking your way in a way that makes you think you might have a shot.

But her family. Holy shit.

First off, it’s p much ALL women, and mostly UNMARRIED women, which at this time means of something happens to her dad then you’re financially responsible for like. Four grown ass adults, potentially forever

Because mom in law is DEFINITELY gonna need someone to take care of her when dad in law kicks it, and they have like. NO money. So already you’re accepting that if all goes well, you’re gonna be one random old bag’s retirement home. That’s expensive and exhausting, yeah? Imagine asking someone on a first date knowing that if they say yes and things go good her high-strung chihuahua mother is gonna move in with you. IMAGINE.

And girly’s other sisters. Well, one is a sweetheart, yeah, so she probably won’t be an issue, but that still leaves three more, and two of those ones are INSUFFERABLE. Never went to school, dumb as rocks, spend cash like it’s toilet paper

And while one of the two is young still and might grow out of it the OTHER one is actively torpedo’ing her entire family’s reputation by wandering off with random dudes and chasing ass. She’s never gonna work, she can’t build connections, she’s a fucking sinkhole, and she’s being led on by the same goddamn con man ass leeching tit who’s been bleeding you dry while telling anyone who’ll listen that your family is full of ratty thieving bastards.

And if he dumps her after a week- WHICH YOU KNOW HIS BITCH ASS IS GONNA- you’ve got a SECOND UNMARRIABLE GROWN ASS ADULT TO PROVIDE FOR. And you KNOW she’s gonna be a tantrum-throwing little shit about it, and it’s not like you can lock her in the basement or something, you’re gonna have to bring her fucking. Everywhere. And give her an allowance and shit while she contributes zero, because again, she NEVER GOT EDUCATED AND HAS NO MARKETABLE SKILLS. She’s not even good to TALK to. FUCK

And you’re looking at this girl’s father like “please for the love of fuck get your spawn under control, marry them off, get them working on their résumé, learning to sew or be nursemaids or manage staff or SOMETHING, yall got no money and one foot in the grave” and that old man just laughs like “haha yeah, what can you do. lol”

So you’re looking to the mom and finally it’s making sense how she got that twitch in her eye and as MUCH as she is you’re starting to realize she’s the SMART one, desperately throwing her armloads of girls at random men like they’re a bunch of fucking lifeboats bobbing around a sinking ship, like yes Jesus Christ sweetly that life boat IS old and ugly and kind of boring but for FUCKS SAKE PICK ONE

And you look back at this girl who is ALSO REFUSING THE LIFE BOATS BY THE WAY and god damn it she’s still the most radiant thing you’ve ever seen so fine, fuck it, Christ alive, you’ll do it. You’ll shoot your shot. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted in anybody abut it’s not even just about that anymore, it’s about being her best fucking shot at a future, and even if she doesn’t like you all that much she’s still gonna say yes and that might break your heart a bit knowing it’s about the money but who knows, maybe it will at least be civil, or companionable, and even if she doesn’t LOVE you at least you’ll know she’s well and cared for

And so you’ll do it. You’ll take on the neurotic stress mess mother in law, the absent father, the broke ass wingnut no brain no money no future airhead sisters, the bad mannered relatives and the embarrassing behaviour and the impending future of sharing your entire shit with a clown parade of freeloaders, you’ll risk it all and accept the absolute certainty of financial ruin and emotional exhaustion for the rest of your whole ass life and you’ll make your own family deal with it too, you’ll do it, you’ll fucking DO IT, you stupid lovesick motherfucker

And so you go to this chick like “look. Your whole family’s a shitshow. You’ve got fucking nothing and you’re gonna die on the street. But for some reason- and I don’t get it either- I’ve fallen in love with you, and I wish I didn’t, but I did, so I’m telling you that whether you like me or not, I’ll give you everything. I’ll give you everything even if it’s the dumbest shit I ever done. Fuck my stupid Baka ass, I’ll marry you.”

And she looks at you- having heard or considered absolutely none of your months-long internal debate and monologue- and goes “The fuck did you just say about my family, you son of a bitch?”

And the shock of that is enough to jolt you back into a reality where you are able to actually hear and process what just came out of your damn mouth And yeah

Yeah, I think I kinda get it

[writeblrfantasy]

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)

[asiatic-apple]

If there’s one thing Caleb is loud and passionate about, it’s his absolute hatred for anyone who uses the term “granny panties” like it’s some kind of insult. Especially if it’s to mock the idea of plain, comfy underwear in any cut or style that isn’t the small scrap of a thong.

He already grimaces every time he hears his fellow uni classmates indulging in disgusting locker room talk, but one day, he overhears some asshole talking way too loud about how his girlfriend didn’t wear anything “sexy” the first time they got intimate.

And the second the words “granny panties” come out of that idiot’s mouth, Caleb is marching over, looking pissed and ready to educate the group of boys snickering in the corner.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” he asks, voice sharp and unimpressed.

Caleb absolutely towers over every guy there, but even if he didn’t, the dark look on his face would be enough to shut them up. Still, the only one dumb enough to keep running his mouth is the guy who started it all. Caleb doesn’t even try to hide the way he rolls his eyes when the guy makes another half-assed joke about his girlfriend showing up in “ugly” panties.

This isn’t just a pet peeve for Caleb. It’s a hill he’s fully prepared to die on.

First, he has to rein in his annoyance that there are actually people out there who don’t appreciate a good pair of cotton underwear. Like, seriously? Do these bozos really need lace and frills to find a woman attractive? Just because the wrapping isn’t flashy doesn’t mean the present underneath is any less sweet.

He’s this close to banging his head against the lockers as he launches into a full-blown rant. And yeah, it turns into a thing. He’s breaking down the myth that any underwear that isn’t deemed “sexy” somehow counts as “granny.” Comfort doesn’t mean boring, and high-rise doesn’t mean unsexy.

His voice is gaining volume and causing heads to turn in concern as he’s citing studies, talking about vaginal health, explaining why breathable cotton is literally recommended—by doctors, no less. He’s throwing out terms like “moisture-wicking” and “pH balance” while giving these losers the dirtiest look imaginable.

And the other guys? They're just standing there, blinking at him like he’s grown two heads. Caleb couldn’t care less if they thought he was clinically insane. He stood by every damn word.

He’s fuming, practically vibrating, steam probably spewing from his ears. Because how the hell are these guys lucky enough to be inches away from a pair of soft, comfy, cute panties and not get immediately overwhelmed with the desire to bury their face in them out of sheer appreciation?

Once he’s finally done with his rant (he’ll swear up and down he changed at least one life that day, even if those idiots are a lost cause in reality), all he can think about is you. You and your cute, comfy underwear that he used to steal straight from your hamper like some kind of perverted pack rat.

It didn’t matter what kind you wore. Whether it was a lacy thong, high-waisted briefs, plain cotton, or something silky—he cherished every single pair because they were yours. Because they had the privilege of sitting nice and pretty on your hips, pressed just right against your perfect pussy (he hasn’t seen you like that yet, but god, the mental image alone could ruin him).

And later, when he’s alone in his dorm and thinking about you a little too hard, he actually tears up a bit. Just sits there, clutching one of your forgotten panties like it’s some sacred relic from a past life, missing you so much it physically hurts. Imagining the day he’ll get to prove every dumbass like that one in the locker room dead wrong—and prove himself right.

He’s already making a plan while sniffling through his tears and gently petting the soft cotton in his hands. When he finally returns to Linkon to see you again, he’s going to remind himself—very thoroughly—why any and all panties are holy. And why he’ll defend them to his dying breath.

[goyardgoyangi]

how street racer! sukuna curbs his road rage

You hear about the ticket before he even tells you.

Something about Sukuna yelling at a traffic officer after nearly sideswiping a sedan and cutting through two lanes without signaling. Classic. The guy’s a menace behind the wheel — fast, reckless, and pissed off 90% of the time.

He doesn’t tell you until a few days later, when you’re over at his place and he casually drops, “Got sent to court-mandated therapy.”

You look up from your phone. “Because of the ticket?”

He shrugs. “Road rage, technically.”

“Jesus, Sukuna. You threatened a cop.”

“Yeah, well. He looked stupid.”

You don’t push it. You know he’s got a short fuse — especially behind the wheel. And you’ve been in that passenger seat long enough to know he doesn’t exactly drive — he dominates.

But later, when you’re both in the car, he mentions it like it’s nothing. Like he’s telling you the weather.

“My therapist said I need a calming visual in the car,” he says, eyes on the road, voice bored.

You don’t think he’ll actually do it — take advice from a therapist, let alone that kind of advice. Not him. Not the guy who thinks calming down is for losers and once told you meditation was “just closing your eyes and lying to yourself.”

So you let it go.

But then, a few nights later during a grocery run — you're craving pad thai, planning to make it just so you can plate it on the vintage dish set he bought you during your last date, the one with the chipped gold trim you’d fawned over at the thrift market — you're wandering past the toy aisle when you say, “God, I love when guys have stupid little trinkets in their cars. It’s dumb, but so cute.”

You’re not even talking about him.

But Sukuna files it away like it’s scripture.

Later that week, when he’s alone and trying to be subtle about caring too much, he scours resell sites until he finds the exact two he wants. Doesn’t bother with the blind boxes — he doesn’t trust chance. Wants what he wants.

The bunny one reminds him of you — all soft eyes and twitchy moods, always flinching when he teases, always curling into him like a sleepy little thing once he’s fucked the fight out of you. You doze off in the passenger seat after, cheeks warm, head bobbing like a bunny nuzzling in for comfort while he drives to pick up your favorite post-sex takeout.

The peach? That one’s his favorite — a subtle reminder of what he likes to see when he’s behind you. The curve of your hips, the way you move when you’re lost in the moment.

He pays the ridiculous resale price and doesn’t even flinch. Rips the adhesive tabs from their packaging and sticks both to the back of his rearview mirror — one on each side — so they’re always in view when he drives.

A stupid little bunny.

A stupid little peach.

Both staring at him with plastic smiles.

You notice immediately, of course.

“You trying to copy me or what?” you tease, shoving your phone case with a cherry sonny angel. “Seriously though, why the hell do you have those?”

“They’re just there,” he mutters, tapping the wheel like it’s no big deal. “Came in a set or something.”

Sukuna isn’t the sentimental type. Not openly.

You narrow your eyes. “Sonny angels come in blind boxes. You sure these came together?”

He doesn’t say a word.

You lean in closer with a pout. “Kuna, did you paid resale prices? I thought you said my sonny angels were stupid.”

“They’re not stupid,” he snaps, before catching himself. “I mean. You said they were cute.”

You blink.

He won’t look at you, won’t explain more. But when you ask again, just to annoy him, he grumbles something about how you’re cute like a bunny and your ass looks like a peach and his therapist can go fuck herself but maybe she was onto something.

You nearly die laughing.

[girl-lostconnection]

Concept of a concept time:

Reader who goes through the whole relationship with Ghoap or the whole 141 believing that they would always come second place, because of course Simon would burn the world down if Soap was taken out of it. Of course, Price would do everything and anything to save Simon. Of course, Simon would turn into monster if it meant keeping his family safe, keeping his TaskForce safe.

Of course, Kyle would go mad with grief if he was to lose Johnny. Of course, Kyle would become a shell of himself if he lost Price.

Of course they would all shatter without each other alive and well. It was obvious. It was a fact.

Reader who sees it and places themselves on the outside of it, because these men were already something before they came along. These men were already tight knit and close to each other.

These men were already family when Reader got dropped into their laps. It’s only natural they don’t really slot fully. There’s just no more space.

Reader who takes every bit and crumb of an affection they are given. Reader who gives away everything. All of them. Every kiss and confession, every hug, every bit of love and care they have. They give it all, because yeah, maybe they will never be a part of these 4. But they can be near and maybe…maybe that’s enough?

Reader, who dies. Not instead of Soap, not instead of anyone. They just don’t come back from the job one day, their foot locker was supposed to be shipped out to the family. But there is no family.

So 141 takes it. Who, if not them, right?

Reader, who dies and haunts the narrative from that point on. Reader who leaves a hole the size of a person and no one can fill it. It’s impossible.

Reader, whose warmth was seeping through them all for so long, the absence of it feels like a whiplash. The absence of it feels in their bones and it’s cold-cold-cold now. Their hearth dies and there is nothing to do about it but keep going.

Soldiers die every day, this one shouldn’t have been special. But they were.

Kyle who takes their personal things before someone else can come and toss them out, sleeping with their T-shirts and hoodies. Part of him dies with Reader. Part of him is getting buried with them. He’s sitting at their funeral until Price leads him away.

Simon who takes their photos and books, hiding them, keeping them safe. He needs to have it, because memory is traitorous and one day he might not be able to put a face to the name and he’s terrified of it to the point of feeling sick.

Soap who takes mementoes — keychains and magnets from all of the deployments, he takes every knick knack they found in the foot locker and Reader’s room, he stores them next to his. There are new keychains on every set of his keys. He’s fumbling with them every time he feels like there’s knot in his throat and he can’t speak.

Price gets the notebooks. Just a few of those were in a footlocker, filled with scribbles and meal plans and random quotes and games Reader played with Kyle during boring briefings. But it feels like them. It smells like them. Reader never wrote a consistent diary, too little time and too much going on, but they notated the places and times and that Soap coughs like a sick Victorian child and that Kyle has the most perfect beauty marks on his thighs and that Price sneezes like dad and that Simon sleeps with lamp on.

It is everything there was of them. Everything there’s left of their love and John isn’t sure he’d be able to part with it. It isn’t fair that it happened like that. It isn’t fair that he feels like destroying his whole office when he reads the “im not sure i fit in. on the bright side I reckon if something was to happen to me, no one would mourn too long. they have each other, I should be happy it is like that. I should be grateful” because it’s not fair-not fair-not fair-not fair.

John doesn’t show these diaries to anyone. John guards them like his most prized possession, reading it over and over because you, silly perfect thing, why haven’t you said anything. Why haven’t they noticed anything.

John doesn’t show it to anyone because he’s not sure if they won’t crumble under the notion. He’s not sure they won’t shatter when the rest find out that Reader died thinking they weren’t part of the family.

John sobs so hard, bile rises to his throat, world swimming in his eyes and it hurts, and he’s so fucking angry and it’s so unfair. Because it’s not true, because of course you were part of them, of course you matter, of course they mourn.

Because you die never finding out how much you were loved. Because there’s nothing he can do.

And it’s not fair.

Continuation

[ybklix]

𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫

✧summary: what if he’s actually watching... rather, reading? ✩ pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

★ genre: smut ⭒˚˖➴warnings: masturbation, daddy kink, oral sex (m. rec), deepthoat, fingering, clitplay, corruption kink, pet names, praise, unprotected sex, creampie. ₊˚⊹☆ word count: ≈8.4k

masterlist ⭒ taglist

small letters are the “fic” !!!

wen’s note: i was working on this silly fic! it sounded good at the moment idk. i hope it doesnt get confusing, i have another fic idea a little bit like this heh; yes im preparing wicked games lmao, i kinda got stuck, my bad

Another day off for Chan. It was the day he was supposedly free, just before an important concert the next day. It was his time to relax. He had eaten a good meal and was now enjoying the comfort of his hotel room alone, as he often did, lying on his bed.

And suddenly, a message. The photos for his next Instagram post had been approved. He could now upload them. They had even taken the trouble to edit them and blur the faces of people who could be seen in the distance, as the photos were taken in a public space. Although the staff in the message recommended that he do it in a couple of hours—since it was a decent hour in Korea, as he was overseas on his much-appreciated world tour.

Chan reviewed the photos. He had sent many, but he only planned to select the best ones. For a moment, he wondered how strange it was to still need to ask permission for simple things like using his social media, but he didn’t blame them. He was too lazy to censor people, so he would send them to the staff to handle, and in the end, he would apply his favorite filter.

He was about to upload the photos, but he got distracted on Instagram for a good 15 minutes and sighed. He had nothing else to do, so, bored, he opened the Bubble app. At least there they didn’t monitor when he sent messages or what he said—although he was extremely intelligent and a fully capable adult, he wasn't going to say anything stupid that would get him into trouble—although they did monitor the time he spent without sending messages, and every time he seemed to forget, his staff reminded him that he had to maintain his image and consider his fans and, above all, make them happy. So, he relieved his boredom a little by sending messages, saying he was about to update his Instagram, teasing his fans, laughing at the few reactions he could see from time to time on X.

Tweets like: chan is going to update his instaa, he just said that on bbl

Chan smiled and continued, typing:

Wait, maybe I’ll give you first some pics that didn’t make it to insta hahaha You wanna see? Exclusive photos for STAY

But he thought that teasing his fans and making them wait would be a little fun, so he watched a few videos on YouTube and, after 30 minutes, returned to the app for his fans. He sent two photos.

Mirror selfies. Wearing black shorts, a white sleeveless shirt, fitted to his body, his thin chain falling across his chest, and a Fendi cap. He perfectly showed off his strong, toned arms and his chunky bracelets. Chan knew they would love the photos... that’s why he did it, but after a few seconds, he regretted it and felt a little embarrassed.

The first photo was in a bathroom. The second was in front of a large mirror in a hotel room, one of the many he has stayed in throughout his tour.

Those are the pics They’re a little... weird? Don’t you think? Like mirror selfies maybe are not for Instagram posts. Or maybe you can teach me how to use Instagram haha😅 I’ve seen STAY Instagram pics for the tour, you really know how to pose Oh, yes, I’m watching

He had been sending photos for days. Photos in the mirror, spreading his legs, showing off his arms with their prominent veins, simply keeping his fans happy with exactly what he knew they loved about him. He wasn’t stupid.

Chan locked his phone, took a shower, and got ready for bed. Tomorrow was going to be a busy and very important day. So, to help him fall asleep, once he was in bed, he decided to check TikTok for a moment, and after a few minutes, a video caught his attention for some reason. The video was about fanfics.

Fanfics? He thought. He hadn’t heard that word in a long time, oh god. For some reason, he checked out the comments, and one with a lot of likes and a photo of Changbin caught his attention in particular, commenting about the Tumblr app... and the word “smut” in it.

It made him a little curious.

Chan was bored enough and, somehow, quite willing to explore what they were referring to. He had forgotten when he last read a fanfic about himself for entertainment... but he remembered the strange feeling. His ears turned red, and he couldn’t stop thinking: is it about me? Is it me?

He downloaded the app again. Everything was happening so fast, and he created an account with a username he thought of in five minutes, after multiple attempts, because, of course, he had forgotten the account he was sure he had in 2017 and used only three times. And he was in. He didn’t question anything; at first, everything was going well. He acted on impulse and slowly remembered how to use the app on his phone.

First, he liked the posts under the Stray Kids hashtag... and, slightly embarrassed, he searched for the reason why he downloaded the app. Smut? Was that it? Bang Chan smut? His heart raced a little at the idea, and he felt a certain cringe at searching for such a thing... but he had nothing else to do, he had already done it, and with a certain modesty, he ventured a little.

And his first impression was that there were numerous options. All of them used photos of him for the aesthetics of the post, different names, colors, sizes, formats, and a good amount of interactions on each one he saw.

He was a little impressed and felt somewhat flattered and a little strange. Did all his fans imagine him fucking like that? Did they fantasize about him fucking them?

Finally, he wanted to try his luck and stopped at one in particular... just out of curiosity, a light read before bed and... to check out what kind of things his fans wrote about him in their spare time.

The title of the story made him laugh. Daddy, in pastel pink letters. And a series of three photos of him that matched the rest of the title’s aesthetic.

Chan snorted. Thinking it was obvious... thinking, oh yeah, sure, I’m the daddy, right? He was very aware of what people might think of him and knew that it was so easy to assign him that kind of fetish. But he didn’t dislike it at all. He felt... meh. He understood. He had debuted as a k-pop idol seven years ago, and he was well aware of what his image was like and how it had been shaped and refined throughout his career.

Summary: Chan explores his new favorite kink.

Wow. Wait, what? He thought. And he continued reading the warnings. Damn—deepthroat?

Okay, now he was more curious; he wanted to read it.

Everyone knows Chan has a daddy kink.

He paused right there. He blinked, looking at his screen and thinking, excuse me, I beg your pardon? He wasn’t expecting those first words and opening line. But he kept reading; he couldn’t stop.

Everyone knows Chan has a daddy kink. Everyone except him.

Since he started uploading his photos to platforms for his fans, he began to read and be overloaded with comments of that type. And, for some reason, that thought won’t leave his head.

The truth is, and he hates to burst his fans’ bubble, although he’ll never talk about it, he’s never had a girl call him “daddy” in bed and/or during sex. He’s never experienced it. And, in his twisted mind, he often wonders... is it time to try it?

He thinks he might like it; he’s thought about it so much and came to the conclusion that maybe it’s fucking hot. A beautiful woman, vulnerable and begging over and over while whimpering “daddy”... well, it’s an interesting idea for Chan, who knows he’s young, successful, and fucking handsome and sexy.

But Chan blames his fatigue and that he is letting himself go too easily and... that maybe he does need a good fuck. He hasn’t had sex in a long time, he’s always busy, and even more so now with the hectic schedule of his tour.

Chan felt that personally.

But he’s sure it will pass soon. He has to refocus, just like now, where he’s on his way to meet his new assistant, because according to his manager and staff, his popularity is growing too much and each of the members had different needs, so assigning a personal assistant to each, by roommates pairing, was one was a topic that was discussed and agreed upon.

And that’s how you met Bang Chan and Yang Jeongin. Most famous idols right now. You know exactly what you’re getting into. You know they are men, idols who maintain and care for their image and are therefore extremely handsome. But Chan in particular took your breath away, that simple morning you meet him and introduced yourself.

You begged your cousin for this job because you are so excited about the idea of working in the entertainment world, even if it is behind the scenes, and he kindly got it for you, choosing Bang Chan and Jeongin for you, mostly because of Chan, as he recognizes and knows how he works. Your cousin, who is the group’s manager and knows each of the members for years, knows that Chan won’t be too demanding on you and that, in a way, if you get along well with him, he could even guide you and teach you more about the world that makes you so curious.

You are young, naive, and decided to give it a try. And so did Chan.

Chan puffed out his cheeks. He thought it was funny that even his manager was involved.

He kept reading about how the relationship between her and him, or you? He understood the point of view. The reader was supposed to his dearest STAYs.

He read when things started to heat up.

Chan starts teasing you, taking you everywhere with him, being demanding with you, taking you to his photoshoots, fashion events, and teasing you every time he tries on a new outfit. He often tells the workers, “Let her in, she’s my assistant,” and proceeds to take off his shirt in front of you, revealing his toned body, smiling smugly and mischievously when he sees how much you’re staring at him. And then just puts on his outfit and says with a fake innocent smile, “How do I look?”

He’s incredible. You can’t deny it. And he is also sort of a playboy. Still, you want him so badly. But you don’t want to cross that line, you’re not even sure if he wants you too, and you think he’s only doing it because he’s bored and wants some attention.

At first, yes, that was mainly it; but seeing how well you get along with Jeongin, since he was almost your age, the way you seem like friends... Chan doesn’t like it.

He had been very clear about setting his sights on you—even though he never said it out loud... but he’s not sure if he should try something with you. But once he sees that you started going out with Jeongin outside of work hours, he acts quickly. He wants you all to himself. And it’s more than obvious that you want the same thing.

So, his plan is to provoke a reaction in you.

He’s on tour, you’re on tour with them too. Everyone is busy. Everyone has their assigned tasks, but Chan’s specific task is you. Was it wrong to want to fuck his very pretty and sweet assistant?

Oh. Fuck no, I wouldn’t do that, he thought.

He can almost taste you. And fantasize about your exquisite wimphers and your body writhing in pleasure under his body. It’s what keeps him up at night, what he thinks about, what motivates him.

So, his move is simple and quick.

He sends you 20 photos with the message: I’m planning to update Instagram. Please approve the photos.

The real Chan sighed, thinking it was becoming personal.

In the middle of the night. With no further context than that.

At first, you check it because you think it might be something important, since it was your work phone that rang, but after skimming the message, you don’t pay any attention to it. It’s past midnight, and you’re in your hotel room; you know Chan has trouble falling asleep, but seriously… a message in the middle of the night about some photos?

But curiosity gets the better of you. You open the chat and start looking at the photos, but you don’t plan on responding until tomorrow, at a decent hour, and when it’s in your work schedule. And you start looking at them, carefully and with sighs, thinking over and over again that he’s too handsome.

Chan sees the Read 12:31 AM and his heart starts beating fast. So that means you’re awake. He just hopes you’re having fun thinking about him, especially with the photos.

You can tell that you didn’t take those photos, as you usually do. You think that maybe Jeongin or some other guy must have done it, and… without thinking, you start to lose yourself in the details of each one, in how good he looks in each one, smiling, walking down a sidewalk, his lips, his smile… you hate being so absorbed by him. Until now, you didn’t even remember what the point was. Oh, right. To check if they are okay for Instagram, and so far, they are all fine. Absolutely perfect, to tell the truth, until you got to photo 19.

You sigh audibly. You don’t believe it’s true, and look at the photo in disbelief. You even think he made a mistake. You settle back into your bed, leaning against the headboard. A photo of him shirtless, in front of the mirror. His perfect pale, sculpted body perfectly defined… that dangerous V marked on his pelvis that leaves you wanting more. Of course, he wasn’t going to post that photo, and he knows it perfectly well. And, as a reflex, you slide to the last photo, which makes you open your eyes in surprise.

It wasn’t true. You blinked several times, perhaps thinking it was a dream, but it wasn’t. It’s a photo of his black sweatpants and his attractive, veiny left hand squeezing his prominent and very noticeable cock, outlined in his pants.

Photo 19 is... fine. Sexy, suggestive. Photo 20 is straight sexual, you’re so scandalized.

You lock your phone, fearful and thoughtful, worried that it was a mistake and that if something like this could happen when sending photos to his fans, it would be the end of him... and that you are very grateful that he is told which photos were approved and ready to be uploaded... but that’s not your biggest concern, even though you want it to be. Instead, you’re agitated, you think it’s because you’re amazed, but you know very well that it’s because you’re feeling very heated and slightly turned on.

You can’t help but wonder if it's really a mistake or if it’s on purpose, you don’t even know what to say or how to deal with him tomorrow... but what you do know now is that that intimate and specific part of him, which you fantasized about more than once... now you know exactly what it looks like.

God, it was exquisite. You shift your legs nervously under your sheet, and your face is hot and red. You bite your lip and take another look at the photo.

It’s obviously him. It’s his hand, his fingers, his bracelets. In the angle, you can see a little of his lower abdomen exposed and thus, the large and exquisite thickness of his erection, his hands gently squeezing it, marking it on the useless fabric of his sweatpants. God, his cock is big and it’s begging.

You’re very wet, your pussy throbs with excitement... but you decide not to do anything about it, you feel dirty. So you just fall asleep, restlessly moving your body in search of a comfortable position, which seems impossible to find. You’re so horny that the only solution you can think of to be able to sleep peacefully is to have to ride your boss’s big cock, stirring and filling your insides. You fantasize about it, about him touching you, fucking you hard, sexting... until you fall asleep and relieve your horniness.

And that night, he goes to sleep. Fucking horny, but not before stroking his hard cock until it’s sensitive, dripping in his cum, thinking about you. Tomorrow he’ll deal with you.

Oh, wow, the little tension was building. Is that what STAY writes about?

The visual image was very soft, quite easy to digest and project in his mind, plus he is extremely imaginative... imagining a very pretty girl completely flustered as she fantasizes and sees his cock. Now it was Chan who was really getting a little turned on by this certain type of literature. He was between flattered, knowing that it was about him, and pleasantly uncomfortable... like something that, even though he wanted to let go, he couldn’t, that there was a certain satisfaction in it.

Then the writing got to its point, the smut.

You sigh and enter his dressing room, still feeling cowardly.

“So... you call me?” you ask nervously.

You can’t look him in the eye. You’ve been avoiding him all day, and it’s so obvious.

“Mmhum... what do you think of this outfit?”

It’s ridiculous. He thought so, too; he was just using it as an excuse.

“It’s fine. You had already chosen it beforehand. Do you have a problem with it? Should I talk to the wardrobe person?” you reply, bluntly and accurately.

He is already ready, dressed, his first stage outfit, makeup, and hairstyle done. He looks so handsome. He was just waiting for the show to start.

He smiles. You still can’t look him in the eye.

“You’re right. I’m fine... I was just wondering why you haven’t told me anything about the photos? I plan to update as soon as the concert is over,” he says, with a certain tone you can’t quite decipher.

“Oh, about that...”

“Mmhum?” he hums, his hands on his back, lowering his head a little and seeking your gaze.

You don’t want to say it. But you have to, you couldn’t avoid it forever, and you have to be professional.

“Yes, I checked them,” you look him in the eyes and feel intimidated. “And I’d like to respond more specifically by text.”

You avoid it, and he notices.

“Do it here now. You didn’t edit any of them, did you? There was nothing to edit.”

You’re getting nervous over something insignificant, or so you thought.

“Okay. You’re right. Photos 1 through 18 are fine, but... I want you to check the last two very carefully, I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Oh, really? Seriously, which one?” he asks sarcastically, poking his tongue in his cheek, teasing.

You clear your throat. “Chan, please check them. And wait for my confirmation message... I have to go. Join the boys when you’re ready. The makeup assistants might touch up your makeup a little,” you try to sound brave.

And you turn away gently, but he’s quick and grabs your wrist. You sigh. You didn’t want to do this right now, you know his intentions are so clear. He wants to have some fun with you for a while, that’s all. You’ve worked with him long enough to know him and play dumb. But you’re not that kind of woman. Or are you?

“Wait. I don’t want to wait. I want you to tell me exactly what you saw. Isn’t it your job to assist me in everything I ask? I’m asking you to tell me now,” he says sternly.

His gaze is dark, playful, and easy to read, and it makes your hair stand on end. Your mind can’t stop thinking about the possibility—after all, you’re alone in his dressing room— of fucking him.

But you try to be tough. Professional. Even though it’s so hard not to melt in front of him and give in. You know he knows.

“Chan,” you say slowly. He pays attention to you. You remember his photos, with a certain guilt, with an immediate reaction from your body, right in your private parts. They are difficult to forget; the memory of how he made you feel is still very present in you. “I think you sent some... by mistake, intimate photos of yourself. One of you without a shirt and the last one... it looks like you’re grabbing yourself... there...” You ramble a little as you remember his hand squeezing his large boner, but you regain your composure. “Which is extremely obscene and unacceptable. Chan, please check what you send very carefully before you do so.”

Chan notices how you blush slightly, overcome with embarrassment and modesty, and he loves it. You look straight ahead, but you avert your gaze when you mention that particular photo. He bites his lower lip, his ears start to burn, and he can’t help wondering if... maybe you touched yourself while looking at that image. Could it be possible? All needy, wet, your fingers caressing you delicately, filling your precious little cunt with them, abusing your pussy, imagining that it’s him, and sadly not satisfying you enough. Because you know he’ll do it better, for you.

You almost did it. You almost touched yourself. But you resisted... but you don’t know if you’ll be able to do it if he decides to touch you, right there, right now.

He smiles mischievously. You knew he did it on purpose, but you don’t want to think about exactly why he did it, even though it’s obvious. But you fight against all your will to be professional, to not ruin the job you love. Even though being a simple assistant may seem lowly, there was nothing wrong with it. You’re a celebrity’s assistant, you travel the world, you meet new people, it’s a new world you like to belong to... but if you continue with this madness, you’ll end up fucking your boss, and you don’t want that.

Or do you?

You swallow hard, nervous. You struggle not to look at him like that. But it’s inevitable.

But Chan suddenly changes, making you doubt yourself.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Y/n, really. Did that make you uncomfortable?” He let out an awkward chuckle.

Suddenly, his serious and dominant expression softens and becomes tender. Now you’re so confused. You love it when he acts like this... but you question why he suddenly changed. Maybe it was just your imagination that the reason he talked to you there in the privacy of his dressing room was to fuck you.

Now you’re a little embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” he says, looking at you with sad, shining eyes.

“Chan...”

Suddenly, you think you may have completely misinterpreted the situation. So you decide to go back to normal, despite having felt that tension just a few moments ago.

He takes the opportunity to take your forearm, seeking some comfort for his embarrassment. His clearly feigned embarrassment.

“At least, of course, if you ask me. I can give you that and much more. The photos were just for you. Did you like them, baby girl?”

Your skin shivers, and you open your eyes in shock. You feel slightly betrayed, like a helpless character who fell for a villain’s false redemption. Chan’s face changed completely, the corners of his lips rising high to form a seductive and confident smile.

“What?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn't like them... you know I only sent them for you, sweetheart.” His finger brushed your chin. “That was just a preview; you can see it for yourself whenever you want. Fuck, Y/n. I need you.”

You blink in disbelief. Not believing that the situation was escalating into something overtly sexual. You don’t even know if you’re ready to take Chan, to truly fuck him.

“Chan, no...” you begin to stammer.

“No, what, doll? I know you liked them and that you’ve probably been thinking about them all day. You dirty little girl. Or do you think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been avoiding me?” He speaks precisely, deeply, and seductively. He brings his face close to yours and tries to intimidate you. And he succeeds. His left hand holds your wrist tightly, and the other caresses your cheek. “I know you, Y/n. If it really bothered you, you would have come to whine about it already, oh, your sweet whining. Always having something to say... Chan this, Chan that... and then suddenly nothing...?” He leans close to your ear, his breath on your skin. “What? Seeing my hard cock got you all quiet? You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you? My cock, waiting for you,” he adds haughtily. “Come on. Then see it for yourself—touch me. Be a good girl. I order you.”

He steps away from you and watches you. He has been fantasizing about you so much that he has imagined your expression for a long time, and now he appreciates it. Your sweet face shrouded in confusion, your lips parted, and a look of desire in your eyes. Perhaps this is what he has always wanted, something his mind cannot stop thinking about. And he wants to try it with you.

You admit to yourself that just the idea, and his deep, haughty voice, talking to you slightly dirty... you fall deeply. You are beginning to accumulate an intense arousal that slowly descends throughout your body.

You look him up and down—from his perfectly styled long hair, his stage outfit... god, you can see how his pants are slightly loose around his legs, but the only tight part you can make out is in his crotch. Your heart races, not believing that he’s actually hard. You almost give in. He, his bulge, absolutely everything about him looks exquisite. But you remember that you have to maintain your composure, resist, not let yourself be carried away by the impulses and all kinds of thoughts that surround you right now.

So you just ignore the very tempting offer to touch him. You don’t even want to think about how he’ll manage with his erection. You think it’s not your problem. That you have to get out of there. No matter how much your breathing shortens and your pussy throbs painfully for him.

“Chan... the concert starts... you’ll be on stage in 40 minutes,” you look him in the eyes again.

Too late. Chan catches you looking at him with desire, your gaze stopping right at his crotch. He loves making you like this. Nervous, defenseless. The feeling of excitement runs through his whole body and travels violently to his cock. He’s so turned on that he can almost feel and imagine the slick softness of your pussy satisfying him. He needed you desperately.

“So?” He smirks. “Mmm... I’ll only need 20, it’s all up to me. We can make it for hours later. Don’t worry. It’s just that I need you now. Can’t you see?”

Oh. You could clearly see it. His erection was becoming more and more noticeable, present, tempting, and menacing. But you don’t know what to say. You’re speechless.

He moves closer to you, close enough to breathe in his masculine scent. And he sighs deeply, subtly licking his lips.

“Make up your mind, princess,” he says. “I’m here. Ready for you. No one has to know... so walk through that door and I’ll stop this. Forever. I won’t bother you.”

You hate it when he does that. He gives you no choice but to choose what he wants. He always manipulates you gently. How does he think you’re capable of passing up the opportunity? After he threatens to never try again with you. You should do the right thing, be grateful that he offered to end the madness. But you're not as strong as you thought you were.

The real Chan blinked in disbelief, imagining himself saying that. He was so immersed in reading that he almost got goosebumps, maybe from cringe, maybe because he was actually enjoying it. It was a guilty pleasure.

“Chan...” you whisper.

Your pride prevents you from saying it. Your face is red, enveloped in shame, and that fascinates him like you have no idea. He wants to ruin every fiber of you. He wants to dominate you and make you his. Right there. The thoughts and your sweet, docile gaze, as you nod softly, make his cock throb again and again. Slow, long, sensitive throbs.

He clenches his fist tightly, restraining himself from taking you violently there once you confirm that you want him too; he resists fucking you hard. Restraining himself from just taking off your jeans, turning and bending your body over easily, and fucking you until both your sexes are worn out and throbbing. He wants that, but he also wants to enjoy everything.

“Get on your knees, beautiful,” he orders softly.

Your whole system is altered in seconds. It seems so unreal, but you do it. The way your gaze and body descend down his figure until you are kneeling in front of him seems to be in slow motion, wanting to capture absolutely everything. It’s so easy for you to obey him. You always do. Everything he tells you. You work to do it.

Chan’s ears turned red. He was feeling flushed... if obedience was a topic that STAY, his beloved fans, were going to touch on during sex, while writing this, he was extremely curious, because it was his topic of interest. Who was he kidding, even they certainly knew. He loved it. And if he immersed himself further in the reading, he even felt that they were putting him in a difficult situation, possibly awakening more than one emotion in him.

“Come on, baby girl. Don’t be shy. You know what to do. You’re a smart, pretty girl. Pull down my pants,” he says, eagerly.

You’re shaking intensely. You look him in the eyes and obey him. You know exactly what he wants you to do, and the idea turns you on more.

You don’t want to waste any time. You’re both desperate, but because of that desperation, your trembling hands are a little clumsy, but you finally manage to do it. You manage to do it until he’s just in his boxers. His intimidating bulge pulsing beneath the thin fabric of his underwear.

He watches you do it. Chan is so turned on by everything you do that a small vein stands out on his forehead. He needs you with an almost inhuman intensity, and holding back and loosening his tense body becomes difficult. It becomes pleasantly exhausting, painful, and simply exquisite. If this is how you’re always going to be, he already knows how hard it will be to let you go. You will be his new obsession.

Finally, you undress the lower half of his body. Freeing his cock, twitching and wiggling gently in the tense gravity that surrounds them both.

He moans deeply at the sensation filling his senses. You are about to take him.

Your mouth begins to salivate at the sight of his exposed member looking incredibly appetizing to your hungry and lustful spirits and vulnerable sight. But something immediately crosses your mind, something you were sure of, but seeing it in reality, pulsing and alive, is another experience. But, yeah fuck. Chan’s big.

Chan sighed... he really hoped the one writing all these was old enough to say cock, or whatever. Nothing prepared him to digest the fact that they were talking about his penis, in fiction, of course. But knowing that people... thought that about him... and exactly like that, well... he wasn’t sure he could go on. But he did, what the hell.

He notices that you look at him with a mixture of fear and anticipation, and that look of yours deeply touches his dirty fantasy. Yes, it’s true, maybe in the end, he does want to try to be dominant���a fairly simple and regular task for him when it comes to sex, he doesn’t even have to try—and the idea of being called daddy has been on his mind since he met you. And his logic was, how could he not want something so subtly dirty coming from your sweet lips? Begging and crying with your sweet, sultry voice tickling every fiber of him by saying… daddy.

Chan just had to think, oh, look at you, your sweet face, your bright eyes, asking for one thing… And those lips that he has adored and admired since the first second he met you are now about to take his cock.

“C’mon, baby, take it, please. Lick it all…” he whispers and bites his lower lip hard, waiting for your trembling body to do so, to satisfy him.

Your smooth hand takes his length. It’s even more impressive in your hand, or maybe you just liked Chan too much… but no. His entire intimate area is so aesthetically visible, god, his skin was so smooth, there was no trace of hair or constant waxing, just his smooth skin connected to his veiny and large manhood. His cock is needy, pink, leaking, so pretty to wreck you.

He stopped there for a moment. Suddenly, everything around him ceased to exist. He felt flattered for a moment that they considered his cock to be big… and the real him had to admit, with his high ego, that it was true. Its size is genuinely well regarded, and its appearance clean—god, it almost gave him chills to know that people on the internet exhibited a vague but accurate description of what his cock looked like. No hair. Pink tip, veiny. Fuck, that’s him.

He saw his crotch a little amusing, thinking it was crazy that there was a whole world on the internet glorifying his penis, whose anatomical part was beginning to feel good. Nothing to be alarmed about... just a slight sensation that he was comfortable with, until now.

Chan thought it was obvious to imagine... and so sweet to fantasize about, too. That when he exposed his abdomen in front of his audience and his pants and underwear were unintentionally lower than normal due to constant movement and friction, his skin could be seen. Could they perhaps notice his personal preference for having hair? Was that possible? Well, of course, he was a very cautious idol to show any sign of hair. Still, he felt exposed and thought about being careful in any other presentation.

But he had to admit to himself that, in a way, he was enjoying the indiscreet and inappropriate nature of everything he was reading. It wasn’t something he was proud to admit to his fans that he knew this kind of obscenity existed, much less something he would share or talk about with the guys. It was just another experience, something that came with being a celebrity, he supposed. It wasn’t something he did every day, let alone actually fuck.. with a pretty staff member... if he got into the story a bit. Not with that very busy and dedicated lifestyle.

But he certainly had needs... maybe, right now. Maybe needs as big as that fictional Chan he was reading about.

He let out a frustrated sigh, surprised at how ragged it came out. And for a moment, he thought, just to release his tension... what if he just jerked himself off?

Your thighs rubbed gently together, the dampness in your panties beginning to bother you. You can feel every inch of your pussy muscles throbbing, and it intensifies when your hand runs along his length, gently caressing it with care. You don’t want to miss a single thing about the experience, so your hands travel over his cock, remembering the feel of its texture, its hard shaft, and his soft balls, making him whimper in the process.

When you feel you’ve stroked him enough to remember the image of your hand giving him pleasure, you continue with your mouth. You almost let out a moan at the strong throbbing of your pussy. Your soaked panties cling to you uncomfortably, heat pooling so fast you can barely focus.

Your tongue first tastes his tip, playing with his precum and your saliva. You feel so dirty, but you’re both filled with pleasure. You circle your tongue around his glans, wanting to see him sensitive, whimpering, hearing him moan, and you succeed, but he does so in moderation, restraining himself from being loud so as not to arouse curiosity in someone and have one of the guys suddenly show up in his dressing room. Since the door wasn’t locked.

You give him a bright look, feigning innocence, and begin to kiss and lick his entire cock. Your tongue revels in the sensation of his pulsing cock, and with a timid but voracious movement, you gently suck up to his testicles. Suddenly you feel so insatiable, rubbing your lips with sudden but determined movements over every inch of him, causing him to rejoice in pleasure at having the whole package—your gaze fixed as you do it, your tongue and lips naughtily teasing and moistening his big erection as you touch him and, of course, the sensation of something that cannot be compared to anything else.

“Mm... Fuck, yes!” he growls. “Just like that, you’re doing great. You’re fucking me driving me nuts, baby girl, with that dirty tongue of yours. Do you like licking daddy’s cock, princess, huh? Is that so? Why are you so good at it? Fuc-k...” he starts to whimper and ramble.

But it comes so naturally to him. Only he knows how to master the term and use it at just the right moment, when it’s so sizzling and so appropriate. It’s so natural, the situation warrants it, both for him and for you, who smiles at him and your cheeks flush, that needy hoarse voice of his praising you... and calling himself daddy... Fuck it, you don’t even consider it, it just seems so right. It’s right. So you play along.

“Yes, daddy, mm, I love your cock.”

You smile at him, running your tongue all over his penis and finally taking it shallowly into your mouth.

“Just like that, princess. You’re a very good girl.”

Pause. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He wasn’t sure if he was offended, impressed, or insanely turned on. He had to process the fact that he was being called daddy... and he felt so bad that it felt so natural. It was so right, he didn’t even have time to think for a second about repulsion or cringe... no, something was really happening with his breathing, his mood, and his arousal reflected in his masculinity.

Chan rests his hands on your head, letting himself be guided and carried away by the delicious rhythm with which you slowly take his cock into your mouth. He is being carried to heaven. Your mouth was wet, warm, just right for the job. He admires the image of your lips enveloping his shaft and its length being consumed by your cavity, reaching the top of its midpoint; by then, his glans was already bumping against your tonsils and teasing your uvula.

So you suck his cock, just as much as you think you can take in its entirety. The lining of your cheek squeezes and stimulates his member to perfection, making him whimper and sigh, almost so close to his climax.

Fuck. Chan’s heart began to beat fast. Was he going crazy? Why was he genuinely aroused? It was just that suddenly it became so easy to visualize the image of a beautiful girl sucking his cock in the danger of his dressing room. His body temperature was rising, his ears were red, and he didn’t even have time to process it properly when, with discomfort, he pulled down his boxers and freed his very hard and erect cock. He moaned. He couldn’t believe he was like this... was he that desperate? He cursed under his breath over and over again, but in the end, he ended up grabbing his cock. He had to get rid of that big erection one way or another, otherwise he knew it would hurt too much. He knew himself.

At that point, something takes over Chan; he wants more and more, as soon as the room fills with the obscenity of your saliva hitting, licking, and sucking his hard member and the inevitable sounds that come with such an act. So he starts pushing you, forcing his cock deeper and deeper into your throat. He wants to feel you. To fill you in on every possible hole. That’s how wild you made him.

But when he sees that you’re struggling to take it all, he lets you pull away from him to catch your breath. You don’t say anything, but he can still read your gaze.

“Come on, sweetie. I know you can take it. Take a deep breath and let daddy fuck your throat, okay?”

You nod without thinking twice. But he corrects you, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, daddy.”

You’re so eager to be touched by him already. You lick your lips and are about to take him and be brave, when the sound of one of the guys warming up his vocal cords, singing audibly loud very close to the door, scares you completely, but Chan reassures you.

“Hey, hey, baby, it’s okay. They won’t get in here. Look at me,” he says softly. You look at him with frightened eyes, the last thing you want is to be caught giving Chan oral sex right before his concert. “Now, open your mouth wide for daddy’s cock—” Still, you obey him, “Mmm, there you go, good girl, princess.”

He gently takes your head again and pushes it slowly. Chan fills you in every way. You start to hold your breath and drool senselessly, dripping down your chin and your SKZ staff badge. It’s obscene. You look ahead at his thickness and what was still left to enter you, then return to making eye contact with him. In the background, you can still hear the guys warming up their vocal cords before the show, while yours are being teased by Chan’s big cock.

The slight curve of his cock hits your throat, and you feel it start to slide in, so deep inside you. He bites his lip hard, holding back a muffled moan at how good it feels for him to fill the narrow passage of your throat little by little, your restless tongue under his skin, and your teeth gently scraping him. Not only do you start to cry, but he does too. His veins begin to show, Chan wants to moan freely, but you can’t be discovered.

He moves gently inside you, just a little, enough to engrave the obscene image of his cock buried in your mouth and for you to feel his organ pulsing in your throat. Soon, noticing you are helpless and your sweet face is covered in tears, he pushes you back gently to allow you to catch your breath. Leaving behind small drops of fluid that fell to the floor and an easily breakable line of saliva that left his cock shiny and full of sex.

“You are a very, very good girl, angel, look at you,” he whispers, still excited with his cock pumped to the limit. And he gently wipes away your tears. “Stand up, baby.”

He began to masturbate, confused and excited, thinking about how they thought of all the details. Staff badge? Fuck. There he was, running his hand up and down his cock, looking just as he had read, flushed and throbbing. He moaned, gently trying to restrain himself from making noise, from causing a loud scene, but it was impossible. He knew himself and knew that, particularly right now, after masturbating, his orgasm was going to be loud and messy. He was already making a mess, the obscene sound of his hand on his skin, pulling and pumping his cock. He pinched his sensitive glans, sliding and lubricating his entire shaft. And he kept going, whimpering... deeply wishing someone was there to solve the problem.

You obey him. You’re still so excited, and he quickly but gently proceeds to undress you. He takes off your blouse, that badge, your bra... and you just let him touch you, his big, cold hands kneading your now exposed breasts. He loves having you like this, so submissive and vulnerable.

Chan continued to masturbate hard. His hand squeezing his cock as he visualizes the softest of breasts, the most beautiful nipples.

And now it is he who kneels slowly, taking your right breast with his lips, sucking and licking your nipple erotically, so that later his lips and nose brush your skin, descending to your abdomen. You moan softly at his touch. You want to swoon right there.

He pulls away slightly to unbutton your jeans, pulls them down in one swift motion, and admires your panties clinging to your pussy. His cock throbs again, dying to fuck you. But first, he slowly slides your panties down, making you suffer in the process.

“Fuck,” he whispers, incredulous. “Look at you, my baby. So fucking wet for me.”

He notices it as soon as he sees your panties and, unable to resist, he checks it by running his fingers over your labia, gently immersing himself in your folds, admiring the beautiful sight of your mons pubis and your tense body, your abdomen tensing at his touch.

He wets his fingertips and brings them to your clit, making gentle circles over your sensitive spot, causing you to squeal with pleasure. Your pussy is incredibly soft, warm... Chan planned to fuck you after you gave him oral sex, but once again, he couldn’t resist you. He spread your legs slightly and grabbed your folds roughly, enjoying the sight of your exposed, shiny, needy vulva, then inserted two of his fingers inside you and stimulated your clit at the same time with his mouth.

His tongue plays with your clit. His lips and nose stick to the skin of your pubis, and his mouth sucks your spot with perfect intensity while his fingers work on your core.

“Ch-Chan, please...” you whimper softly, almost on the verge of collapse.

He pulls away from your clit after sucking it hard, and his sweet gaze fades.

“I’m not Chan. What should you call me?”

His fingers forcefully enter you deeper on purpose.

“Da-ddy,” you whimper brokenly, “Daddy, please.”

“Please what, hun? What’s the problem?”

Your whole body flushes. You feel like climaxing.

And just like Real Chan does. He was panting, imagining the sweetest, softest pussy. His mind couldn’t stop fantasizing about having one right now. A beautiful pussy bouncing and riding his cock. Sadly, it was just him, his hand, and his imagination.

“Please, daddy, I’m gonna cum.”

He stops suddenly.

“Oh. Not now, baby. That pretty little pussy has to take all daddy’s cock, you hear me?”

You sigh in despair as you feel his fingers come out of you. You were so close. Instead, he stands up abruptly and handles your body with ease, getting behind you and subtly bending you over. In front of you is his full-length mirror. You can see how pathetically ruined and aroused you are. Your makeup is gone, your pants and panties are awkwardly stuck on your calves—just like Chan’s—and your breasts are exposed.

“I want you to cum on my cock. And look at yourself while daddy’s fucking you, baby girl. Look at you.”

The strokes on his cock became more violent. Chan was so close, the orgasm was overwhelming him, almost giving him spasms and mild cramps. The image in his mind was so vivid. Fucking a sweet girl from behind in front of a mirror, damn it. He needed it.

Chan teases your entrance with his glans, holding it with his right hand and holding you by the waist with the other to keep your balance, and thus slowly enters your beautiful pussy, the one he fantasizes about so much. Sliding inside you was glorious, he moaned audibly in response, not giving a shit if it could be heard outside.

You sighed as you felt him deep inside you, and so he started slowly at first, took your forearms to control your body, and then pounded your pussy hard. Long, deep, and hot thrusts, one after another... taking advantage of the indescribable pleasure of your walls on his cock. Both sexes are collapsing and coming together.

Chan masturbated even harder and writhed with pleasure on that hotel bed. He could already taste his orgasm.

Your breasts began to bounce. You are breathless. Unable to moan freely, your weak body releases it in tears of pleasure.

You watch yourself being fucked and then see his attractive silhouette pounding your pussy from behind. You are being sweetly ruined. And when you were both close, he presses your body against his, one of his hands playing with your breast and the other stimulating your clit, with your pussy being filled and penetrated to the fullest ...

Chan growled loudly, breathlessly, his cock quivering in desperation as his ejaculation shot out, staining his hand, his abdomen... He closed his eyes tightly and leaned his head back against the headboard, allowing his body to climax, leaving him sensitive.

He felt it like a guilty nut. Like a teenager jerking off to his first porn.

Chan finished reading vaguely. He creampied her and talked to her sweetly...

And as actual Chan caught his breath... with his hand full of his own semen... he could only think—what the fuck? He was still agitated.

𐙚 taglist: @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @hyune-sssne @oddracha @choso4u @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @bokkiesluv @thvsuga @myrkhive @enhacolor @nightmarenyxx @smuttaburger @mintchocoddeonut @ysljoon @wonniecutie

⊹ chris taglist: @cherricola-star @biscuitthefirst @vernorica123

sorry i was forgetful with the taglist mueheh—bc some asked me to add them but i forgor, lmk any problem hehe

ty for reading! (✿◠‿◠) any interaction is appreciated!

[lauraneedstochill]

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included) »»» part 2

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

»»» part 2

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[velvetcrimsonkisses]

Nanami who drops to his knees the moment he arrives home, the feeling in his chest; indescribable because he knew his wife was upset… so very upset…

He loathed the guilt that clung to him as he had to work late and miss the date they planned just a few days prior. The front door creaked open as you heard him tiredly shuffle in, tossing his keys onto the counter with a bit more force than he intended. He rolled his neck side to side, in a futile attempt to release some of the stiffness in his muscles. He kicks off his shoes, not bothering to bend down and untie the laces, before commencing his walk of shame to your shared bedroom. 

Each step felt heavier, causing his heart to only beat faster every second. A thin sheet of sweat began to form on his brow as he approached closer and closer to the room. His fingers, diligently thread into his tie to pull it undone, tossing it mindlessly on the floor. A few buttons of his shirt came undone but it did nothing to relieve the growing tightness in his chest. He hesitantly reached for the door knob, and with a deep breath he opened the door as slowly as possible. 

And there you were. The soft light of the room revealed your silhouette as you sat up on the bed, your arms crossed over your chest tightly, as your eyes bored into him like daggers. No, you weren’t actually upset and he had obviously a good reason for his absence, but it was the first time he missed something like this– and the sting of it lingered in the room. 

He tentatively stepped closer to you, his expression full of guilt and desperation, like a puppy who had been scolded. The weight of an unspoken apology creeping on him. 

“Darling… I’m sorry," he whispered, barely audible. But he knew it wasn’t enough. No reaction from you, you wouldn't even turn to look at him, the silence between the both of you was suffocating. His fingers graze over your hand as his knees buckled, threatening to give away under the weight of guilt.

He falls to his knees before you, taking your hand in his. “Please, look at me, honey…” pleading eyes looking up at you, raw emotion in his voice as he presses a soft kiss on your delicate hand. His fingers intertwined with yours as you finally grace him with your gaze, the eyes he so dearly loved finally on him. His grip was soft yet pleading, almost as if he was afraid you’d let go. 

“I feel terrible…” kiss “It will never…” kiss “happen again…” kiss

Each one of his kisses had you in trance and you truly believed him, Nanami wasn’t the man to tell you empty words. You look down at the mess of the man on his knees for you, your hand comes to his cheek, caressing it. 

“I forgive you…” You utter, as you look at him, into his eyes of honey. 

Those three words…

That was all he needed to hear. His breath was caught in his throat and for a moment he just stared at you before taking a deep breath. Relief washes over him and all the guilt slowly disappears. His head drops into your thighs and rests there a moment, still holding your hands. 

“I will spend an eternity making it up to you…” he finally speaks up. His statement makes you smile. You thought he was joking but he wasn’t. 

“Starting now,” he declares, a spark of confidence returning to his body. 

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head down, his lips brushing softly against your knees. His kisses are tender and calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing. His lips trailed along your thighs, the warmth of his breath sending soft shivers up your skin. 

You sighed softly, your fingers threading through his hair, delicately pushing it back from his face. You wanted to see him, to really look at him, at the man you loved now between your legs. 

His kisses trailed higher and higher. Nanami was a smart man. He knew just what to do and how to ease the weight of the situation from your mind, to make you forget. 

“You’re so gorgeous” He mumbles in between kisses. A red tint creeping up on your face at those simple words. “But you know that already, don’t you?” he presses a kiss just below your navel. “I tell you everyday…” He whispers, right into the heat between your legs. Your back arches up off the mattress and he knew he just had to have you already.

“May I?” he asks, his pointer finger hovering right over where you needed him most. You gave him a quick nod and that was all he needed. He slowly slides your panties down your legs before begging to devour you, entirely. 

Nanami learned everything that made his pretty girl feel good, and he planned to do everything tonight. Every flick of his skilled tongue had you in a chokehold, the way he held your legs open with his strong arms all while still on his knees. He explored every inch of you, lapping up everything you gave him, his fingers joining in to only make you feel that much better. 

Orgasm after orgasm had your mind hazy but Nanami had to make sure you knew he was sorry. And he did make good on his promise. He never ever forgot again. 

[hyoer]

Project: Get Over Bob (3)

pairing. Bob Reynolds x reader

synopsis. Bob likes someone that’s not you and now, wait- is Bob over you?

warnings. some mention of heavy topics like trafficking but no in depth descriptions! lotttttsss of angst but some comfort too because I'm not completely evil ;0 reader and bob are constantly misunderstanding each other!! some descriptions of injuries and meanie bob.

word count. 6.7k

part 1.

part 2.

Notes at the end of this chapter

Project: Find Ivan

Mongolia was beautiful

Blue skies, quiet mornings, space to breathe and think .

Maybe a bit too much.

You’d needed the break. Needed to get out after Project: Get Over Bob had failed so spectacularly. None of your well-planned phases helped to squash the intense feelings you had for Bob.

You, Alexei and John were crammed into a one-bedroom flat in Ulaanbaatar that felt more like a storage closet with windows than a living space. You tried not to think about how much money Valentina had and how little she’d spent on housing funds for the mission.

She was a multi-millionaire for crying out loud.

Mel had a theory about your lack of sleeping space: punishment.

Bob had been distracted at the gala, distracted by you.

Valentina had noticed, of course she had.

You cursed her for her pettiness.

At least the meal budget was unlimited, well you were pretty sure the budget was there to satiate Alexei’s uncanny ability to eat everything within a five-foot radius of his body.

The IBJJF championship venue was close enough that you only needed a pair of old-fashion binoculars, a digicam and some hefty patience to scope out the coaches. Your first few days were spent watching matches, taking notes and eating your body weight in Khuushuur.

Nights in the capital smelled like sweat and sounded like fists meeting pads. You and Walker sparred on every spare patch of floor in the apartment until you were breathless and sore and collapsing onto the pull-out couch. Alexei would then find a way to keep you both up until the am, regaling you with stories of his time as the Red Guardian. His stories were loud, sometimes funny and full of impossible heroics.

But the stories and the night never lasted as long as you wanted.

Sleep rarely came. But when she did, Lady Morpheus made sure to torture you with the thoughts you tried to bury during the day. Dreams of Bob and Lily in a booth somewhere peaceful, laughing at something small, leaning into each other. His hands at her shoulders, touches so light they even made you shiver.

Your subconscious clearly had no respect for your boundaries.

You had three weeks to build up your cover, plenty of time to enjoy your fully funded holiday with a side of espionage. The first month’s mission brief: blend in, train and explore. Be the wide-eyed American athlete with the eccentric Russian coach.

Ok so, maybe Valentina wasn’t that petty.

Sukhbaatar Square became your favourite place, hours were spent there, watching street performances and listening to live music. Walker got dragged into an impromptu volleyball game once. Then again. And again. And soon the local teens were arguing over who got him for the next match like he was prime Shaq.

You grinned every time.

 Alexei was glued to his camera the whole trip. Constantly fiddling with settings he definitely didn’t understand, restless at the opportunity to document everything he did.

At one point, you’d all gone to the Equestrian statue of Genghis Khan and spent a minimum of forty minutes being directed by Alexei. Those awkward JC Penney TikTok videos had nothing on you and John’s poses.

The National Museum of Mongolia was Alexei’s version of heaven.

He ignored the all of the “no photography” signs, ranting on about Lena, Melina and printing. He had an explanation for everything there. John dragged his feet at first, bored out of his mind; until he stumbled across an exhibit on nomadic tools and then it was lecture time. He was smug, irritating, but oddly endearing. Your ears were turned vaguely in his direction, pretending to listen while you took in the artefacts yourself.

Once you all had had your fill of real life, it was time to get down to business.

The mission was simple on file: find Ivan Petrovitch.

In reality, it was anything but. Intel said he was buried somewhere behind the scenes- tucked into the judging committee. Invisible, but still present.

You walked into the competition hall like it belonged to you- shoulders squared, your steps measured, eyes locked forward. Your expression alone carved a path through the crowd, and Walker and Alexei followed closely behind.

Your first opponent Natalia had two recent losses via armbar. On paper, she should have been a warm-up for you. You made a mental note to go easy. Keep it clean and professional.

Approaching the mat with a warm smile, you had extended your hand to greet her.

She walked past you.

No nod, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. You muttered under your breath, “Rude.”

Her head snapped towards you eyeing you with distain.

She was a good ten feet away- how the hell had she heard that?

The bell rang.

You stepped onto the mat, confident in your movements. Natalia backed up immediately, basically inviting you to attack her lead leg. Her retreat looked like hesitation but something about the movement made you feel uneasy. You lunged, but she became a blur, intercepting your move with a sharp arm drag. In one brutal motion, she locked your right leg and flipped you to the floor, knocking the air from your lungs.

You blinked up, blinded by the harsh lights above you.

She pummelled you into the mat with precision and power that bordered on inhuman. Every attempt at escape, deep half guard, underhook, anything, was shut down effortlessly. Her arms caged you around you like steel, you could barely breathe, barely think, barely move.

So much for taking it easy on her.

When it was over, the ref pulled her off you. Humiliated, you slipped off to the bench and dropped your gaze to your feet in an attempt to catch your breath.

A sharp yelp suddenly caught your attention.

You looked up just in time to see Natalia’s coach grab her arm, his nails piercing at the material of her uniform. He handled her like a misbehaving child while she just stood hunched and apologetic.

Your stare lingered too long.

His eyes locked with yours in warning as he shoved her towards a side door. She stumbled and glanced back at you apologetically as she disappeared.

John crossed the mat with his signature smirk. He spoke out cockily. “Did you even bother practicing before you got here?”

You didn’t look at him right away. The ache in your shoulders still hadn’t faded. “There’s something wrong,” you murmured.

“You see something while she was beating your ass?”

You exhaled slowly. “More like felt it. That girl- Natalia- her collar drag could’ve ripped my arm clean off.”

“So what?” he scoffed.

You stared at him, brows raised. “She’s strong. Unnaturally strong.” He blinked. Confused.

“Strong like you, bonehead.”

As John finally managed to put two and two together, you stared off at the door the girl had been shepherded through. “Every movement of hers, on and off the mat, just doesn’t feel right,” standing up “I don’t think, I don’t think we’re here for Ivan, or well we shouldn’t be here for him” 

Your steps were heavy as you made your way toward Alexei, taking your time to observe the almost robotic agility some of the other girls also moved with.

“What was the name of the woman we had on file for the Widow serum?”

“Kurdrin.” he said, barely glancing up from the files in his hand.

Your voice dropped to a whisper. “Lexei, this competition isn’t a lure for Ivan.” You swallowed hard.

“It’s a sales floor.”

The moment you voiced your suspicion, something shifted between the three of you, an unspoken understanding that Valentina was going to be super pissed when you got back.

You weren’t here for Ivan anymore.

You all began to make your way through the hall weaving your way to the service entrance attached to the laundry room. John knelt down and pulled back a maintenance panel, lifting his tactical bag around with a grunt. From the side pocket, he produced a tablet about the size of a paperback.

 “Who gave you that?”

He smiled guilty. “A little flirting with Mel goes a long way.”

Remind yourself to keep him away from her when you got back.

He flicked open the case, revealing a small screen. A quiet hum pulsed from it as the scanner powered up, casting a faint bluish glow onto his face. You all took a breath as he sent out an alert for backup.

“There,” he muttered, adjusting the map. “One room, lower southeast wing. Ten heat signatures with minimal movement, it has to be where they’re holding the girls.”

Alexei squinted at the bright screen. “I do not trust this. Looks like arcade game.”

“You don’t need to trust it,” handing him the tablet. “you just need to hold it, the big red dots are people. Tell us where to avoid over comms. Easy peasy.”

“I do not like blobs,” Alexei muttered resignedly, his hands turning the tablet upset down in distrust.

Alexei’s tone would have been comical to you if you weren’t so terrified at the thought of such high-tech equipment in the hands of the man that had once added his entire contact list to the Thunderbolts group chat.

As if sensing your unease, he gave you a overly reassuring smile.

Yeah, this wasn’t going to be good.

“John, take the west corridor and sweep the other storage rooms. I’ll hit southeast and check the other wing.” He nodded. “We meet in the middle. If anything smells off, pull back.”

One last look at the Alexei and you both set off.

You slipped into the staff corridors, the noise of the match hall faded behind as you made your way through the narrow passageways. The air was still and heavy with the kind of silence that made you feel uneasy.

“Left turn my dochka,” Alexei’s voice buzzed in your ear. “The room in front- has lots of people. I think ten, but they are still.”

You crept forward, every step calculated as you pressed your ear to the surface of the door.

No whispers. No breathing. Just still.

“You sure the signatures coming from this room?”

 “Very sure, lots of blobs.”

The doorknob was cold in your hands and with some slight pressure you turned it slowly.

Your eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and you saw them.

Ten girls.

All of them sat slumped on the floor, zip ties tight around their wrists, heads hanging low.

Every step you took towards them had them flinching.

As you got closer you noticed their uniforms were clean, not a speck of dirt on any of them. Like they were props set out for display. And off to the side, resting with her back against the wall, was Natalia. Her eyes shot up to yours and her lips parted-

The door behind you slammed open.

You turned just in time to block the first hit from one of the men that was clad in tactical gear. But the hits came harder and faster the more you were pushed around the room. One grabbed your arm and slammed you against the crates stacked at the back of the room. You stood up dizzy and swung back, landing a blow to his gut.

“Walker, I need help” you gasped into your comms.

“I’m pinned,” came his response. “Five on me right now. Hold on.”

With the knowledge that Walker wasn’t coming anytime soon you became desperate.

You started grabbing at anyone or anything. Letting yourself loose and clawing at them as rabidly as possible.

 One grabbed you by the scruff of your cotton jacket, his fist came down fast, striking the side of your head like a hammer. The blow was so forceful that all you saw was a flash of white hot light and then silence.

-

You came to in John’s arms, the man hushing you as you began thrashing in his arms. “No… no, please John, let me up I can – I can-“

He let you tire yourself out.

Your legs were limp under you, the bulk of your weight leaning on the super soldier’s shoulders as you made your way out of the building. Alexei was already waiting at the staff exit, pacing in circles by the van. His eyes widened, taking in your appearance, clearly ready to scold you, but John nodded softly- uncharacteristically serious.

The silence that filled the vehicle was suffocating.

Your head rested on the side of the window, bumping against the cool pane every so often making you wince. You felt Alexei begin to slowly slide into the back seat with you, his large arms wrapping around you, approaching you like an injured animal. You found yourself launching into his chest, all of the air in your lungs being exhaled out as you sank into his warmth.

Slow melodic tones rumbled from under your fingertips, a lullaby, something unfamiliar, was currently escaping Alexei. He began patting your back the same way he did once to Lena and Tasha, the movements felt repentant.

You didn’t sleep, just closed your eyes.

That was enough.

Project: Give up?

Coming home should’ve felt like relief.

Plenty of soft blankets, shelves of comics, and finally some rain. But it didn’t. You’d failed.

Not John, not Alexei, you.

Valentina made sure you knew how badly you’d screwed up. She’d stormed into tower, her shrill voice echoing off the walls, demanding consequences. Bucky and Ava stopped her at the door threatening that they had enough dirt on her to get her back into cuffs if they wanted. You’d caught the tail end of her rant- something about a deal with Sokovia being off the table now.

Not that you cared.

Bob had come to your room every day since you’d been back.

He’d sat on the edge of your bed talking about something stupid Yelena had done while you’d been gone or how studying calculus had been rotting his brain. The time away from him had made you needy, for his attention, for him. So you let him stay and ignored the part of your brain reminding you of your old project.

Eventually, you decided to stop moping.

The team was sat around on the sofa watching The Skeleton Twins- your comfort movie. Your Letterboxd top four was common knowledge around the tower so you knew they’d queued it up in hopes of luring you out.

Cheeky.

You collapsed onto the sofa and Bucky pulled you into his side like habit, like your absence hadn’t happened at all. Your legs were splayed across his lap while his vibranium hand played with the fabric of your pyjamas, twisting them absentmindedly.

The movie was just background noise for Bob His eyes were trained on the comfortable way you and Bucky had settled into the corner of the sofa.

Bob didn’t know it wasn’t romantic, but it sure as hell felt like it was to him.

And he didn’t like it at all.

You didn’t notice Bob at first. Not until Bill Hader began serenading Kirsten Wiig and everyone laughed.

Almost everyone.

You didn’t hear his laugh.

You always could, no matter how crowded the room. It was soft and melodic, filtering into your ears like a warm cup of cocoa on a cold day. Your last image of him had been him cooped up in the med bay, shaking from the stress of being taken over by an eldritch god. The lack of laughter unnerved you.

You turned your head, hoping to capture a grin from him.

You saw the look of unease in his eyes.

Just a flicker- but there nonetheless, too heavy to be anything else but discomfort. He didn’t say anything to your raised brow and kept his face neutral. But something was wrong; his hands were tucked tightly under his arms like he was cold, his back was ramrod straight against the plush seating.  

Suddenly, Bucky let out a sharp snort as the film jumped into the credit sequence taking your attention away from Bob’s strange behaviour.

You rolled your eyes. “Why are you scoffing about it’s a good film.”

“I wouldn’t say good, but it was definitely interesting doll,” Bucky teased, flicking a piece of popcorn at your head.

 “Don’t call me that, Barnes.”

He grinned with those weirdly pointy teeth of his “What, you gonna beat me up?”

At that you both cackled and began play fighting with the dozens of pillows John had bought when he went through his grand designs phase. The man in question was complaining about how much he’d spent on the goose feather pillows you’d desecrated. You began to crawl towards Lena, the woman shrugged you off and handed you back to Bucky leading to an all-out fight between the three of you.

Bob watched on.

Feeling as though there was no place for him in your intimate moment.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. Bob knew that, he should’ve been happy to see you fall back into your regular routine after being cooped up in your room for so long.

But he wasn’t.

No one noticed when he left, not even you.

Life carried on with the same mundane tone for Bob.

He was like a band stretched too far, too tight.

Who knew when he would snap.

You were held up in your room for most of the next day.

You’d ordered enough Chick-fil-A to create your own monster like Frankenstein with the chicken bones.

Your phone pinged again. And then again.

It was buried under the laundry heap you hadn’t bothered folding. With an annoyed sigh you scrambled your way to the pile and dug it out.

OPN DOOR.  Well, at least Bucky was straight to the point

You texted, Can you come back tomorrow for my corpse?

His reply was instant: No, I opn door now.

You barely had enough time to straighten out your workspace before the hot-head made his way through. “Why do you type like you’ve never seen the alphabet before?” you muttered.

“So I can annoy you,” his grin was almost endearing as he eyed the mounds of halo top underneath your desk. “how you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” you shuffled the empty containers towards the rubbish bin, failing miserably. “just taking a sabbatical”

He gave you an incensed look. “And this extended sabbatical requires copious amounts of fried chicken and whatever the hell that is.” inspecting the container on your lap.

“Kanafeh,” you said, lifting your chin. “it’s the world’s greatest dessert. Educate yourself.”

He leant down and took a slice before flopping onto your bed. “Im sure you’ll be willing to part with some so I can learn.”

He didn’t look at your face when he questioned you again, softer this time. “So… are you finally gonna tell me what happened.”

“Not you too.” you groaned, letting your head fall onto your desk, muffling your voice.

“Sweetheart,” patient as ever “even before you and Bob had your soiree in the death zone you were fumbling about and ignoring him. What’s this really all about?”

You lifted half of your face to the man “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Never“

You inhaled. “Okay, I had this like plan. Like, a well-thought-out, multi-phase plan.”

“To get over Bob?”

You shot him a look. “Mhmm and before you say anything. yes, it didn’t work.”

While you pouted and Bucky chastised you, a tall figure approached your door, half in shadow.

Bob stood, well floated, outside of your door his fist half-raised ready to knock, but he didn’t. He just watched.

Watched as you stared at Bucky with a playful expression, the same way you did a few days before. His chest ached , God he felt stupid. He’d come to show you his latest breakthrough. the ability to fly without passing out or ending the world.

He’d been proud.

For the first time in a long time Bob had something good to bring to you.

Inside, Bucky fiddled with your pillow, grinning at your very obvious love for the golden boy “I can see that.”

“And flooding my room didn’t help either,” you added under your breath furrowing your brows in annoyance.

“…Sorry, what?”

“You and your creepy super hearing Jesus,” Looking away from him in embarrassment. “I might’ve taken a hammer to the pipes. I needed an excuse to move to the room next to yours.”

Bucky stared at you, silent for a moment before bursting into loud, uncontrollable laughter, rolling around on the bed in circles.

“Why don’t you ever laugh that hard when I tell actual jokes?” you asked, mock offended.

“Because nothing’s funnier than imagining you thinking tactical plumbing was the best idea for this plan”

“I just…” you sighed. “I couldn’t be next to him anymore. Having him walk past every night, hearing his voice through the wall. It was actual torture.”

The words hit Bob in waves.

He stared at the door like it might offer an explanation, like maybe you’d jump put and tell him “I knew you were there Bob we were just teasing you, come inside so you can propose to me!”

 But no, you really had just admitted you’d damaged your room just to avoid being next to him. The room that you had spent weeks carefully decorating, dragging him to every plant shop within the city to curate your own dreamspace as you coined it.

You’d destroyed that room.

Did you hate him that much?

Bob lowered his hand from its place near your door. Curling his fingers into a fist by his side. His face stayed calm, almost expressionless. He turned without a sound, hovering down the hallway. Your laugh followed, mocking him as he made his way to his room.

One thought in his mind.

She wanted to get away from you.

None the wiser, you continued your conversation with Bucky.

“It’s like, well, imagine being stuck in a closet with David Corensweat for 3 hours, you’re telling me you wouldn’t want to give the guy a smooch?”

He scrunched his nose in thought. “I’m not denying he was good-looking in The Politician but he’s not my type.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot he flies without wings, right.” He guffawed at that, throwing a pillow at your face in mock anger, but you could see the tips of his ears slowly flushing red.

Project: Bob should get over you?

You needed a good book.

Ignoring the fact nobody wanted to start a book club when you’d asked five months ago you decided to just buy 7 copies of Americanah and tape them to everyone’s doors.

You were mid-search on Google when a name popped up. Lily’s shop.

Of course it was top of the list. Perfect reviews, handpicked recs and the best vanilla coffees in the city.

Of course.

Swallowing your pride wasn’t one of your most notable traits but what did you have to lose?

You walked in, the bell overhead chiming that same mellow note you remembered. The air smelled like paper, sandalwood, and something floral. Making a beeline for the new-in table you grabbed the first book you could see with a half-interest in the cover and a full intention to pretend that was the only reason you were there.

“Hey!” Her voice caught you off guard, as did the soft hug she pulled you into.

You tensed for a moment, then let yourself melt into her. “Hi. I haven’t- uh, haven’t seen you in a while, how’ve you been?”

“I’ve been great,” she beamed. “I decided to expand the store. We’re building into the unit next door this week!”

You nodded, eyeing the chaos behind the counter; power tools, papers, bits of half-assembled shelving strewn about the place. Just as you primed yourself to let out a well-formulated joke about power tools, a man strolled out from the back towards you both. He was tall, handsome in a probably-models-for-la-roche-posay kind of way.

He leant down, kissed lily on the cheek, saying something about fixing a computer and heading out for extra parts.

He glanced at you, smiled politely, and left.

What the hell?

Standing still for a moment you sputtered out  “Sorry um… not to be nosey, but aren’t you and Bob still...?” squishing your hands together in confusion.

She chuckled softly. “Together?”

“Oh, no,” she said, smiling like the whole thing was obvious. “We figured we’d be better off as friends, he still comes by for coffee occasionally, but honestly? It was clear his head was somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else?”

Lily gave you a pointed look. “More like someone else.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Come on,” she laughed. “The man practically vibrated every time you came into a room. The whole time you were away he was pining after you like a little baby,” leaning in  “one night at dinner, I caught him staring at photos he’d taken of you napping.”

“No, he did not!” You laughed, half in disbelief.

She laughed too, warm and unbothered. “Full-on wistful. like you were a picture in a locket of his husband lost at sea.”

“I’m... sorry,” you said softly, coming down from the high of finding out Bob, maybe just maybe, liked you too.

“For what? It’s not like either of you committed a war crime,” she said, waving it off. “Bob’s a good guy. Just wasn’t the one I was waiting for, I mean have you seen my boyfriend?”

You left with the books stuffed into your bag, your chest lighter than it had ever felt after your talk with her.

Time to woman up and kiss Bob (or ask him out).

As soon as the clock hit seven you were rushing back home to the dining area, you could finally unleash the months-worth of flirting you’d been saving up for Bob.

Well, that’s what you thought would be happening.

Bob was unusually quiet, his face down in his food, inspecting it as if he’d never seen broccoli before.

You tried to break the ice.

“Hey Bob, could you pass the sugar?” you spoke while tapping at his bicep.

He didn’t look up.

“I don’t get how you can eat lemon and sugar on pancakes. It’s disgusting,” Walker spoke from his seat on the other side of you.

“It’s a delicacy,” you defended, turning your head to face him.

“Even in Russia, we—” Yelena started from across the table, but you weren’t listening.

You turned back to Bob. “Could I have—”

“Get Walker to get it,” he cut in coldly, not even looking up from his plate. Pushing his salmon from side to side, not even bothering to pretend to eat.

Everyone paused.

John cleared his throat in an attempt to break the mood and pushed the sugar toward you. “Here you go?”

Bob stood up without a word and left the table, his chair scraping against the floor as he walked out. His footsteps were heavy as he made his way downstairs.

When did Bob start stomping around like that?

That was Bucky’s thing.

What’s up his ass?”

“He’s probably just stressed because of his exam jackass.” Ava scolded John, all while reaching over to squeeze your hand.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding like a bobble head. “Must be the stress.”

You weren’t convinced

That week’s sparring session had started as a team-building exercise. Everyone suited up, grumbling half-heartedly as you all prepared to pretend to beat each other up for a good five hours.

 But Valentina, ever the benevolent dictator, decided to turn your fun day into a science experiment. “For data.” she’d said, an unhinged glint in her eye.

Where was Congressman Gary’s impeachment team when you needed them?

 Bob descended from the upper floor just in time to watch John adjust the harness strapped across your chest, some sort of weird tracking rig measuring motion, strength, and vitals.

“Don’t move,” he muttered, tightening a strap. “There. All strapped in.”

Bob let out an audible sigh. His eyes lingered on John’s hands near your chest, then flicked away as he rolled his eyes. You didn’t say anything about his obvious distain but forced yourself to remember that he was still the same guy that apparently slept in your bed while you were abroad (information courtesy of Yelena Belova the amazing super spy).

So you smiled at him. Not the fake strained kind, but the subtle “I’m in love with you” type of smile. He gave one back- begrudging, but it was there.

You knew your charms were undeniable.

You bounced onto the mat, light on your feet, throwing silly jabs into the air like you were training for a Rocky reboot.

The performance didn’t rouse a single laugh from him.

“This one’s for comparison,” Mel called from the edge. “We need a baseline on Bob’s strength against a non-enhanced opponent.”

You squared up “Ready?”

Bob didn’t answer.

Instead, he shoved you back with a single, casual flick of his hand, a bored movement not aggressive. You stumbled back but found your footing quickly, darting in to land a punch, only for him to palm your face and push you aside like you were nothing.

“Hey,” you snapped, breathless. “Aren’t we supposed to be sparring?”

“We are,” he muttered under his breath. “Not my fault you’re not putting any effort in.”

You lunged again. He barely dodged.

You jabbed at his side. He caught your wrist, twisted it, and let go just as you lost your footing again.

“If you had any powers, maybe you’d be able to do something useful.” He spoke from above, the view reminding you of the way it’d felt when you’d first seen Bob in his sentry costume. The mocking kindness to his glare, as if his words were helping you figure out a truth that you should’ve already known.

He said it so softly, you almost convinced yourself you’d misheard. But when you looked into his eyes you saw the flicker of resentment. The way his jaw was locked tight and you knew then it hadn’t you’re your imagination.

Maybe Bob agreed with the Void after all.

Maybe everything he’d said that day was him.

Maybe he meant it all.

You blinked once, twice, and then laughed, dry and unsteady, as you raised your hand in mock surrender. “Okay, I’m tapped out.”

Mel looked ready to step over to you, concern heavy in her gaze, but Valentina waved her hand. “We have enough. That’s it.” You nodded, wiping the back of your glove across your cheek and giving Bob a hollow smile.

His eyes locked with yours and something in your expression made his stomach twist.

“Looks like everything’s coming up Bob!” John joked, walking past you trying to high-five Bob.

He walked past him keeping his eyes trained on his feet.

Yelena scoffed. “Idiot.”

“Why does everyone keep calling me that, is there something I’m missing??” He whined out.

The meeting was really dragging on.

And the team had been treating you like a sick puppy all week, too nervous to ask if you’d spoken with Bob yet.

You tried to focus, flipping through the folder in your hands.

“Hey, where are the access codes I submitted? They’re moving the drop point further north, so we’ll need clearance for the next base over—”

“They’ll be in the southern base,” Yelena interrupted. Her head was turned towards you, waiting for you to say something that might change her mind. She was always like this when it came to anything Red Room-related, no space for deviation.

You pressed her. “I know, but just listen. If the convoys are rerouted north like the last drop—”

“Why don’t you let someone who knows what they’re doing handle it?” Bob’s voice cut through.

His eyes were fixed on you, almost gleeful at what he’d said.

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t even blink. “You had one job. Keep the girls safe. And you let them get taken.”

“Bob,” Yelena warned, tone low, almost disbelieving.

“That wasn’t even the mission,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “We had to improvise. We weren’t even meant to—”

“The Red Room doesn’t give second chances,” he snapped again “you know that. But hey, maybe if you’d been able to handle yourself, we wouldn’t be here figuring out how to clean up your mess.”

His voice was soft but the venom in it was unmistakable.

Bucky shifted beside you, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Ava’s eyes were dark, her glare practically burning holes through Bob’s skull. Yelena, Alexei, and John exchanged looks like they weren’t sure whether to hold you back or hold him down.

Your body began to tremble, not just from the anger stewing inside you, but from the humiliation of knowing that what he said was the truth. You weren’t strong enough to hold off a couple of mercenaries and hadn’t pushed for Alexei to go in. Instead, you’d let the strongest team-mate you had stay on comms while you went in, ego high.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, unable to find the words to defend yourself. “You don’t know what happened.”

You left.

Alexei stood up slowly.

His voice was firm and fatherly. “I do not know why you choose cruelty today Robert. But you will say sorry to her.”

Finally snapping to his senses, Bob rushed up, intent on catching up to you. As he began darting for the door he was stopped by John gripping his arm. “That was really fucked up dude.”

“I know Walker.” He griped, sounding annoyed.

“No you don’t, we didn’t even know the red room was directly involved until she figured it out. We would have been in and out without any kind of knowledge of what was going on if she hadn’t used her brain.”

John sighed loosening his hold on him “Look, buddy I know you like her, we all do. The only person that doesn’t is her, just talk to her-”

“I know. I’m just… angry. At myself. And she-she doesn’t even need me. Not with Bucky around.” Bob swallowed.

“Bucky.” Yelena wiped her hand over her face clearly exasperated, not stopping there, she looked over to the others gesturing wildly in the air. “Christ, you two are morons”

“Bucky’s got a certain captain that he talks about all day, every day. Why would he want to be with her.” Ava chimed in from the front of the room.

Bob seemed confused “But she said she couldn’t stand me, I-I heard you both.” Pointing at the man who was currently red-faced.

John, clearly at his wits end, stated while holding onto Bob’s shoulders. “I don’t know what the hell that’s about but, maybe you could use your big mouth to ask her with your words?”

Before Bob could protest, Bucky walked up his arms folded, giving him a disapproving stare.

“You didn’t hear everything,” Bucky said flatly.

“What else was there to hear?”

Bucky sighed, like he was regretting getting involved. “She didn’t move because she hates you. She moved because she was trying to get over you.”

Bob stared. “What?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, glancing toward the hallway you’d disappeared down in deep thought. “She thought if she put some distance between you, she’d stop liking you so much.” his voice was softer, reluctant. “Didn’t work obviously.”

Bob’s face fell. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even think- I’m such an idiot-.”

“Yup,” Walker said, not even hiding his irritation. “Now go fix it.”

Bob took off down the hallway, heart pounding, really hoping he wasn’t too late.

“Open the door,” Bob pleaded, voice muffled through the wood but still loud enough to hear how desperate he sounded.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” The distance between you and the door wasn’t enough to hide the exhaustion in your tone. Months of constant back and forth between you and Bob played through your mind as you stuffed yourself deeper under your covers.

The mounds of fabric weren’t enough to keep out Bob’s incessant knocking and pleading.

“I’m sorry. Please. I don’t know what came over me. I- I know I’ve been all over the place, but just let me see your face. Let me explain.” You heard him exhale, long and slow. The weight of his frustration pressed through the door, like he was leaning his whole body weight into the apology.

You imagined his forehead resting on the wood, hands in his hair ruffling the curls that you loved so much.

Stop thinking about his curls!

You perched up on your bed, your sheets wrapped around everything apart from your mouth. Still refusing to open the door. “So you can realise you were being a dick,” you said flatly. “but not before you decided to act like one?”

Silence.

“I was jealous of Bucky, and John and just the thought of anyone that wasn’t me being with you the way I want to be with you.” he said, quiet enough that you had padded back over to the door just to hear him without straining.

“And what way is that?”

“The kind of way that has us being sixty years old, surrounded by at least ten grandchildren on Thanksgiving.”

You fumbled with the door handle, the chill of the hallway air biting at your skin as you yanked it open. The duvet clung to you like armour, preventing him from seeing you. You barely had time to adjust before you realised you were staring directly at Bob’s chest.

He smelt like clean cotton and distress. The thin black shirt he wore strained at the shoulders and you could feel warmth pouring off him,. The thump of his heartbeat was so close to your cheek.

Reality suddenly set in, coming out of your haze you took a step back, pulling the fabric back down your face.

“Still doesn’t explain,” A cough escaped you. “why you’ve been treating me like I’m leper.”

“I know it doesn’t.”  His voice broke, just slightly. “I was scared. And I took it out on you.”

“You made me feel like an idiot,” you say. “The worst part is … you’re not wrong, it was my fault.” Your breath hiccups as tears stream down your face.

“No, no, no” he says quickly. “You fought like hell to get them out of there; even Walker was swamped and the guy has about ten tonnes of hydra serum pumping through him.”

His fingers tentatively graze over your form, brushing your face like he’s unsure if he has the right to. His fingertips trace the shape of you, your cheekbone, the curve of your brow, almost like he’s memorising you. His thumb strokes slow circles at your temple, easing the tension in your furrowed brow.

Glancing up at him, your eyes big, glossy and red. “You want us to be grandparents at sixty years old?”

The corner of his mouth quirks as lips purse together. “Baby,” he murmurs, tender now, “I’d be fine with anything you want.”

Then his face shifts - gaze absolute, voice hushed and certain. “I love you.”

You buried your head into his chest, overwhelmed by the statement.

“Say it again,” you whisper, barely audible.

“I love you.”

You pressed yourself closer to him. “One more time?”

He kissed the top of your head murmuring it again and again.

Mustering up some confidence you snapped your head up, capturing his lips with yours. Feeling his well chapsticked lips against yours sent a shiver down your spine and he stood frozen as you continued your attack. While caught off guard Bob managed to come-to enough to slip his hands down to your waist as he kissed you back deeper, slower and desperate. Your arms reached out looping around his neck and into his hair, pulling him closer to you, attempting to drink in as much of him as you could.

Once you’d realised that you werent able to hold your breath you pulled back, you took some time to admire your handy-work. Bob looked out of his mind, his lips were parted, breathing heavily like he’d just fought off a hundred men.

“Was that ok?”

His voice cracked “Yeah- yeah that was nice.”

Yeah, Project: Get Over Bob was a bust.

“Soooo, was this the intended outcome of your little project?”

“Who told you about that?!!?”

Hiiii I know its been a while my lovelies, I had no motivation to finish after my word app blunder, and then all the studying for my exam didn’t help my morale.

I want to thank all of you for sticking by this fic and leaving such lovely comments and engaging with it! There's a lot more dialogue in this chapter so I had a bit of a tricky time writing it, I hope it doesn’t seem to clunky.

I have another exam this august so won’t be back to writing until after it but I have a very cheeky idea for a Bucky x Congresswoman!reader fic if any of you are interested :) and also a kinda? epilogue to PGOB!1

Also, yes I believe in sambucky supremacy im sorry to the stucky shippers out there.

Ps. Im not a kissing pro but I hope the description is good enough for ya’ll!! there will be a lot more of that in the epilogue :)

[chososcutie]

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ─── BOUND BY VOWS, TORN BY DESIRE ─── ۫ ׅ ✧ ⊰

pairing ── satoru gojo x reader

teaser ── your kingdoms have been at war for what seems the longest time, ancient ancestors dating back bloodlines never ceasing in their feud. but now, with the upcoming of a new age, and a desperate need for heirs with an old, dying king on the throne, you are forced to resolve and seal the peace by marrying prince satoru, of an opposing nation.

content ── fluff, slow burn, heavy angst, eventual smut, royal!au, forced proximity, arranged marriage, one bed troupe, mommy issues, jealousy, historic!au, language, mention of drinking, kissing

count ── 5k

author’s note ── thank you to everyone who voted for this series!! this is going to be a multi part story, and i hope to continue if it does well, also i think i’m going to make more series’ down the line because this was fun :)

in two days you were to marry prince satoru.

it was at the crux of the two kingdoms' warring, and father was weak and desperate in those times.

your mother had grown unusually cruel, even more so than usual, her voice sharp and reprimanding, put under pressure by the ongoing conflict that never seemed to be getting better.

you were heartbroken when they told you, but not surprised. you had hoped you would get to choose your own partner to spend the rest of your life with, but it seems cruel fate had other plans.

you had tried to reason with your mother to get out of it, that there were other ways to resolve a war other than sending off your daughter to be married to an unknown man from another kingdom, but she was having none of it.

it was really a matter of convenience. a way to set up a peace treaty, arrange a marriage, and combine two impossibly rich kingdoms? you had known your parents long enough to know they never loved in the way they were supposed to, always king and queen before mother and father, and that they’d take this opportunity in a heartbeat, no matter the cost.

you hadn’t however, known how soon everything would progress, until days later when you received an invitation in the mail, unsigned, and enclosed in a thick brown envelope, complete with the royal seal stamped pristinely on the front.

we hereby invite you to the royal marriage of… it read in rich gold lettering, looping cursive filling the page. little illustrations litter the margins, and a single grainy folded-up picture flutters out upon its opening.

when you unfurl it, it reveals the man you were to marry.

prince satoru gojo, in all his glory, wearing a pristine white and gold suit, a coy smile curving his lips, and soft, cloudy white hair fluffed up, a sword at his hip and azure blue eyes boring into yours.

for a second all you can do is stare, taken aback by his beauty.

you had heard of how gorgeous the prince was, being the talk of almost every woman in the kingdom for his good looks and charm, but you had never seen him up until now.

he was drop-dead ravishing. the kind of beauty one saw only in dreams.

“i see you’ve received the invitation.”

your mother’s calculated voice.

you quickly wheel around, her eyes fixed on you coolly. “we’ve gotten word to head to the gojo clan estate now. they will receive you there.”

“but..” you start, hoping against hope that maybe you could get through to her, and beg her not to send you off.

“please don’t disappoint us.” she eyes you disdainfully. “this arrangement means a lot for our kingdom, and it’d do you well to start thinking about what’s best for your disciples rather than your own wants.”

you stare at her. was she calling you selfish for not wanting to wed a man you had never met?

suddenly, the heavy hoofbeats of a horse-drawn carriage breaks the silent tension stretching between you two, a graceful steady gait of horses coming toward you causing you to quickly turn back to your mom, eyes pleading.

“please.. don’t make me.”

in your wildest dreams, her eyes soften and she looks at you with something different then, something resembling love, before scooping you up into her arms and kissing you on the forehead like a mother would, calling you her precious only daughter, and promising to never send you off, and what was she thinking, before calling off the wedding completely.

but instead, she stares at you, detached as if you were nothing more than a pawn in her intricate chessboard of royalty, your worth determined only by what you could provide for the kingdom.

the carriage comes to a halt in front of you, horses snorting and whinnying as you stare back at the face that looks so much like your own, only lacking the empathy you had always longed for.

“get in the carriage.” she says simply.

and realizing she’s not going to change her mind, you study her face for the last time, as if committing it to memory, that same stony unchanging expression that had been with you all through your childhood, before opening the door, and looking ahead, eyes hollow.

maybe this new husband wouldn’t be that bad, after all.

after a few hours of the carriage lurching and bumping along cobblestone trodden pathways, your head craning to look out from the slightly drawn curtains, you make it.

and just as you imagined, prince satoru's estate is big.

in fact, big didn’t even begin to describe it, with towering iron-wrought gates, and a winding driveway all leading up to a fairy-tale like palace.

statues of noble figures stand tall, outlined against its magnificence, and the castle itself is a rich ivory color, accented with shimmers of golden turrets reaching up into the sky, their tips brushing the clouds themselves.

quickly, you are ushered out, the carriage door held open for you by the coachman, and before you get a chance to take in the elegant grounds of the estate, royal servants are already waiting to greet you, all polite smiles as they advise you to follow them inside.

on the way, they tell you that you were to be properly welcomed to the gojo clan before tomorrow's highly anticipated ceremony, in the form of meeting the king and queen in charge, along with your husband to-be.

you take the chance to glance around, taking in all your surroundings, everything ancient and wooden, with small adornings of mythological figures decorating the walls along with paintings dating back to centuries-old wars, history written all across the panelling prominently.

finally, the royal attendants come to a stop in front of a long-winding corridor, leading all the way down toward an ornate wooden door, its magnificent size amongst the others causing it to stand out notably.

"this is master gojo's suite, and where you will be staying with him for the rest of your time here." says the servant nearest to you, beginning to back up slowly, the others in tow. "the king has asked that you meet with him beforehand, so you two can become acquainted. we shall leave you to it."

and with a final bow of his head, he's gone, leaving you to stand in front of the intimidating mahogany door, its broad outline almost menacing in the dimness of the passageway.

as you make your way to it, you push on it hesitantly, only to be met with resistance as it groans in protest, unwilling to budge.

you try the door handle. locked.

you look up again. you know this is the right door. so why isn't it..?

it opens so suddenly, you with all your weight resting on its frame can't stop yourself. you immediately topple over, letting out a soft oof! of surprise as you crash into something warm yet solid, your body pressing hard against it.

budging.

regaining yourself, you can't help but feel the flexing muscle under your palms, looking down to see a man's chest, his quick exhale of breath making you retract immediately.

and looking up, you're met with the sight of none other than soft white hair and blue eyes coming to blink hazily at you.

a vaguely familiar smirk curving his lips as he sets sights on you.

the man in the picture.

your husband to-be.

satoru.

"hello wifey.." he drawls out, tone almost mocking as he stares down at you, dressed in traditional heavy white robes. "i take it you're excited for the marriage?"

pointedly, his eyes fix on where your other hand is dangerously close to gripping his... lower half, so to speak.

flustered, you instantly step back, face blushing immensely. "m-my apologies my lord, i didn't mean to be so forward. i was sent here to meet you before the meeting, and.."

you notice his teasing grin seems to drop for a moment, eyes searching the halls for signs of life. once he knows you two are the only ones, his expression hardens, blue eyes becoming unreadable.

you were alone together.

"lets get one thing straight, princess. you're here to fulfill your role, nothing more, nothing less. i don't care for pleasantries. there's no reason for us to pretend we're anything other than strangers bound by a marriage of convenience."

you try to back away, eyes wide as you make a small involuntary noise in the back of your throat, but he doesn’t let you, coming closer.

"we'll carry out the duties expected of us, and that's all." he continues. "do what is necessary, but don't make the mistake of thinking i'm interested in anything beyond that."

you bristle slightly at his words. "oh, you think i want this? you think i want to be married to you? in a foreign enemy kingdom i don’t even know? because i don't! but there's no way of getting out of it, so why can't you at least afford to be nice?"

he scoffs. "nice? you and your kingdom have ruined my life! you've robbed me of any chance i had at making my own life choices, and i'm supposed to be "nice?"

"why are you acting like i made this marriage? it's not my fault! that's the whole point of an arranged marriage, it's arranged for you!" you don't even realize you're raising your voice until your words begin to echo off the vast walls, bouncing around you tersely. "and if i had, i certainly wouldn't have picked an asshole such as yourself.”

he steps closer, tilting his head at you. “careful what you say about your husband, sweetheart. or you just might get yourself in trouble.”

you know you should stop before you escalate things, but you can’t help it, jutting your lip out at him in a mocking pout. “yeah? make me then.”

in a heartbeat, he has you pinned against the wall behind you, one thigh holding up your weight as the warmth of his bulky frame surrounds you, cerulean blue eyes raking across your face steadily.

you let out a small gasp of surprise, but quickly recover, eyes narrowing on him fiercely.

he leans ever so slightly closer, crowding your space completely as his loud, sultry patchouli cologne surrounds you, alluring and familiar all at once.

his breath ghosting over your lips, is warm and cinnamon-y, as he stares down at you, eyes lidded and just daring you to defy him again.

"excuse me, mister and mistress gojo? your presence is requested now."

immediately, satoru jumps back as if stung, eyes lingering on you a moment longer, before stalking away in temporary surrender.

you push off the wall, feeling the servant's eyes on you questioningly, but not bothering to indulge him, simply brushing yourself off before rapidly following suit.

“your majesties, it is truly an honor to meet you both.” you take a small curtsy to the king and queen you were standing before, lifting your dress to show respect.

satoru rolls his eyes subtly, shifting beside you.

his father shoots him a look, all graying hair and wise crinkling eyes. “the pleasure is all mine, my dear. it’s nice to meet someone with proper mannerisms and respect for the crown.”

you smile. “yes, well i was raised in a kingdom, after all.”

beside him, satoru’s mother, the queen, grants you a kind smile, long white hair flowing around her mirroring her son's. “that you were.” she agrees. “which is why we are so honored to have you here at our own, and to finally resolve the peace that has been fleeting for so long. you have no idea how much this marriage means to both us and the kingdom.”

satoru sighs.

instantly, the queen’s eyes bore into him. “i’m sure you’ve been acquainted with your husband, prince satoru. he is just as pleased as the rest of us for this opportunity you and your kingdom have bestowed upon us, it was rather benevolent of them, and we are eternally in their debt.”

you get the feeling that they've been having disagreements with the arranged marriage, judging by their body language, and instantly the air grows thicker, more tense.

before the situation can progress however, the queen clears her throat, smiling politely at you. "why, it's been a long day, and i'm sure you're tired, sweetheart."

her attention turns toward her son, her voice holding a warning to it that you can't ignore. "satoru. walk with her to your rooms please, and accommodate her."

he nods, and doesn't even wait to see if you're following before retreating hastily, leaving you to chase after him.

finally, you find yourself back in front of the long-winding hallway leading to his─your─ bedroom, and he pauses, as if remembering something.

"we're going to have to share a bed."

your heart skips a beat, breath catching in your throat as he opens the door to reveal a mahogany bed, draped with quilted covers and over-extravagant silk pillows slightly rumpled by sleep. you had forgotten that as a married couple, it would be custom for you two to sleep together, just the thought of being in such a close, intimate space with him causing your pulse to race, whether with anger or.. something else, you can’t tell.

"no we're not." you move toward the bed, grabbing spare pillows and blankets to make your own on the plush carpet, vowing to stay as far as possible from that stuck-up prince.

you hear him sigh from where he's leaning against the doorway watching you.

footsteps pad across the floor toward you, before coming to a stop. "listen. i know this isn't ideal, but it is part of our arrangement to sleep in the same bed, as a married couple."

you gaze up at him coolly. "i'm sleeping here."

he runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "this is part of what is expected of us, and we need to fulfill our duties as a royal couple. just.. get on the bed, and face the other direction, if you must."

you ignore him, tucking yourself into the blankets you had set up with a small yawn, turning to face away from him pointedly.

all is silent for a single, peaceful moment, but then, two unfairly muscular arms are wrapping around your frame, and lifting, scooping you up into him as with a squeal, you kick, trying to get away.

one of your feet makes contact with his side, and he lets out a low grunt before throwing you roughly onto his stupidly huge bed.

"keep fighting all you want, sweetheart. i can do this all night."

for some reason, his words come off more provocative than anything, and you can't help the fact that the stern sultry purr of his coupled with it tinges your cheeks pink ever so subtly.

"i'll tell you one thing about this arranged marriage. as my wife, you are going to listen, and you are going to obey what i tell you, okay? i will not put up with attitude and immaturity.”

your cheeks warm at being scolded like a child, and all you can do is scoff in disbelief before turning over, resigned to your spot on the bed, vowing to stay as far away from him as possible.

you scoot all the way to the edge, squeezing your eyes shut angrily as tears of frustration prick at you.

just who was he to boss you around?

a few terse minutes tick by, with both of you silent, facing away from each other, the only sound being satoru's soft puffs of breath, sleep eluding you further.

you’re trying your best not to let your skin make contact with his in the slightest, but it’s proving difficult with the way his weight makes the bed dip in the middle, trying to draw you toward himself.

this was going to be a looong night.

you figure you eventually fall asleep at some point, because when you open your eyes again, sunlight is peeking through the windows, and something hard and hot is pressed stiffly against your back, insistent with its prodding.

you reach down, half-asleep, to move it away, but your hand connects with something pulsing and.. large. you trail your hand further up, eyes scrunching in confusion only to feel a small shudder under your palm, someone breathing fast and loud right next to you.

satoru.

you instantly scramble away, eyes wide, in your haste falling off and hitting the floor with a low thud.

this wakes him up, half-lidded eyes opening to take in your tangled form on the ground. “what are you doing?”

“y-you..!” you sputter out, frozen as you stare at him in disbelief.

he follows your gaze to his pants, a straining bulge printed on the front clearly.

his cheeks warm, and he looks down, mumbling under his breath. "mornin' wood.."

before you can bring yourself to speak however, two sharp knocks against the door break the awkward silence, followed by the voice of a servant outside.

"madame and master, it’s time to prepare you both for the wedding ceremony."

“ow!”

you scrunch your eyes tightly, pain washing over you in waves.

the stylist pauses, taking in your expression sympathetically before resuming to tug at your poor hair, putting it up into an intricate updo, a plaited bun with face-framing hairs and bangs, hot curlers and bobbypins attacking you left and right.

"just sit still, dear." one pushes your head back, while another tilts your face to the side to furiously blend foundation on your cheeks.

this day would only come once, in your lifetime at least, and being a royal wedding, of course, everything had to be perfect.

you and satoru were being relied on as human peace treaties to prove to the world that for the first time, your kingdoms were united, marking the official end of the war.

which is why, not only were appearances important, but also your actions towards satoru had to be convincing enough for the clan to wholeheartedly believe you two were in love, and effectively stop the fighting at hand.

so today was more important than ever that you look fully and maddeningly in love with satoru gojo.

you sigh to yourself, but suddenly your thoughts are cut off by the proud voice of your main stylist taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

"perfect. absolutely perfect." the rest nod in agreement, and with a few last touches, you're ready.

and as you all head to where the ceremony would be held, to describe how you're feeling right now as overwhelmed would be an understatement.

currently, there's about two thousand people waiting for you, all elegantly dressed, their heads held high with self-importance.

even the palace is decorated for the occasion, banners and emblems of the gojo clan stamp hanging proudly over the room, while decorative flowers in vases cover every available surface.

you shift your feet nervously, waiting for your signal to walk the aisle, praying that you wouldn't trip or embarrass yourself, fidgeting with your dress anxiously.

the wedding dress in question, was a classic take on a vintage ball gown look, with a too tight-fitting cream-colored corset billowing out dramatically from the waist into a poofy, tulle skirt, and currently it was killing you as you tried to take deep breaths, its taut stiffness practically constricting your lungs.

to make matters worse, it pushed your breasts obnoxiously up, and showed off your outline far too much to be comfortable, contouring every curve distinctively.

before you can try and pull it down however for what seems the hundredth time, the renowned quality of a simple elegant instrumental begins playing, signifying your entrance, and time seems to stop.

your heels click softly on the marbled stone, each step seeming to magnify in the large room spread out before you.

highly prestigious people, who had dismissed you before as nothing but a simple child princess living in her daddy’s kingdom were now all craning their heads to get a better look at you, hushed gasps and chatter sweeping through the crowd as you pass.

slowly, you begin to make your way down the dramatically decorated aisle, and as you get closer to the altar, you spot satoru, leaning slightly, cerulean eyes focused solely on you.

he’s dressed elegantly, in a frilly suit that matches the color of his eyes, all extravagant buttons and poofy sleeves, with crisscrossing gold lace, and a white overspilling cravat on the front.

he tilts his head as if to study the dress you're in, intense blue gaze raking up and down to ravish your clearly outlined figure.

your cheeks flush, his effect on you instantaneous as unbearable though he is.

slowly, you come to stand at your spot beside him, nervous as you look around at the crowd.

what happens next, you hadn't been expecting at all.

as one, they get up, and shower you both in applause, claps as precise and unified as their owners, the sound heard all the way around the entire palace, as they all give a standing ovation to their new king and queen of a new era.

the blush creeps up your neck, and you look around at your new subjects, all of them cheering for you.

after a minute or so of this, they begin to gradually quiet, sitting back down while both you and satoru turn to face each other.

the royal priest clears his throat for attention, and begins his long winding speech, garbled words slurring together as you stare at satoru.

he was so beautiful, breathtakingly so. his white hair is fluffed up, showing his high cheekbones, and he even has a bit of makeup on him, contour and powder.

in fact you’re staring at him so intensely, so swept up in him, you don’t even realize the priest is talking to you until he’s raising an eyebrow at you expectantly, the crowd hushed.

“huh?” you hear yourself say, embarrassment pinking your cheeks.

he clears his throat, speaking a little louder. “do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better..”

when you glance back at satoru, he’s looking at the priest, but there’s a curve to his mouth, amusement glinting in his eyes.

insufferable.

you take a second to let your eyes roam the audience, and happen to land on a particular face, one you hadn’t seen before.

she's wearing a knee-length navy blue dress, one that highlights her chubby figure and pudgy stomach, and a hat which covers most of her face. her head, though covered, is bowed low, as if in shame, which stands out to you as most of the audience is gazing up, at you and satoru, heads perked for a better look.

before you have time to further analyze however, you’re snapped back to the priest who is finishing up his speech.

“..till death do thy part. do you pledge your faithfulness and devotion, and promise to be thy loving wife, forevermore?”

your head starts to spin, the weight of his words sinking into you fully. you were to be with this man, whom you hadn’t even met before yesterday, for the rest of your life. all your hopes and dreams outside of the kingdom may as well come crashing down on your head once you were to speak those forsaken words.

after today, you would be queen, alongside your husband, the king.

at the very thought of being so responsible, the words stick in your throat, face paling. you have the urge to say no, to call the whole thing off, to truly disappoint your parents and disgrace satoru’s family for eternity, because this was your life. your life, and nobody got to take that from you.

you force a smile. “i do.”

the ring-bearer comes up to you, a ring on a fluffed pillow for you to take, its band gold and cool in your palm as you pick it up, a baby blue gem encrusted with the gojo symbol across it staring back.

you had never chose, nor seen this ring in your life.

he turns to satoru. “and do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to..”

you turn to satoru, expecting to see that same playful smirk, but something else has replaced it, more open and raw.

maybe he was feeling the implications too?

“..promise to be thy loving husband, forevermore?”

he swallows, pauses for a second too long, before speaking, the words cool and strangely detached. “i do.”

his ring comes, silver and chiseled with symbols of royalty, all sleek metal and polished, shining pristinely in the light. it has diamonds encrusted all over it, each worth more than a house, along with his precious initials, s.g, carved into it.

he takes it without looking at it.

“then by the power vested in me, i now pronounce you man and wife.” he turns toward satoru. "you may now kiss the bride."

your mouth goes dry, and for a second, all you can do is gape at satoru while the priest's words register in your head.

shit. how could you have forgotten you would be expected to kiss him? it was a wedding after all.

satoru's mouth curves up as he leans in slightly toward your ear, his hair brushing you. “c’mon princess, kiss your husband for the audience, yeah?”

you blush, and oblivious to all the people and the priest standing less than a foot away, he goes on, “although, don't be too good of a kisser, or i might get used to..."

before he can continue, you grab his face in your hands, pressing your lips hard against his, if just to make him shut up, and he pauses, taken aback, before slowly his hand creeps up to cup your cheeks gingerly, hesitantly leaning in to it.

the crowd all cheers around you, but you can’t even hear them anymore, all of it fading around you.

he's your first kiss.

he tastes like cinnamon and clove, like something spicy and reckless, his tongue already coming to meet yours in a brash tangle.

as quickly as he had been on you however, he draws away, wiping his mouth with that same lopsided smirk tilting his lips upward, leaving you practically dizzy.

and as the rest of the ceremony drones on, you can't help yourself from wanting more.

it wasn't enough to leave you satisfied, and now that you've gotten a taste, you fear you might not ever get enough.

after the wedding ceremony, there was to be a reception where only the most prestigious and important of people would attend.

it was held in the palace ballroom, lavishly decorated for the occasion with crystal chandeliers, and silk draped tables filled with shiny silverware, everything overly classy and elegant.

when you enter beside satoru, they're already serving flutes of champagne, people milling about amiably and making pleasant conversation.

and if you thought you were popular before as a princess, you had no idea the kind of attention being a hot topic like you were now would bring.

before you're even two steps inside, there's already people surrounding you to congratulate you on your marriage, kiss you on the cheek in greeting, and welcome you as newfound queen to the throne.

after a few minutes of this, with no sign of the crowd of people easing up, you begin to get nervous.

there's just no way you can see to get out of it, and as you start to feel claustrophobic, your body being pushed and jostled by all these people wanting to meet, you feel a warm hand on the small of your back, guiding you away from the crowd.

satoru.

“i think it’s time for a dance.” he says before grabbing your warm, gloved hands in his, and twirling you out to the center of the dance floor, where a few couples were already swaying to a slow tune.

satoru takes his hands, placing them on either side of your waist, just above your hips, a lazy smirk curling his mouth up as his touch seems casual, natural almost.

it seems almost genuine, the way he flirts with you in the public eye only to blatantly disregard you in private.

well, two could play at that game.

you wrap your arms around his neck, and draw yourself closer, lips hovering above his, your front rubbing against him dangerously.

he inhales sharply, eyes flickering with heat for a second but before you get the chance to revel in the fact you could draw a reaction from him, he starts spinning you.

you gasp as he whirls you around, before starting to glide back and forth with you across the dance floor, a smug grin on his face as you try and keep up.

luckily for you, as royalty you were expected to know how to dance, and your parents had enrolled you in private lessons weekly, your feet falling into familiar steps as you swept along the floor with him.

he takes notice, hands gripping your waist tighter as he sways with you, quickening the pace. “who taught you to dance, princess?”

you can't tell if he's teasing, or being genuine so rather than answer, you glance down, pretending to focus on your steps as you try to ignore the fluttering in your chest.

and finally with one last dramatic twirl, your hands tracing delicate arcs in the air, the music crescendoes and satoru catches you in a perfect dip, your head tilting back with a flourish.

instantly, cheering erupts, the room absolutely filled with clapping and whistling as your chest heaves up and down, still in his arms.

you had been so caught up you hadn't even realized everyone had stopped to watch you two, and with your finish, you were now the center of attention.

and as you seat yourself in a chair across from satoru, the formal banquet about to begin, you finally answer his question, seemingly out of nowhere, making him come to a start as he looks at you.

"my mother put me in dance classes from a young age." you smile bitterly as the memory washes over you. "you know it's funny, she was always the most beautiful dancer in the ballroom at my kingdom, but she wouldn't teach me. said i was "too slow", "had two left feet", "didn't pick up quickly", and i was nothing like her. she had someone else instruct me, and every day i would go and practice as much as i could, in hopes of getting better and pleasing her."

"did you?" satoru presses.

you sigh sadly. "i did, but it was never enough for her. nothing was. i remember thinking when i was younger, that maybe there was something wrong with me, and that's why she couldn't love me. why anyone couldn't love me, really. i've always felt like just a mere decoration in my palace, just another step on my mother's agenda."

what he says next surprises you. "i get what you mean. ever since i was little, my parents have been telling me, "you're going to be king" "one day you're going to overtake the throne" and "think of your future kingdom", when all I ever wanted was to be a child."

he draws nearer to you. "but, that gets taken from you once you're born into a monarchy, right?"

you nod. "that, and everything else down to your way of life, your interests, your dreams.." you break off, eyes flickering down to his lips for a moment. "..your husband."

the conversation between you becomes more intimate as he leans in too, lips above yours, and just as you start to close the distance..

the distinct sound of a fork clinking against a glass.

the royal toasts were starting.

it was from satoru's father, the king, his wise, crinkled smile looking around at all his subjects. "hello everyone. we thank you for coming out tonight to celebrate the birth of a new age, as my son and the daughter of a rival kingdom have come together in marriage, forever binding our palaces as one. this marks the start to a new era."

he pauses, letting the people around break out into clapping, some cheering, before going on.

"as you are aware, i will be stepping back from my role as king, knowing our future is in capable hands, by your new king and queen.."

at that, he lifts a glass toward your table, winking solemnly.

"to satoru, my successor, my pride, and the future of this kingdom. may your reign be long, your rule wise, and may you bring many heirs to this kingdom."

wait.

heirs?

you turn to look at satoru, his face paling.

"to the future, to the kingdom, and to the continuation of our legacy!"

"long live the king!"

[alinathinkstoomuch]

THOROUGHLY DEALT WITH

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you're angry with aaron for missing an important event, so naturally, he fucks the anger out of you. warnings | an: UMMMM ok so! p in v sex, fingering & oral (f receiving) spanking, drooling, overstimulation, masturbation, light d/s elements, choking & mirrors (can u tell i have my favs) somnophilia mentioned, errthang consensual, age gap, just filth yalllll word count: 4.2k… i wrote this when i was ovulating,, my cycle unfortunately decides what content i post LOL

✧ masterlist

You began with his shirts. The infuriatingly pristine, colour-coded, pattern-matched shirts hanging in your closet. The one you once shared. After tonight, however, you’d have ample room for your winter coats.

It felt harsh, thinking that way. And perhaps, once the adrenaline had ebbed, you’d be curled up among those coats, using the sleeves as tissues. But for now, you let the mindset of pure rage, slight dramatics and fury take the lead.

You knew what you were stepping into, a relationship with a man who might as well have been the crown jewel of the FBI, given how seldom he was home. And you bore it with grace. You never demanded much, only ever asked for compromise when it mattered, when it truly mattered.

So one by one, the shirts sailed over the bannister, landing in a crumpled heap by the entryway. Cotton casualties of yet another one of his spectacularly poor decisions.

He’d missed it.

The one thing you’d asked him not to miss. Not a work dinner, not some meaningless social obligation, but your event. The one you’d planned for months, circled on the calendar, reminded him of over and over. The one he looked you dead in the eye and promised he’d be there for.

What did you get instead? A text.

I’m sorry. Something came up.

Something came up, indeed. The collapse of your relationship, for starters.

Okay, maybe that was the dramatics talking. Maybe you didn’t want it to end, but you wanted—no, needed—him to take you seriously. Because how dare he? How dare he treat your life like the flexible one? As if your moments were optional, but his moments, ones that revolved around blood, caution tape, and sirens were the ones that ever mattered.

And the worst part of it all was the fact that despite all your anger, you still missed him in a way that language couldn’t quite capture. He’d been out on a case for two weeks, and even before that, he was barely home, glued to that damn bureaucratic chair in his office like it deserved more of him than you did.

You’d spent the last eight hours convincing yourself you were done. Done making excuses for him. Done watching your life conform to his schedule, his job, him in general. But your body, the ultimate traitor, didn’t seem done with him at all. Not when your hand drifted between your legs in the shower, picturing the way he used to pin you there, palm flat against your sternum.

Not even now, when you were supposed to be standing your ground. You still found yourself wishing he’d walk through that door and press you against it, like he needed it just as badly as you did.

Maybe that’s all this was. Maybe all you needed was a good fucking.

And you knew that was exactly what you would’ve gotten, had he shown up like he promised. He would’ve started in the car, hand gripping your thigh, maybe even slipping under your dress, getting you all worked up before you’d even made it home.

Then he would’ve railed into you, bent you over the piano in the foyer, lights blazing because of course he’d want the neighbours to see exactly how he rewarded your hard work. But no. You went home alone. Worked up, pissed off, with every intent of emptying your wine stash. Which you did.

And now, you stood at the top of the stairs, breath uneven as your pulse pounded in your throat. And that’s when you heard it.

His car in the driveway.

Shoes. Yes. Shoes seemed poetic. Fitting. The perfect thing to hurl at him with all the grace of a woman scorned and denied an earth-shattering orgasm. Actually, orgasms—plural. Because he wouldn’t have stopped at just one. He would’ve teased the first out of you, held you at the edge until you begged, then made up for it with two more. Rewards for being so damn patient.

You turned on your heel and marched back into the closet, snatching the nearest pair of his smug little leather loafers. Polished, arrogant things, much like the man who owned them.

By the time he stepped through the front door, you were already back at your vantage point, arm cocked, waiting until he turned to launch the first shoe.

It missed his head by a fraction and slammed into the doorframe with a satisfying crack.

He froze, jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, tie loosened and all.

“Hi, honey,” you called out, your voice sweet enough to rot teeth. Then came the second loafer which landed just short of his feet. “Figured I’d give you a hand with the packing,” you added, gesturing to the shirts across the entryway. “Consider it a head start. I assumed your schedule wouldn’t allow for sentimentality.”

He set his briefcase down first, then his jacket, but you didn’t stay to watch the performance. You were already halfway down the hall, disappearing into the closet like a woman possessed, and thoroughly, furiously sexually frustrated.

You grabbed as many of his jackets as your arms could carry, yanking them from the rack with such force—hangers still hooked—you were genuinely surprised the bar hadn’t come crashing down with them.

You heard him then, just shy of the dressing room, steps clear as day. You paused in the hallway and dropped the pile right where it met the doorway, letting the expensive fabric fall into a heap like a makeshift barricade.

Then, back into the closet you went. You reached for what was left, another jacket, two more blazers, and his beloved cashmere sweaters. You snatched them from their hangers like they were the ones that were responsible. And with your arms full again you turned, only to find him standing there. So close that you nearly walked right into him.

“Unless you’re here to carry these to the curb, I suggest you get the hell out of my way, Aaron.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the pile in your arms, then back to your face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Like hell you’re not—”

“Just put my things down and we can talk about this,” he said, with that infuriatingly calm voice that made you want to scream, in two very different ways. “I know I made a mistake.”

You scoffed and stepped closer, close enough to breathe him in. Not the crisp, clean scent you were used to in the mornings when he’d leave for work showered, shaven and put together.  No, this was him at the end of the day. The faint remnants of cologne clinging to his skin, mixed with something more worn-in, and when he exhaled, you caught the faintest trace of bourbon on his breath. Rossi’s doing, no doubt.

Probably his way of trying to calm him down.

You’d heard Dave refer to you as a ‘fiery one’ more than once, always with a little too much amusement in his voice. He’d even joked, right in front of you, that Aaron wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. Said he’d fold if you ever gave him real attitude. Clearly, Rossi had sensed what kind of storm Aaron was walking into tonight and had handed him a glass like some kind of offering from the gods.

“So not only are you incapable of being unselfish for one night that doesn’t revolve around you, you also seem to have a stunningly poor ability to follow basic instructions,” you snapped, voice rising in a way that was rare. “Are you absolutely certain you went to FBI school, or did you half-ass that the way you half-ass everything else you claim to care about?”

“Are you done?”

“Not even fucking close. But go ahead, interrupt again. You’re great at that, right?” You shoved the pile of clothes into his chest, hard enough to make him take a step back. “Talking over people, brushing them off, missing everything that actually matters until it’s already too late.”

He stood there for a second, holding the clothes before letting them drop to the floor without a word. You let out a bitter laugh at the sight and moved to shoulder past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you hissed, turning back to face him. “Don’t walk away from the man who didn’t show up? Don’t stop screaming because it’s the only thing that gets through that thick, federal skull of yours?”

“Don’t do this. Not when you want me more than you want me to leave.”

“What? Are you—are you actually insane? Delusional? Is this the sleep deprivation talking? Because if so, you can take that smug little fantasy and get the hell out of my house.”

He let go of your wrist, but only to step behind you. His hands moved to your hips, turning your body to position you in front of the island in the centre of the dressing room.

“You want me gone?” he asked.

You cocked your head slightly to the right, catching his reflection in the mirror ahead as he began to undo his tie.

“Say it,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours in the glass. “Say it while I’m inside you.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not because you lacked words, lord knows you had plenty. And he hadn’t even scraped the surface of the venom still burning at the back of your throat. But your body—traitorous, wretched thing—had already betrayed you.

You were supposed to be holding your ground. Not standing there, spine taut, with him behind you, visibly restraining yourself from folding over the island and handing him all your anger, gift-wrapped in a neat little bow that read please, fuck me senseless.

His fingers brushed your waist, and your lungs locked up. Your throat was so dry your heart had taken to skipping two beats at a time, just to remind you to swallow.

“I missed one night,” he continued, his fingertips now trailing up the length of your forearms. “But I haven’t missed this. Not once.”

You let out a flimsy exhale, turning your head to meet his eyes in the mirror once more. “You think this makes it better?” You knew it did. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of answer that made sense in a normal relationship, but nothing about you and Aaron had ever been normal.

“No,” he answered like the gentleman he was pretending to be, knowing exactly what was coming. “But I think you want it anyway.” And then his hands dropped from your arms completely. “So…what’s it going to be?”

Your hands moved before your mind did, bracing yourself against the island, knuckles whitening as your spine arched over the marble.

He hummed in approval, hands moving to your neck, brushing your hair aside. “That’s what I thought.” You felt him press into you, the weight of him flattening you against the surface as his fingers found the zipper of your jeans.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you lied, needing to put up some kind of fight.

He stilled for half a second, then let out a quiet laugh. “No?” he mocked, dragging the denim down your thighs until it was bunched at your knees. “Then why are you shaking?”

“Because I can’t fucking stand you,” you spat, forehead pressing to the marble, breath fogging against it as you tried—really tried—to remember why you decided his wardrobe would look better scattered across the entryway.

You heard him click his tongue behind you.

“Honey,” he drawled, his voice so pleased and full in all the ways that you were seconds away from being.“You’re so wet your underwear’s turned three shades darker.” And just to prove your point, his thumb dragged slowly over the soaked fabric making your body jolt, forehead nearly smacking the marble with the force of the reaction.

“Step out of the jeans for me,” he murmured, tapping your right thigh first, then your left.

You kicked the material off one leg at a time, your balance swaying as you did, hands tightening around the edge of the island for strength because it was the only thing keeping you upright.

His hand slid up the backs of your legs again, brushing that spot where your ass met your thighs. Then, without a word, his fingers slipped underneath the gauzy material of your panties.

You sucked in a breath as his middle finger dragged through your folds.

“Do you remember what had you so pissed off in the first place?” he questioned, like he genuinely expected you to form a coherent sentence right now.

“Yes,” you groaned into the counter, hips bucking shamelessly against his hand.

“So greedy,” he tutted, pulling his finger back just enough to watch your hips chase it. “Want me out of the house. Throwing my things out like some scene from a bad divorce. But one finger and you’re already a whiny little mess?”

A strangled noise tore from your throat, something between a curse and a moan, as your hands gripped the counter tighter.

“How many times did you touch yourself while I was gone, hm?”

“I—fuck, I don’t—”

“You don’t know?” He pushed a thick finger inside you, making you hiss at the stretch. “That’s not a real answer. Try again.”

You bit down on your lower lip hard enough to sting, eyes fluttering shut as your body betrayed you all over again.

“I asked you a question.”

“Three,” you gasped. “Maybe four.”

He let out a low, satisfied noise. “Maybe? You lost count?”

“D-Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he laughed, adding a second finger. “You’re doing it for me.”

Your right hand curled into a fist, accidentally knocking a bag off the side in the process. “I hate you,” you mewled, the words barely making it past your throat.

“Liar,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your spine as his fingers worked deeper, curling just right. “You don’t hate me. You hate that I know exactly how to make you come before I’ve even unzipped my pants.”

Your mouth was parted against the marble, and when a moan caught in your throat, you managed to drag it back down just barely. Coaxing it into a shaky breath instead, trying to cling to the last scraps of pride you had left. Because he was right. Infuriatingly right.

“Well?” you hissed, breath catching. “Are you going to unzip your pants, or are we still pretending your fingers are doing anything I didn’t handle on my own while you were gone?”

Your heard an unbothered chuckle from him first and then felt the sharp sting of his palm landing against your ass, second. The impact was muffled by the fabric of your underwear, but the message landed all the same.

“That’s sweet, dear. But I don’t remember hearing you make these kinds of noises the last time you decided to take care of yourself…right next to me.”

You jaw clenched.

It had only happened once. You thought he was asleep—clearly, he wasn’t. He’d gotten in late from work, and you hadn’t wanted to bother him, so you took matters into your own hands… literally.

In hindsight, it explained the sudden burst of sex drive the next morning. You’d woken up to his mouth between your legs like he was trying to make a point that he could always make you come harder.

His free hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head to the side as he angled your face toward the mirror. “This isn’t how you sounded then, is it?” he taunted, fingers slipping out of you just to circle your swollen clit instead.

You gasped, body jerking at the sudden change in pressure.

“And just for that—” his hand stilled, the contact vanishing altogether, “—you can wait.”

You took the chance to catch your breath, heart pounding as you clenched around nothing, blinking back the tears gathering in your waterline like they’d scheduled a meeting.  

Glancing at the mirror you saw his hands work his belt free and you were tempted. So incredibly tempted to prove him wrong, to reach down between your legs and finish what he so cruelly started. Just a few strokes, that’s all it would take. But before you could even move—

“Don’t.”

You stilled. Every muscle locked.

“Put one hand between your legs,” he continued, the sound of his belt sliding from the last loop sharp in your ears, “and I’ll bind both behind your back. You won’t come tonight. Or tomorrow.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, barely managing to pull air in. The fabric of your top clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and a rage that seemed to be dissipating by the second. All that remained in its place was a desperate, aching hunger for him.

You pressed your thighs together without thinking, chasing some kind of friction, some kind of relief, but Aaron’s hands were already on your hips. His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, tugging them down your legs.

You knew it was his favourite part, especially when he had you bent over nearly every surface in the house. He loved watching the strings of your wetness peel away with the fabric, loved when it dripped down your thigh.

Once you were free of the only barrier between the two of you, you braced yourself flat against the counter, arching your back just enough to let him swipe his thumb through your pussy, allowing him relish in your wetness like a ritual he never dared to skip.

“Still want me to go?” he asked, though his voice carried a gentler note.

You turned your head, eyes back on the mirror. “Just fuck me,” you whispered—no, begged. “Please.”

He leaned in, bending over you to press a kiss to the inside of your forearm. Then another, trailing lazily up the length of your arm to your shoulder. Behind you, you felt his hand move between your bodies, hearing the rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.

He aligned himself with you, dragging the thick length of his cock between your thighs, letting you feel everything. Every vein, every throbbing inch, the obscene heat of him paired with the wet slip of precum he spread over you.

You keened out a moan, barely managing to keep yourself upright even with the counter beneath you, legs beginning to shake with the effort it took to stay still.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” he murmured, voice rasping just below your ear. “I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

“I know,” you breathed just as he guided your hips, braced his feet, and buried himself inside you in one devastating thrust. The stretch sent you spiralling, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as your forehead found comfort in the marble once more.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out just enough to make you clench around the absence, and then slammed back in harder.

One hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your nipple while the other found its way back to your slick clit. All that came from your mouth were broken, pathetic sounds. Half-moans, half-sobs, every syllable caught between nonsense and pleading.

“A-Aaron, oh my f—god—oh—” Your voice wavered as he hit that spot again, and again, and again, until you were shaking with every thrust.

Drool slipped past your lips, a thick string trailing down to the countertop, followed by more, clinging to your chin, catching in the strands of your hair as you trembled under the weight of his body.

You felt Aaron release your nipple before his hand moved to your neck, his palm firm against your throat, holding you in place just as another string of spit slipped past your lips, landing on his hand.

“Look at you,” he grunted, tightening his hold as his hips lurched forward again. “Dripping from both ends.”

“Please don’t stop—I’m—I’m—”

“You’re close,” he chuntered, breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it, baby. You’re squeezing me so fucking tight, I don’t think I can last much longer.”

Your whole body locked, spine arching violently off the counter, eyes rolling back as the coil deep in your belly finally snapped. Your mouth opened in a silent scream, nothing coming out but air, tears, and barely intelligible sounds that might’ve been his name.

But Aaron didn’t stop.

Not even when your legs gave out beneath you, not when you slumped forward against the marble, sobbing through the aftershocks that tore right through you. He held you up, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, fucking you through it, slow and deep now, like he needed to feel every last twitch and tremble your body offered him.

You could feel his rhythm start to falter, each thrust getting sloppier, his hips stuttering against you. Then, with a muffled moan into your shoulder, he pushed into you one final time and stilled, cock pulsing as he came. His grip eased, but his whole body shuddered against yours like he’d been hanging on just long enough to make sure you came first.

He made sure you were completely filled before he pulled out slowly, causing you to whimper at the emptiness. You barely managed to brush the damp hair from your face, to wipe away at the trail of drool on your chin, before his arms were around you again, this time gently guiding you down to the floor of the dressing room.

“Aaron,” you panted, landing on a pile of clothes you’d thrown there earlier. Soft cotton, rumpled cashmere, the ghost of his cologne clinging to it all. “What…what are you doing?”

“Shh, honey.” He knelt between your legs, his knees cracking on the way down.

“Sure this is good for your old man frame?”

He spread your legs open, fingers moving to push his come back inside you. “If I throw my back out eating your pussy, I’ll die a happy man.”

Your breath caught, hips jerking instinctively at the contact. “Jesus—Aaron—”

He lowered his head, mouth hot and wet as it latched onto your cunt, tongue dragging through the mess he’d just pushed back into you like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, undecided if you were pulling him closer or trying to push him away. “I don’t think I can go again, baby,” you gasped, your thighs twitching from the overstimulation.

You heard a sloppy, muffled, “You can,” just as he sucked your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make your vision white out for a second.

“Motherfuc—” Your legs locked around his head with such force that it had to be uncomfortable for him, maybe even a little painful. But when you opened your eyes and looked down, he didn’t look bothered in the slightest.

You caught the way his hips were grinding slowly into the rug beneath him, telling you this might not even be for your pleasure anymore but for his.

“I really, really don’t think I can come again,” you cried out, hips lifting into his mouth. “Please, Aar—”

Your voice broke off as he groaned against your pussy, loud and filthy. The vibration of it paired with the way he lapped at you, coaxed that familiar feeling, winding tight in your abdomen.

You shook your head, back arching, mouth open but no sound escaping as he sucked your clit into his mouth and circled it with his tongue over, and over and over again.

“Aaron, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

The words dissolved into a sob as the pressure inside you reached its peak, crashing over you with a dizzying force. You came again, harder this time, legs spasming, hands clawing at the rug and his hair, tears slipping down your temples as your body convulsed under him.

You felt his mouth finally ease up, the warmth of him pulling away only for a moment until he was crawling up your body, bracing himself on his elbows as he hovered over you.

He scanned your face, watching the way your chest heaved, the way your eyes were still screwed shut as you tried to come down from the high he’d dragged out of you. He didn’t say anything, just let you come back to him on your own terms because he was generous like that.

Your fingers slowly loosened their grip on the rug, the tension bleeding from your limbs. Finally, you blinked up at him, dazed and thoroughly fucked-out.

“Think I went to heaven.”

He huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Were they impressed?”

You let out a weak laugh, your hands dragging up from the rug to rest on his shoulders. “I’m still mad at you. Just… now I can do it with a clear head rather than a—”

“Horny one?” he supplied, earning a nod from you.

“Mhm. Was this your idea of an apology?”

“I mean…” He looked down at you, then at the mess around the closet. “It stopped you from throwing any more of my clothes, didn’t it?”

You snorted. “Temporarily.”

“I’ll take it.” He leaned down to press a lazy, unhurried kiss to your cheek. “Now, come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Then you can go back to yelling at me properly.”

[luvlyycy]

⋆｡° ✮ : you've lived in this boring town forever. and your love life was just as boring— all of a sudden a new [HOT] boy moves in next door— who's to say this won't change everything?

⋆｡° ✮ : neighbor!phainon is here and he is here to stay yall. this is part one of a mini series i have planned >:3c (fic name from call me maybe by carly rae jepsen)

⋆｡° ✮ : cw;; no explicit smut, just very suggestive, some minor cursing.

Ever since you moved to this town, it’s been the same stuff. The same people. It’s a small town, houses all pushed together with their own yards. Luckily, nobody was in anyone’s business; they all stayed in their own lanes. Even though there were no rumors or loud neighbors to be wary of, you all knew of each other.

Everything was normal and boring until you spotted that U-Haul truck next door. Your fingers hold open the blinds as you peek through. That’s when you spot him, your new neighbor in all his sweaty glory.

His white hair is messy as it sticks to his forehead, his forearms bulging as he picks up the heavy box, jaw tight. Your mouth gapes as you watch his eyes wince— those beautiful blue eyes enchanting you. Thick veins run down his arms as he carries the box into his house. The tight white tank top that stretched over his sweaty pecs was now nearly translucent. It drives you against the wall.

“What the fuck..” you whisper to yourself, feeling the heat rush up your back and causing all the blood to rush to your face. This may have been a bit creepy or stalker-ish to watch your new neighbor move all the stuff into his house, but you couldn’t help it! He was just so… fine.

After a few long, agonizing minutes, you decide maybe he needs some cold water. Or a snack? You definitely weren’t making excuses to meet him, or see his body up close, or see those blue eyes stare back into your own.

You grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge, along with some chips you had left over before trudging your way to your door. You open it, and the heat hits you in the face. The nerves set in too late as you stand in front of his door, your lips pursed into a thin line, you raise your hand to knock—knock, knock, knock!

“Coming!”

God, he sounds like a supermodel. You make a mental reminder to thank god for this guy’s parents because goddamn did they do a good deed.

The door swings open before you can spiral anymore, his hand on the door frame as he leans forward, breathing heavily.

“Hey, something you need?”

You suck in air, nearly gasping for it as you hold the bottle and chips up, “Hi, I, um, I live next door and I saw you moving your stuff in,” totally not creepy, “so I decided to get you a snack and some water.”

He looks delightfully surprised, “God, thanks. I needed this. I just plugged my fridge in, so it isn’t cold enough to use yet.” he grins, taking the bottle and the chips.

You watch closely as he pops open the bottle, hooks his lips on it, and gulps it down. You watch each bob of his throat, the way a few loose drops slink down the corner of his lips and roll down his neck. He pulls away with a soft breath of air, his lips glistening.

He turns back to you with a smile, “You’re a lifesaver,” he laughs out, “I’m Phainon, by the way.”

Phainon. God’s gift to earth, Phainon.

You tell him your name and he nods, “Cute name.” You both stare for a second before he clears his throat, “Well, I should get back to work. I gotta bring this AC in before I melt.”

You laugh, your hands fidgeting as you take a few steps to the side, watching him step out from his house and walk to the U-Haul parked in his driveway, “Hope the water helps out a little!”

He sets down the bottle and the chips in the back of the truck before turning to you, his blue eyes glistening as he calls out, “Oh yeah! It’s helping already!”

“Well, bye! I’ll see you around!” you say back.

“Yeah! You’ll see me a lot since I’m always home, either that or workin’!” he replies.

You see his body glisten in the sun as he tucks his fingers underneath his shirt, peeling it off his skin and over his head, tossing it into the grass before stretching out his neck and shoulders.

You turn quickly and practically run into your house. Despite the air conditioner being on, the cool breeze does little to nothing at calming your heated body down. You breathe heavily as you lean against the door, your heart pounding in your chest.

This is going to be a long, long, looooonnnggg, summer.

Every day, you see him, either getting into his car or doing some yard work. Now and then, you guys bump into each other, making up small talk about whatever comes to mind.

These recent nights have been agonizing. It’s like he’s tormenting you with his body. His bedroom window is straight across from yours, and even though he has curtains— he never closes them.

You aren’t complaining, honestly. It’s just getting kind of hard to focus throughout the day, knowing you’re probably going to see your sexy neighbor getting dressed tonight.

And you’re right.

He is getting dressed— or more so, undressed. You watch as he lifts his shirt up over his head, shaking his hair side to side to seemingly make it more comfortable. You can’t see, but he unbuckles his belt, his head leaning down to watch his hands. To you, it looks a bit more suggestive than that, your lips pursed in a thin line as heat crawls up your back.

He tosses his shirt onto a chair that’s in front of a gaming PC, before tossing his belt onto the chair as well. Your heart jumps quickly as he turns to the window, it seems to be only for a glance, but you swear he looks right at you. You chalk it up to overthinking. Phainon walks out of view, and suddenly you’re able to breathe again.

You slowly turn around and crawl into your bed. You weren’t planning on ever getting a summer crush or something cliche like that. But here you are, lying in your bed, snuggled against your comforter in the dark with the soft hum of the AC in the back as you breathe heavily. You feel your heart in your throat, and the only thing on your mind is him.

Your stupid neighbor. Your stupidly handsome and oddly sexy neighbor. Phainon. You groan and stuff your face into a pillow. Your hands squeeze your pillow with so much vigor, you’re shocked it doesn’t rip.

It’s just a crush, a silly crush. It has to be.

You fall asleep thinking that, and you dream of him. It’s an odd dream, really, you dream that Phainon is looking down at you with a lopsided grin—

“Time to get to work, huh?” he reaches down with garden gloves and wraps his hand around you, ripping you out from the ground before setting you beside him in a barrel. You saw his veins bulge, his muscles tense as he ripped you out with a sharp groan.

Your body shudders as you wake, eyes wide and drool soaking your pillow.

Yes, you dreamt that you were a weed, and he was ripping you from the soil. Did you feel ashamed? Yes. Did you like it? Also yes. Not your finest moment, but hey, sexy neighbors make everyone act weird.

The day drags out longer than you ever wanted it to, the dream haunting you throughout the day as well. You sit on the porch after running some errands, a drink in your hand with a cupcake on your lap.

The sun is beating down as you sip your drink, eyes watching the cars drive by. You spot Phainon’s car pulling into his driveway, silently cursing yourself.

He steps out of the car and shuts the door behind him. He looks mad, his eyebrows are knitted tightly together, and his jaw is tight as he makes his way into his house, shutting the door behind him with a loud thump.

You take a bite of your cupcake. Worry seeps into your veins, wondering what could have made the sweetest boy you know upset. You’ve never seen him angry prior to this, maybe frustrated when a dog would soil his lawn, but never angry.

You see him exit his house again, phone in hand, as he takes quick steps down the stairs. He stops for a second to look down at his phone, a soft curse exiting his lips as he does.

“You okay?” you call out warily. His head perks up in your direction, similar to a dog.

His face eases as soon as he sees you, “Yeah, I’m fine. Stupid dude at my job broke something and I gotta fix it.”

“Ohhh. Are you like, a handyman?” you giggle out.

He laughs, stuffing his phone into his pocket, “Actually, yeah. Kinda. I mow lawns and stuff, take out their weeds and install those uhh, like—” he snaps his fingers for a second, looking down. He remembers as he looks up with a smile, “Landscape edgings!”

“Wow,” you look surprised, “How much does it cost? My lawn is a mess, actually.”

He laughs, “I don’t think it’s that bad. It costs like three or ten per foot, but for you, I’d do it for free.”

Oh. Oh.

“No payment needed except your time.”

Stupid, Phainon.

“Cool, just call me or something when you can do it.” you manage out, despite the feeling of your heart jumping into your throat. He steps closer to your porch, carefully leaning on it underneath the wooden railing.

“How can I call you?”

“Oh, sorry,” you speak out, the embarrassment sinking into your veins as you reach for his phone. He puts it into your phone, his fingertips grazing yours for a moment before you grab hold of his phone.

You enter your number into his phone before giving it back to him: “Here’s my number, call me whenever needed.”

“Awesome. I will be calling you every day from now on because all the friends I have are men.” he laughs out and you laugh along with him, “That must suck.” you respond as he retreats back to his car.

“It does suck! They are all so dramatic, too,” he huffs as he slips into his car, rolling down his window, leaning over to say one more thing, “I’ll call you later! At work, maybe. I don’t know! But make sure to pick up.”

“I will!”

At least now he has your number.

⋆｡° ✮ : taglist ! @httpshujii

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated!