#I feel like something's missing on that one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

papayainsectorone · 3 days ago

Text

Just The Two Of Us.

summary: a night of dancing and too much alcohol dredges up old (?) feelings and unresolved tension between you and lando, blurring the line between history and heat as a single moment threatens to unravel everything you’ve both been trying not to want

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, alcohol / intoxication, mutual (?) pining, soft angst, sexual tension, drunken vulnerability, thigh riding, drunk confessions, soft horny chaos

word count: 5,5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since that night at the bar. Since you walked away with Charles and Lando just… let you. Since whatever that moment was between you all evaporated into the haze of alcohol, music, and unspoken choices.

Lando never brought it up.

Not once.

He never asked what happened with Charles, never made a comment, never let anything slip—except for the way he looked at you a little differently for a few days after. Like he was trying to piece something together and never quite figured out how to ask the question. Or maybe he just didn’t want the answer.

But after that? Things fell back into place.

Sort of.

The banter returned, light and easy. Familiar. You still teased each other over your tragic snack choices and made sarcastic comments about each other’s Spotify queues. There were late-night kitchen run-ins, the occasional movie half-watched together, and the same dumb inside jokes passed between you like muscle memory.

But everything now had Charlotte’s name quietly folded into it.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom sometimes. Her perfume lingered in the hallway when she left. There were missed calls on his phone from her. Her laughter on speaker when he’d answer mid-conversation with you. She was never intrusive, never rude, always warm and friendly when you crossed paths but she was there.

And so you drifted again.

Still close, but no longer the center of each other’s gravity.

But one Thursday night, he brought it up casually, like it was nothing.

Lando leaned against the counter, half a slice of toast in one hand, his phone glowing on the table beside him.

“Oh—hey,” he said, glancing over. “Remember the DJ I wanted to take you to see?”

You looked up from your laptop, distracted. “The one from the night I violently started vomiting?”

That’s what you said out loud.

What you thought was: The one from the night you met Charlotte.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. He’s back this weekend. Playing that same club. Charlotte’s out of town—family thing—so I thought, you know… maybe you’d want to go?”

You blinked. “With you?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We haven’t properly been out together in a while.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You were ready to. The excuse was half-formed, something about being tired or having plans or just not being in the mood. But then you looked at him.

The way he was smiling, not the flashy kind he used with everyone else. Just quiet. Hopeful. Familiar.

It tugged something loose in your chest. Something softer.

And you realized how long it had been since it was just the two of you. Since the night was only yours, not divided by subtext or someone else’s presence. Just Lando. Just you.

“Okay,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

His whole face lit up. “Yeah? Sick.”

He was already unlocking his phone, tapping away excitedly, like this was something he’d been waiting on for longer than he let on.

And for a second, you let yourself feel it too.

The anticipation. The comfort. The possibility of something that used to be yours.

Even if it wasn’t anymore.

And when Saturday came arround, you didn’t set out to get that drunk.

It started small. Innocent. A night out that felt overdue—just the two of you again, no lingering tension, no third presence hovering over your shoulder. Something that might feel like old times, even if it wasn’t.

The air was stiff at first. Not cold exactly, just... cautious. Like you both were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would laugh first, tease first, act like nothing had changed.

But the moment you really realized Charlotte wasn’t there and wasn’t even mentioned, something in you loosened. You let the tightness in your chest go slack. Just a little.

Lando’s voice was familiar. His jokes were predictable and comforting. His eyes, bright and warm and pointed only at you, felt like home again.

Then came the drinks. Just one each. Then a second. Then shared shots, the kind you never liked but took anyway, because he handed it to you with that grin and you didn’t want to be the reason it faded.

Then the music got louder. The lights got blurrier.

And you started to feel good. Really good.

The kind of good that makes you forget the ache in your chest. The kind that makes it easy to smile without thinking. Easy to dance without worrying where his hands aren’t.

Easy to believe that maybe none of this is as complicated as it’s become.

The place was packed, pulsing with heat and the blurred lines of strangers dancing too close. You moved through it all like someone trying to shake something off. The vodka burned, but it helped. The music was too loud, but it gave your thoughts somewhere to hide. People laughed, flirted, spilled drinks, and it all melted into a blur around the edges.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was him.

Lando looked stupidly good. The kind of good you tried not to notice anymore. His shirt clung in all the right places, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the mix of dancing and liquor. His laugh was even louder than usual, a little reckless. Real.

And you hated how much it got to you.

At one point, he leaned close to say something, and his hand found the small of your back. Familiar, casual. But you felt it everywhere. You didn’t pull away.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

You’d missed that version of him. The one who laughed without checking himself, who let the music move through him like it belonged there. The version of him that reached for your hand without hesitation, eyes bright and mouth already curved into a grin before you even made it to the dance floor.

“You remember this song?” he yelled over the heavy thump of the speakers, his fingers tightening around yours as he pulled you into the mess of bodies.

You stumbled forward, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. The alcohol made everything feel slightly off balance, spinning, sliding, but somehow safer in his orbit. “Of course I remember. You played it on a loop that summer.”

“I did not,” he protested, already grinning like he knew you were right.

“You did,” you insisted, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Three weeks. Same stupid song. I wanted to break your speaker.”

He raised his eyebrows, spinning you once with a dramatic flair. You wobbled, giggling, and crashed into him. His hands caught your hips to steady you, lingering just a second too long. “It’s a classic. Can’t argue with art.”

“You’re so full of it,” you said, still breathless.

“Drunk me is confident,” he corrected, swaying with you as the beat shifted to something heavier, deeper. His body moved closer, hands hovering but not quite touching now, the ghost of muscle memory dancing just beneath the skin.

“I said cocky,” you teased, looking up at him through lashes that felt too heavy.

He shrugged with a crooked smile. “Same thing.”

The air grew thicker with heat and sweat and perfume, the kind of charged closeness that made it hard to breathe but impossible to pull away from. Around you, people danced in a blur of limbs and laughter, but your focus narrowed. Just him. Just this.

You didn’t notice when your body curved back into his, only that it felt right. Familiar. Like falling into a rhythm your body hadn’t forgotten, even if your mind had tried. His chest pressed against your spine, hands still tentative, but closer now. Testing the distance.

His breath brushed your ear. “You’re dangerous like this,” he said, low enough to be private, words already slurred from the alcohol “You dance like you know someone is watching.”

The words sent a ripple down your spine. You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him, nothing but inches between you. You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

“And you talk like you forgot we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, voice even, but your pulse was anything but.

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just stared, expression unreadable except for the subtle flick of his eyes to your mouth. His fingers twitched where they hovered at your waist, like he was trying to decide if he could cross that line again. Just once.

The moment stretched, pulsing in time with the music. His eyes darkened, parted lips like he might speak, or do something else entirely.

And then someone stumbled past, jostling your shoulder. A splash of liquid hit your arm. Someone swore. You stepped back instinctively.

The spell broke. The music kept going, but something between you stopped.

It was already clear Lando had passed the threshold long before you'd left the club. Inside, he’d been leaning on you between songs, mumbling nonsense into your ear, slurring the end of every sentence like it was a secret. His eyes had lost their usual sharpness, replaced with that wide, glassy look that meant he’d stopped keeping track of how much he drank.

And when he threw his head back and yelled across the bar for “just one more round!”, you knew he was gone.

But it wasn’t until the cold air hit your faces that it really sunk in.

It slammed into you both like a wall, sobering and spinning at the same time. The night outside was harsh and too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring after hours of music pounding through your chest.

Lando blinked hard. Wobbled once. Then let out a groan so low and pitiful you almost laughed again. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes big and terrified like he’d just remembered gravity existed. “I don’t like this.”

You swayed slightly, vision swimming, trying to focus on the street signs. “You’re fine. Just keep walking. It’s not that far to the taxis.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered urgently. “Are they still attached?”

“They’re attached. One foot in front of the other.”

“I feel like I’m floating. But in, like, a bad way.”

He sagged heavily against your side, nearly dragging you both off the curb.

“You’re the best,” he muttered, lips brushing your shoulder, “but I still want chips.”

“I know,” you said, pulling him toward the curb. “We’ll find you chips. And maybe an exorcist.”

You were barely holding it together yourself. Your head was full of cotton, your mouth dry, legs wobbly beneath you. But you kept going. Because someone had to. And tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.

The cab ride was a miracle.

It smelled like kebabs and stale beer, the kind of sticky, sour stench that clung to your clothes. Lando collapsed the second he was in, sprawling across the backseat like a drunk prince. His head found your shoulder automatically, and his arm flopped across your lap, heavy and hot.

He sighed, a deep, content sound that tugged at something in your chest.

Then he mumbled something “ketchup”, maybe “curry sauce”. Or maybe your name. You weren’t sure. You didn’t want to be sure.

His eyes stayed shut, but the faintest smile curled at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that only ever showed up when he felt safe. Like this. With you.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared out the window, streetlights blurring past like stars falling sideways. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Quieter. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t think too hard about the weight of his hand on your knee.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop outside the flat, you nudged him gently. “Lando,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He groaned in protest and buried his face in your coat. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, then threw one arm dramatically over his eyes like he was playing dead.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that came from the soles of your feet. Exhausted. Amused. A little exasperated.

“Come on, Lando.”

He slumped deeper into the cab seat. “Nooooo.”

“Get. Up.”

“Carry me,” he said without shame, eyes shut, arms flopping out like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

You half-laughed, half-groaned, already climbing out of the car. “You are literally all limbs. You’re a human octopus.”

But despite his dramatic protest, he tried to stand—sort of. Wobbled to his feet with the grace of a baby deer and immediately swayed into you. You looped an arm around his waist, feeling the full, ridiculous weight of him as he leaned into your side like you were gravity itself.

Getting him across the pavement was a comedy of errors. Every few steps, he muttered something new: a complaint, a question, a half-coherent lyric. “It’s freezing,” he whined. “I’m dying. You know, I think I miss my bed more than I’ve ever missed anything. And do we have crisps? Wait—wait. Do you have crisps?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you hissed, breath fogging in the cold. “Shut up and walk.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected with great effort, slurring it into something closer to shar-ming as he bumped his forehead against yours. “Also… I love your hair.”

You faltered.

“What?”

“Just sayin’,” he said, the words thick and sweet. “It’s soft. Like—like clouds.”

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Finally—miraculously—you got the door open. The apartment greeted you with dim, golden light and that faint scent that was always there.

Lando nearly fell inside, catching himself with one hand on the wall before staggering upright. “I’m good,” he said to absolutely no one, then gestured grandly down the hallway like he was a knight returning from battle. “Bed. Now.”

He took off with a crooked gait, zigzagging like he was dodging invisible obstacles. You followed out of instinct more than anything, watching him collapse face-first onto his bed, limbs sprawled at impossible angles. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Lando,” you mumbled, pulling at your own boots, swaying a little. “Shoes. Off.”

“I can’t,” he whined, rolling onto his back. His voice went high and needy. “You do it. Please? I’m just a little drunk boy.”

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the bed, hands fumbling for his laces with what limited dexterity you had left. The room tilted slightly around you as you tried to focus.

Above you, there was a soft metallic clink. Then the subtle slide of leather on denim.

You paused. “Lando, what are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“You said to get undressed.”

You looked up, then immediately rolled your eyes.

His belt was halfway undone, his jeans unbuttoned, his shirt half-off in the most chaotic, tangled mess you’d ever seen. He looked like someone who’d lost a fight with his own clothing.

“I said take of your shoes, you idiot.”

But he was grinning now. Slow. Lazy. His elbows propped him up enough to look down where you knelt at the edge of the bed, between his legs. Curls messy, eyes half-lidded and locked on you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, soft and low. “What a view.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

Because his voice wasn’t teasing. Not really.

And neither was the way he was looking at you.

Your hands were still tangled in the laces of his second shoe, knuckles brushing against the fabric of his jeans, your body swaying ever so slightly from the haze of alcohol. You were kneeling between his legs—flushed, breathless, hair falling over your face in loose strands. A mess. But not the kind you cared to fix right now.

You giggled, quiet and nervous, trying to shake off the tension wrapping around your spine like a coiled wire. “You’re drunk,” you said, voice unsteady, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Lando groaned in response, collapsing back onto the mattress with all the weight of someone who’d decided that gravity was now in charge. His arms flopped outward, one draped dramatically off the side of the bed, the other dragging lazily down the middle of his chest. The mattress springs gave a long, creaking sigh beneath him.

Then his hand stilled—paused low on his stomach, his crotch to be fair.

You froze.

Your eyes followed the subtle shift of his fingers as they drifted downward, slow, unhurried, until they pressed against the front of his jeans. Just a simple adjustment. Natural. Absentminded. Adjusting the obvious buldge.

He exhaled, low and slow, like the weight of his own touch had ignited something he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers lingered, just for a second too long. And you were still kneeling there. Still watching.

Your breath caught like a tripwire.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “You know…” he began, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in sleep and liquor and something els, something unmistakably want. “I could just… see your lips wrapped around me. Right there.”

He said it like a confession, not a line. Not tossed with bravado or smirked with smug satisfaction.

It landed like a punch in the chest.

Your body went still. The air in the room shifted, sucked out of it and replaced with something dense. Electric.

You stared at him, stunned, not because of what he said, but because of how it made you feel. The way it shot straight through you, molten and reckless.

And without a word, you stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, your knees unfolding, rising to your feet with shaky grace. You stayed between his legs, your body towering over him now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

He didn’t move.

For a terrifying second, you thought maybe he had passed out. That all of it—all of him—was already slipping away again. Just another foggy memory you’d try not to touch later.

But then, his lashes fluttered. His head tilted forward. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, fingers warm and unsteady, gripping you like he didn’t trust the room to stay still. It took effort, but he sat up, blinking through the haze until his eyes locked on yours.

And then he was there.

Right there.

Face level with your chest, his chin resting between your boobs while looking up at you through his lashes. Your shirt had slipped lower than you realized, the neckline gaping just enough for his gaze to catch on bare skin. His lips parted, eyes dark and unblinking, and something in the air cracked under the weight of it.

This wasn’t the look of someone flirting.

This was hunger. Unfiltered. Slow-burning.

He tilted his chin up slightly, mouth open, like he was already breathing you in. And his hands—god, his hands—tightened on your waist, not pulling, just holding, like you were the only stable thing in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and reverent.

Your stomach knotted. Everything pulsed.

The room felt thick, too hot, your heart hammering in your throat. You couldn’t tell if the heat in your cheeks came from the alcohol or the way his eyes were dragging over you like he was memorizing every exposed inch.

“Lando…” you whispered. It wasn’t loud. Barely there. Like even saying his name might snap the fragile thread of tension between you.

But he heard you.

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look confused. He didn’t look careless.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. It was like he’d already decided. Like your voice saying his name only confirmed something that had already started unfolding the second the club door closed behind you.

His fingers—warm, unsteady—brushed up your back, trailing lazily over the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, like he was just touching to remember what you felt like. Then he dragged one hand across your side, curling around your ribs. The contact made you shiver.

“You look so good in this,” he mumbled, voice rough and low—drunk, slurred.

Then his fingers dipped forward, brushing across your chest. Not grabbing. Just a slow sweep through the valley of your breasts, knuckles grazing delicate skin like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.

You exhaled, sharp.

His eyes flicked up again, meeting yours.

You didn’t stop him.

There was a long moment where nothing happened and everything did, your breath shallow, your thighs tightening, your hands flexing uselessly at your sides.

He got impatient, hands sliding down to your hips before tugging you down onto his thigh. The motion was clumsy, uncoordinated, but it lit a spark in your gut all the same. Now straddling him, your legs bracketed his thigh, your body pressed close—closer than it had been in weeks.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and warm, the denim rough against your skin. The pressure made you gasp, a quiet, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out. He heard it anyway. Smirked.

His eyes trailed from the neckline of your shirt up to your face, pupils blown wide and unfocused and then he was touching you again, fingertips brushing your cheek, slipping around to the nape of your neck. You froze, breath hitched, a pulse thudding between your ribs.

He looked at you like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. He just pulled you in, his mouth crashing against yours.

You kissed him back like you were starving.

His groan rumbled low in his throat as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss was messy, all teeth and heat and unspoken feelings bursting to the surface. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue, could feel the weeks of silence and missed moments pouring out of him and into you.

It was overwhelming and perfect and reckless.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first.

It was slow—barely anything at all—but the friction caught instantly, your body shifting against the line of his thigh, your breath stuttering. His hands gripped you tighter, like he felt it too, a low sound slipping from his throat again, half moan, half curse.

You broke the kiss, lips parting as you pulled back just a little, your mouth still open, breathing him in. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark and glazed and fixed entirely on you.

What were you doing?

The thought flashed—brief, sharp—but it was buried under the weight of his hands, the warmth of him underneath you, the alcohol roaring in your bloodstream like a permission slip you didn’t need. All the silence. All the pretending. All of it collapsed into this moment that didn’t feel like a mistake yet.

And then—soft, urgent, not quite a plea—he said it:

“Don’t stop.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed like a strike.

You didn’t.

Your hips tilted again, slow and uncertain, chasing that pressure, feeling the flex of his thigh through his jeans and the heat building in your own body.

His hands slipped lower—slow, possessive—until one settled firmly at your hip, the other sliding down to grab your ass, fingers curling in a way that made you gasp. He pulled you harder against him, guiding your movement with an unspoken rhythm that had your whole body humming.

The friction turned sharper, needier. Your breath caught in your throat.

You leaned in again before you could think better of it.

Mouths crashed. No hesitation now, no teasing—just tongue and teeth and heat, wet and messy and drunk. His hand gripped you tighter, pulling your body flush against his. You rocked down into him, your hips rutting against his thigh, the pressure between your legs maddening.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow.

But it was exactly what it had to be.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the slap of mouths and the low groan in his throat as your nails scraped lightly over the back of his neck, as your lips dragged down to his jaw and he let out your name.

You barely noticed when you both tipped backwards, the mattress catching you in a clumsy sprawl. Lando grunted beneath you, his hands never leaving your body as your knee lifted, leg swinging over to straddle him properly now. You steadied yourself with your palms on his chest, breath ragged, hair slipping into your face.

For a beat, you just sat there, spine arching as your hips rolled down, your thin thong still catching friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands gripped your waist harder.

You sat up slowly, heart hammering and peeled your shirt off, casting it somewhere into the darkened room. His eyes were locked on your body, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast.

Your skirt had already rucked up to your hips, forgotten. There was nothing left but that barely-there thong, stretched tight between your thighs, and the heavy line of him beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with disbelief, hunger, awe. His fingers flexed, holding you like you might vanish.

You leaned forward again, hands braced against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through your palms. Then lower. Fingers dragging down to the buckle he’d half-undone earlier in some drunken, distracted haze.

He twitched beneath you as your knuckles brushed over him, still restrained beneath denim but so obviously hard now. His eyes fluttered, head tilting back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes meeting yours again, all glassy and unguarded.

Your fingers moved slowly at first, slipping beneath the open leather of his belt and trailing down to the place where his warm skin met the rough denim. His breath hitched as you brushed along the line of his hipbone, teasing just above the waistband.

Then he lifted his hips with a drunken urgency, clumsy but determined, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go. The motion made you gasp, half in surprise, half in something deeper. He reached up, pulling at the sides of your thong at the same time, dragging the thin fabric down your legs with a groan, not even trying to be careful.

You helped, just enough. And then his legs kicked out beneath you, tangled clothes gone, skin warm against yours, bare now in a way that made your breath stall in your throat.

As he fell back again, you reached for his shirt—fingers fumbling with the buttons, working them free one by one, trailing your finger tips over the skin you uncovered. He was flushed, warm, and trembling slightly beneath your touch.

Then he stilled.

His hips settled again, and you were sitting fully on top of him now, the heat of your bare skin pressed down against him. His length nestled right between your folds, your lips parting on either side of him and it was obscene how clearly you could feel him.

Every inch. Every ridge. Every slow, pulsing throb.

You weren’t moving yet. Just breathing.

And he wasn’t saying a word. Just staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening either.

You moved again, slow, unsteady, your hips tilting as the friction sparked another moan low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you down until your lips met again, even messier now, full of teeth and breath and need.

Then, in one dizzy motion, he rolled, flipping you beneath him with a half-laugh, half-groan, barely managing to brace himself on one elbow beside your head. The other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you close, keeping you there.

His body hovered over yours, heat pressed to heat. You could feel him, right there, poised, waiting.

Lando looked down at you, eyes glassy and wide, his curls damp against his forehead. He searched your face like he wasn’t even sure this was real.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He pressed forward, slow at first like he didn’t trust himself not to rush it. His hands gripped your hips like a tether, grounding him in the moment even as the rest of him trembled. You felt the stretch, the heat, the deep pull of him inside you, and your breath caught sharply. His mouth parted around a broken sound—barely a gasp, almost reverent.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His eyes were glassy, yes, but there was something almost sober in the way he met your gaze.

You cupped his face, fingers slipping through sweat-damp curls, and he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “You okay?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your cheek as he moved deeper. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You?”

You nodded too. Because you were.

The rhythm was messy, offbeat and drunken but there was something devastatingly earnest in the way he held you, kissed you, clung to you like this was something he’d been starving for. Like your body was the first place he’d felt whole in weeks. His hands moved constantly: down your back, over your ribs, threading into your hair like he couldn’t touch enough, couldn’t get enough. Every time your breath hitched, every time you whispered his name, he answered like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just undone.

Your hips rocked together, not perfectly, but with a building desperation that made it real. Your thighs trembled him, his grip tightening when you whimpered and he kissed you again, sloppy, open-mouthed, too much teeth. You didn’t care. You kissed him like you needed it to stay alive.

He whispered something then, your name, maybe, or a curse, or please. You didn’t catch all of it, just the weight of it, the way it split his voice open.

Your climax hit slowly, like your body was realizing it in pieces, rippling up your spine before washing through your limbs. You buried your face in his shoulder, breath breaking against his skin, clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

He came after, head thrown back, jaw slack, a sound falling from his throat like it had nowhere else to go. One hand held the back of your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, like if he let go you’d both come undone.

But he didn’t let go.

Not even when your bodies stilled. Not even when the heat ebbed into afterglow and your breath began to steady. He stayed with you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand curled at the base of your spine, holding you like something fragile. Sacred.

After it was over, the room settled into a heavy, almost reverent silence. You lay there, the warmth of his body molding against yours, his arm draped protectively around your waist while the other rested gently across your chest and shoulders. The rise and fall of his breath gradually slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

He nuzzled his head softly into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. It was a quiet kind of intimacy—slow, unspoken, raw in a way that made your chest ache.

Not like the other nights.

Not like the hurried kisses and tangled sheets and the silence that always followed, when you'd slip away before the sun touched the windows. When he'd turn his back or mumble something half-asleep and you'd pretend it didn’t hollow you out.

Those nights were physical. Fleeting. Always burning out before morning.

But this—this closeness—was different. He hadn’t let go. Hadn’t pulled away. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist like a tether, his nose brushing against your skin like he needed to feel you to stay grounded.

You didn’t quite know what had just happened. Part of you understood perfectly, yet another part felt suspended, caught between clarity and confusion.

Your hand found his forearm, fingers curling lightly around the soft skin, anchoring you to the moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

Then, barely more than a whisper, you broke it.

“Lan.”

A low groan, almost sleepy, came as a response. “Hm.”

You weren’t sure if he was still awake or already drifting away.

Gathering a quiet courage, you whispered again, “I love you.”

No answer. Just the faint sound of his breathing against your neck, steady and slow.

i literally said sorry in advance, pls don´t come for me

tag list:

@lifesass @mara1999 @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0

@pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs @isar8tsyyy @wetrainclouds @seonaw @msimpala--67 @isar8tsyyy @gvcnnnnnnnbvszxv9 @sparklepiastri @sailorinthesie @bell1a @spikershoyo @fer23022003 @vinylphwoar @wherethezoes-at @mbioooo0000 @v3nd3ttal3on @4-ln4 @belpsbelps @mckalala @hadids-world @chlmtfilms @lorena-mv33 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @queenkisskiss @trisharee @nataliambc

#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #f1 smut #𓊆papayainone𓊇 #ln4 smut #f1 series

788 notes · View notes

rynwrites4fun · 2 days ago

Text

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

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

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

Word: 4971

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

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

3 Months Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But neither of you said a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he hadn’t heard you.

But he had.

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

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

The silence in that elevator was suffocating.

The doors slid open.

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

Still, he ignored you.

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

—--

It had been a good day.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself.

You went down hard.

Your head hit the ground with a sickening crack.

Everything went black for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, what do we got?”

Jack reached the stretcher as the paramedic began briefing him.

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

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

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

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

It was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asked, not slowing.

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

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

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

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

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

Dana hesitated, lips pressed into a line.

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

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

Jack’s jaw was tight. “Exactly.”

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

“Alright” they quickly went off in different directions.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just in case,” she said softly.

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

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

Jack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You passed out? For how long?”

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” Princess murmured, careful and quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’ll handle it. He always does.”

He backed toward the door.

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

A beat.

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

He held your gaze.

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

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

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

And with that, he was gone.

—

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

Finally, she spotted him.

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

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

“Can… I talk to you outside?”

Michael glanced at her, then back at Javadi.

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

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

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

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

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

Then it hit him.

His stomach dropped.

You’re here.

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

“The bus pulled in a while ago-"

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

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

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

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

He barely registered people calling his name.

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

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

She hit her head.

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

And then another thought struck—hard and bitter.

He’d ignored you this morning.

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

And he hadn’t said anything back.

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

His chest felt tight. His feet moved faster.

Room 13. Room 13. Room 13.

Nothing else mattered. Not now.

Because you were here.

And you were hurt.

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

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

“Robby—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Michael straightened slowly, collecting himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s in good hands. Our hands.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#acrossthehall #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #noah wyle

609 notes · View notes

carlyraejepsans · 2 days ago

Text

HERE'S how a Gerson & Susie hug would go down even though Susie is very hesitant about PDA bc it's been haunting me for days.

At some point Gerson shows up in the story again and Susie is out of her mind with joy, so she launches herself at him only to freeze just a couple of steps away (she VERY clearly wants that hug but is too embarrassed to actually initiate or accept one).

Gerson looks at her and because he reads her like a book he's like "Well, what's the hol' up? Where's my hug?!"

and Susie's sputters like (miss me with that gay shit voice) "What? I... uh. Heh. You're kidding? Like I'm gonna go for a hug. You'll, uh, probably just use it to suplex me or something, anyway."

"Right, I see... Still a coward then, hmm?"

"What?!"

"Gah haha hah! Scared of a little tackle, are we? Think y' can't handle it? Can't even keep your feet on the GROUND?!"

until he riles her up enough that she tries to grab at him. He steps back. She tries again, he dodges.

"You know what? If you want a hug that badly, take THIS!!"

And she goes for a full sumo tackle. And Gerson tanks the hit. Heels planted, she probably slides him back an inch or two out of momentum, but he holds his ground...

...and holds her back. Just clinging to her, bone-crushingly tight, with her head tucked under his chin. He doesn't make another move. One second. Two. More. Until he feels her claws scratch the metal of his armor, and Susie's breathing goes a little funny.

And THEN he suplexes her.

#deltarune #gerson #susie #imagine Susie scrambling back to her knees #grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate and just yanking and shaking him in outrage #like she does with kris #meanwhile Gerson is just limp on the floor laughing too hard to move #she drops him on the floor when he starts to catch his breath again. he pulls himself upright eyes literally shining with laughter #does that thing grandpas do where they cup the side of your neck kinda roughly and just says ''I'm so glad to see you too my dear''#and susie looks away. a lil embarrassed but very clearly smiling and very clearly touched

1K notes · View notes

yan-randomfandom · 2 days ago

Note

Heyyy! I was wondering if you could do yandere saja boys x reader where the reader hangs out with a guy and they get very jealous

Yandere!Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; the day im satisfied with writing a yan!saja boys and/or yan!huntrix one shot is the day i'll retire because this is still lacking 💔

warnings; uncomfortable, stalking, possessive behavior, more spotlight on Abby! no Jinu here, sry!

— 🌇

That's weird.

You're not anywhere in your house. You haven't responded to their messages yet.

"Think they finally had enough of us?" Baby mutters, looking through your snack drawer—nothing of interest—before closing it harsher than intended. The loud bang echoes in the empty kitchen.

Abby narrows his eyes as he looks through the window. The sun is going to set soon. "That can't be right. Maybe they went to buy something."

"Without telling us?" Mystery growls, his fingers fidgeting together. Well, it's not like you need to tell them every action you'll do. He's not even sure himself why he's so irritated.

After all, they were already planning to take your soul after the whole thing is over. But now that he's thinking of it again, the idea doesn't feel so good anymore...

The front door suddenly squeals open. All of them turn, expecting you, but instead meet Romance's face.

"Don't look so disappointed," Romance scoffs with an eyebrow raise. "I found the human. Come on."

— 🫧

First, they felt relief, then anger, then sadness, then nothing.

They found you alone, as Romance said you were, but then you started laughing. Your gentle laughter stopped them from getting any closer. A smile curls on your lips as your eyes consistently follow something.

"What?" Romance mutters, confusion scrunching his face. They can't see well from this angle—but they can't move either without being seen.

"I told you it's slippery," you snicker, walking over and extending your hand. Ah. So you weren't alone. "Come on. I'll help you up, I guess."

"Thanks," a voice replies, matching your energy, causing all of the boys to glance at each other. They watch as a hand takes yours. "I guess."

The person gets up—a man. Not a demon, but a human. Standing too close to you and still holding your hand. Or maybe it was just a normal distance, and time felt like forever watching you touch that thing—but, oh, Gwi-Ma. They feel like boiling their human forms.

You finally let go of him, using your hand to fish your phone out of your pocket. A frown snakes across your lips after a while. "Oh, no."

"Oh no?" your friend asks, tilting his head. "Is something wrong?"

You begin chewing your bottom lip, looking around. "No, uh, not really. But I have to go now. Nice catching up with you, man!"

"Aw, really?" he says, glancing at his phone. "Oh. It is pretty late. Isn't your apartment like right over there? I can—"

"There you are!"

You and your friend turn your heads, both of your eyes widening for entirely different reasons.

Abby approaches you with a charming smile, settling an arm over your shoulders. He hums as he takes a good, innocent look at your companion. "Who's this?"

"Saja— Abs—Abby? From Saja Boys?! Uh, I mean— Hi! So nice to meet you!" An unexpected blush blooms over your friend's face. He glances at you with nervousness and fascination before bowing his head.

Your friend shows off a crooked grin. He's a big fan already; he told you moments ago how he had Soda Pop on loop. You huff and remove Abby's arm from your shoulder, barely able to hold your flinch at the way he looked offended.

You gaze at Abby in anticipation.

Abby immediately gets the hint and masks himself. "Oh, a fan! Thank you for your support!"

They took a picture, Abby did his autograph, all the while giving him fanservice with his abs. Your friend giggles cheerfully as they shake their hands goodbye. You didn't miss the way Abby wiped his hand on his shirt when your friend wasn't looking.

"Take care!" you call to him, waving a hand before turning to a blank-faced Abby.

He stares at you humorlessly.

You blink, avoiding his eyes. "Uh, hey. Sorry about... not replying. I ran out of—"

Abby chuckles, smiles like he wasn't just judging your entire being, and shakes his head. He returns to draping his arm around your shoulder protectively. "No need to explain. We're glad you're safe. Let's go home."

Your brows furrow as Abby guides your walk. We're? We?

It's an obvious thing that once a member is involved, all of them are. Just... where are the others? Abby is the only one here.

You stray your eyes, landing on a window.

In the dim reflection, three pairs of glowing, golden eyes point at you in the distance. Ah. There they are. Watching, waiting.

Ugh. You look away. Jinu's never this level of creepy. He's not present again, as always.

You don't notice Abby nodding his head curtly next to you.

— need .. need to include more horrors..... ngl I'm stuck between funny or horrific yan!saja boys ,,

— also if you're wondering why Jinu isn't here, I just prefer not to include him in general! yeah my bad, in my other fics he's just kinda hanging around

— why's it so hard for me to write yandere (says the yandere blog)

#yandere #x reader #yandere kpop demon hunters #yandere kpdh #yandere kpop demon hunters x reader #yandere saja boys x reader #yandere kpdh x reader #abby saja x reader

517 notes · View notes

enhani-ki · 2 days ago

Text

my biggest opp - reader x ni-ki part ii

warnings: smut, power play, cursing, etc.

read part one

you assumed that after having sex with ni-ki, your biggest opp, it would be awkward and uncomfortable…

but never this empty.

you arrive at your office monday morning to find your inbox startlingly free of his scathing one-liners. there's no "nice dress. shame about the brain." no "can you actually type without making typos?"

his favorite mockery is gone, somehow leaving you strangely bereft.

you tapped your pen against the wooden surface of your desk, scanning for any hint of his sabotages. the folder you thought you'd need for the managerial position, his file on your "possible fraudulent activities" are also nowhere to be found.

because according to him, you fucked him so good that he destroyed every single thing he had that could ruin you.

relief flares that he stopped, of course. but unlike him, you still do your best to make his life miserable, leaving yourself doused in guilt — feeling like an asshole.

an entire weekend passed. you swore you weren't dying for his banter, and yet whenever your phone buzzes, you leap out of your skin.

nishimura riki: stop messing with my report. are you fucking insane?

minutes passed.

nishimura riki: you must be missing me.

your lips twitched into a smirk. hell if you know how to respond.

i didn't do it, dumbass.

really? that's the reply? he'd know you were lying (or worse, honest). the cursor kept blinking in your reply box, taunting you. you typed, erase, typed again, erase — you racked your brain, thinking of a good comeback.

you: you're so stupid. also, my life has been so peaceful without you. please stay right where you are.

nishimura riki: i can come by your house and make your life hell again. if you want.

of course you want it. you'd kill him… or you'd kill for him to come over right now but shit, even the line between those urges were already starting to blur.

you spent your lunchtime writing a status report. your fingers snapping across the keys but your mind drifts to that shameless first night with him.

the night where you wrestled with him for that fraud file of yours. the heat of his breath when you kissed him, when it finally landed on your skin…

you remember all of it. every time you lean over to pull a document from the printer, you imagine the wide arc of ni-ki's arms behind you, the precise angle of his jaw, his thick lips devouring you while telling you how much he hated you for existing…

it's all fucking there.

and as if reading your thoughts, your phone lit up again.

nishimura riki: i want to see what i'm missing.

you: fuck you. you literally work five feet from me.

nishimura riki: and new skirt? goddamn

your stomach clenched. so he… noticed? he noticed your above the knee with the slit at the side that shows just enough thigh to be questionable but still professional according to the office dress code new skirt?

you: your point?

nishimura riki: you look good and i want to see it up close.

a shiver runs down your spine. ni-ki's words became so direct, so suggestive, you can't help but to swallow hard and bite your lip. you sighed, immediately closing the report window before anyone could see you blush.

you check your company messenger during break. you noticed nishimura riki's presence: his avatar pops into view with the status "ready to crush it."

how fucking pretentious.

you just hoped ni-ki would do something back so you could stop feeling guilty whenever you sabotage him, then it would all go back to hell. the hell you not-so-secretly love. the hell he seemed to have loved before — and now forgotten.

@you @ni-ki i expect great results from the two of you. focus on the work, not drama.

you sat on your couch, sipping a cup of lukewarm green tea when your phone buzzes.

nishimura riki: we're stuck together for the next couple days.

you smirked when you realized how he can't stop texting you. you plop your head back against the cushion, totally interested.

you: yeah. happy?

nishimura riki: ecstatic.

ni-ki signs off with a kiss emoji, making you scowl in disgust and throw your phone onto the cushion. he'll see how you haven't responded and he'll definitely laugh about it tomorrow.

you came into the office projecting confidence the next morning. ni-ki is already there, beating you in punctuality. he's leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone but smiled immediately when your eyes met.

"you're late," he drawls.

"shut up," you fired back, tossing your bag under the table. you saw another folder you've been dreading. ni-ki's opened it already— hands off, though.

"fuck... i couldn't sleep," he said, casually looking at your eyes.

who asked? is what you would've said but instead, it's: "why's that?" you leaned in, "last i heard, sleeping without protection was your specialty."

he nodded slowly. his urge of choking you to death using his necktie suddenly crossed his mind, like it always does whenever you talk back.

he never followed through, of course. because every time he pictures it, the ending is him fucking you instead. he saw you submitting not because of trust, but because you can't help it.

ni-ki sighed and quickly pulls your chair close to him, making your pulse quicken. "hmm, what do you mean 'heard'? we both know you know that for a fact," he teased, his hand trailing up to squeeze your thigh. "also, did i ever told you how bad you needed practice?"

heat blooms across your cheeks. didn't he say you fucked him good? this fucking guy keeps challenging you — mentally and sexually.

you scoffed and opened your mouth to retort but your boss already knocked on the door, barging in to start the meeting.

the day isn't even done, yet you and ni-ki have exchanged more messages than you have with anyone else all week:

nishimura riki: did you catch the way that idiot glanced at your legs during the meeting? that mf is gonna keel over later once you unplug your laptop.

that 'idiot' is notoriously stiff when it comes to 'office decorum.' the thought of him being flustered at your skirt is thrilling, but:

you: you know i'd rather see how you react when i ask you to take off my skirt.

nishimura riki: come to my office then, i'll show you.

you stood up as soon as everyone's too busy to notice your absence. you opened ni-ki's door without so much as a knock. the tall guy is leaning against the edge of his desk, shirt already untucked, tie loose — completely losing his patience.

you walk towards him. he traces a finger along your jaw, tilting your face up, brushing his thumb over your sexy lips.

"show me," you whispered, sliding both hands flat against his chest.

ni-ki leaned in. "hmm, watch me," he replied, turning you gently by the hips, pulling your ass against his crotch — where you can feel the rigid outline of his cock through his trousers. you pressed yourself back, grinding on him as his hand tightens on your hip.

"we have a meeting at six, right?" he murmurs in your ear. "let's get you naked under this skirt."

"i already am…"

unbelievable.

"you really are a fucking tease, huh?"

your breath hitched when you feel his tip nudging against your folds. ni-ki slowly slid inside your welcoming heat — his cock was so big and hard, making your knees buckle as you can practically feel him rearranging your guts without even moving.

ni-ki moaned, "oh, y/n—" biting his lower lip before pressing one more searing kiss to your neck. "i could stay like this all day," he said.

you let out a shaky gasp, head dropping forward with a whimper. your fingers reached back, grabbing his hands — his big, warm hands that are locked around your hips. "ni-ki…"

"let's not sin so much today," he groaned softly, hips giving one teasing rock that makes your whole body jolt before he pulls his cock out. he stepped back and adjusted your skirt like a gentleman — making you feel full and hollow in the same instant.

that same afternoon, you decided to head to the break room for water. you stop short when you saw ni-ki with the boss' niece, who came to visit the office.

she's laughing, batting her eyelashes at him while grinning so hard. you didn't mean to eavesdrop, but she mentioned something about wanting him to show her around — and that guy just casually folds his arm around her shoulders.

"look at you, you social climber," you interrupted, clapping your hands slowly, it echoed like a gunshot.

ni-ki glances at you lazily over the girl's shoulder. the niece looks startled, she gave you both a sheepish laugh before excusing herself.

"how long have you two been planning world domination?"

"are you jealous?" he asked, chuckling as he drags out a chair for himself. "'cause i'm telling you that's pathetic."

"wha—?"

"don't worry, y/n. it's just been few days, i'll make sure to find some time for my favorite brat."

you scoffed, grabbing your water a little too aggressive. "wow... you sound so proud of being passed around like a party favor."

"passed around?" he repeated, raising a brow. "jealousy already doesn't suit you and now you're possessive too?"

you shot him a sharp glare but he just leans back in his chair, spreading his legs like he's offering you a seat.

ni-ki sighed, "fine, i'll come over tonight," he declared so casually, it made your jaw drop.

"excuse me?"

"you heard me." he stretched and yawned. "you don't have to agree. i've already made up my mind."

"you're crazy."

he stands up, brushing past you as he grabs a protein bar "leave the door unlocked for me, okay?" he whispered, leaning in to give your cheek a quick kiss.

the sound of your skins slapping were obscene. ni-ki's breaths were heavy, his muscles tensed doing his best holding back from losing control. his necklace kept bouncing against his chest every time he slid in and out of your wet cunt. he hit it deep and slow, making your toes curl.

you looked down and watched at where your bodies met.

"oh, my–" he groaned when he felt your walls flutter around his cock. "this feels so fucking insane right now."

your arms tightened around his shoulders. "you haven't fucked me in days," you breathed out, looking up at him, admitting, "i was so stressed out."

"yeah, i know," he replied, "and look how mean you've gotten."

"kiss me..." you asked shyly — too quiet for ni-ki who was busy thrusting, far gone in the rhythm he was chasing to even hear it.

frustrated, you reached up and grabbed his hair — hard. your fingers got tangled so deep in the roots of his bleached strands, yanking him down without warning so you could force his mouth closer.

"ah—f-fuck—!" ni-ki hissed, jolting from the sharp tug. his hips slowed down for a second.

his palm slapped your arm away, the sound echoed a little loud in the room. it wasn't as harsh as what you did, but it was firm because he was hurt. a very clear response to pain.

your eyes slightly widened when he snatched your wrist, flipping you like you're a dead weight. one second you were just looking up at him — now, your face was pressed into the pillow, ass up. ni-ki's hand stayed flat on your lower back, keeping you in place.

his fingers dove straight into your hair, fisting it tight, pulling your head up until your back arched and your spine hit his chest. it forced a cry out of your throat, you quickly hold on to the headboard for your own control.

"it hurts, right?" he muttered, brows furrowed. his voice sounded pissed. "you dumbass."

your mouth parted to argue but you were too breathless and stunned at how fast he turned the tables on you.

ni-ki let go of your hair roughly. your cheek sank back into the pillow. his hands slid down to your hips, spreading you wider. it was careless and he moved confident as he positioned you just how he wanted.

your moans started crumbling into soft sobs — not from pain but from realizing how you weren't too used to getting caught off guard, let alone losing control.

your thighs started shaking, your breath had gone shallow, and ni-ki noticed it right away.

"shit—" he cursed under his breath, the movement of his hips started faltering before slowly pulling out from your pussy. he leaned down to kiss the back of your neck gently. "can you sit up?"

you nodded weakly. he helped you, pulling you gently onto his lap, seating you over one of his thighs while holding you carefully. "did i scare you?" he asked, worried and cautious.

"no...not at all." you replied, shaking your head in assurance.

ni-ki sighed, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. he place a long kiss your temple, "i'm sorry, y/n." he continued, "do you want to stop?"

you sniffled and pulled back to look him in the eye like you're a little offended, "hell no."

a small grin broke across his face. he's amused, relieved, but mostly turned on all over again. ni-ki buried his face into your neck, laughing softly. "good," he murmured, lips dragging across your skin.

"ride me."

each movement felt better than the last. his cock dragged against the deepest part of you, his blunt tip kept hitting your cervix, making you gasp in pleasure.

ni-ki sat back against your headboard, his thighs spread wide, letting you straddle him fully. his hands never stopped moving – gripping your waist or holding your nape, the other catching the bounce of your breast. his thumb grazes over your nipple, and sometimes, he'd lean in to suck it, groaning at the way your pussy clenched in response.

his hair was messy. he was so loud – groaning through his gritted teeth – that goddamn chrome necklace catching the low light as he tip back his head to moan.

you can't stop staring. you can't stop running your fingers through his hair, brushing the strands back, or cupping his jaw just to see his face better.

"ni-ki..." you whispered.

his eyes blinked open, resting his forehead against yours.

you were moving fast and steady, sinking down on his dick over and over again while your bodies stayed too close — noses brushing, stealing each other's air.

"you– you're so handsome," you breathed out, barely even realizing you said it.

"me?"

"yes," you whispered. "you."

he grinned and leaned forward after hearing that double down. ni-ki gave you a messy, open-mouthed kiss, your fingers threading through his hair again as your hips rocked in desperate circles.

you pulled back to suck on his jaw next, under his ear, then down to his neck — biting softly, marking him. you wanted to leave something there. something that would remind him how much you wanted to do this over and over again.

now, you're sitting in the center of your mattress, blinking stupidly slow as you try to process just how many times he made you cum. "g– god," you mumbled, "i think my spine broke."

ni-ki huffs a soft laugh, still catching his breath too, resting his head on his arm while his other hand would caress your stomach or squeeze your boobs. "you're fine... it's hurting because you are still talking too much."

"o– ow..."

ni-ki sat up and hugged you. placing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, and then to your temple. "fine, let's have it checked later. just lay down with me for now."

you nodded, laying down, pressing your back against his chest. you felt his smile against your skin, smug and fond. ni-ki palmed your breasts again... he can't stop touching you even if he wanted to.

"mm, you're such a baby," he murmurs against your hair, "what happened to the terrifying monster who's always mean and yells at me in meetings?"

"dead," you replied quietly, leaning against him. "she died."

ni-ki chuckled again after seeing you blush. he grinned before peppering kisses on your cheek again and he doesn't say it but he adores this messy, clingy, soft version of you.

the one only he ironically gets to see.

you sniffled, pressing your face to his neck. "ni-ki..."

"what?"

"i wanna see bisco."

"oh..."

"i– i wanna see your dog," you sniffled again, voice sleepy and soft. "even if he hates me…"

ni-ki smiled and whispered, "okay, baby." brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead, "i'll take you to see bisco as soon as he gets home."

later after a doctor's consultation, the dog-sitter also dropped off bisco. you're already in his apartment, in his shirt he basically forced you into wearing.

"wait–!" ni-ki reached out to get bisco but it ran towards to where you were. "bisco!" you gasped, eyes lighting up as you rushed toward the tiny white ball of fur that sprinted right away from you.

"bisco, come on! we brought you snacks!" you tried coaxing, crawling on your knees to look under the couch, but the little thing lunged out and bit your wrist – not hard but more of a warning chomp – "fuck– ow!"

ni-ki leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smiling like a proud dad watching the chaos unfold. "i told you he's dramatic."

you didn't care. you kept following bisco around the room, letting him bite, bark while you giggled and chased him with unearned affection... which ni-ki found strange because before, you probably would've fought with that small dog, until it fears you for rejecting you.

finally, bisco ran out of energy and jogged towards his bed, completely ignoring you like a diva.

you pouted and walked back to ni-ki, dragging your feet like you'd just been dumped. "why is it sweet to everyone but me, huh?" you mumbled, melting into his waiting arms.

ni-ki laughed and tugged you in, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead. "i don't think he hates you, y/n," he murmured, voice soft as his hand roamed slowly down your ass. "give it some time."

"or he knows you've been giving someone else all your attention." you added, rolling your eyes. "right? i knew it, he's jealous."

his lips found yours. "no," kiss. "he's not," kiss. "jealous," kiss. the kisses are so different from before. no clashing of teeth, no busting a lip open, or bruising... it feels like forgiving each other.

and usually, this groping and kissing would spiral into sex, but today, you both weren't even thinking about it. there's just the need to be close, not just to get off.

ni-ki was so distracted by you that he doesn't even know when did he stopped trying to win in everything.

he had plans too, you know? he thought about getting his lick back but whenever you come around, the noises in his head disappears, the urge to get even fades, and suddenly, there's nothing even left to fight for.

he pulls back just enough to see your face. you blinked up at him, tired and sleepy, your lips were still swollen from all the nonstop kissing.

but still, you're so goddamn kissable.

you gave ni-ki a kiss again when you saw him staring – once, twice – "i gotta go," you whispered eventually.

"this early?"

"yeah, i'm getting hungry."

"we can cook–"

"stop–"

"–y/n..." he interrupted, cutting you off. ni-ki opened his mouth then closed it before clearing his throat. "no. nothing. just…" he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. his eyes kept darting down to the floor like he couldn't believe he was about to say it. "just take care, okay?"

you tilted your head, "t–thanks…"

what the hell?

you're still mean and you still drive him insane, ni-ki took a deep breath – he swore he hates being this kind of guy but fuck it.

now or never.

"do you wanna have dinner with me?" he asked. he said it a little too fast, it's obvious that he was shy. "outside."

"huh?" you blinked. "you mean like–"

"yeah," he said, pressing his lips together, swallowing thickly. "like a–"

"...like a date."

ni-ki braces himself for the teasing and for your usual sharp reply. he knows you'll probably laugh in a few seconds but right now, you're just staring at him, eyes wide in surprise and that alone slightly gave him a little hope.

and he thinks, if this is how he loses, then fine.

let's let it be you.

a/n: my biggest opp 3k notes special! thank you so much for all the love and good comments. the first part came out on march 1 so it's been three months... there's so much (an understatement lmao) drafts for this and lots of scenes did not make it. as you can see, it's not so much focused on the smut and i honestly don't know if anyone will see this or if this part two this is good enough.

i teared up writing this T_T burning blue - mariah the scientist

tagging: @asaheyow @n4mh0pe @sunghoonsarmpit

581 notes · View notes

ggukivrse · 2 days ago

Text

THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

warnings: swearing, they actually talk about their feelings :0, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, hickeys, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (be smarter than them pls), a bit of banter, petnames (baby), they're really fucking cute in the end it makes me sick, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: idk if this counts as my first completed series buttt... i'm gonna act like it does. thank you so so much to all the love and support you guys have given me for the past two parts, i'm genuinely so beyond grateful for it all :<< hopefully, you guys enjoy this part too!!

ps. READ PART ONE HERE & PART TWO HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You open his chat window again like it’s muscle memory. Like your thumb don't know how to not betray you.

It’s not even about sending something. You’ve got no intention of doing that. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. But the screen is always open, staring back at you with that last unread message you sent almost a week ago — a throwaway meme you found on your lunch break. No reply. Not even a reaction.

And it hadn’t felt like a big deal in the moment. You sent it like always, light and dumb and nothing. But then the nothing kept going. No little gray typing bubble. No 'lol.' No double text. No late night 'you up?' Just this wall of silence.

You would’ve rather gotten a dry reply. Hell, even a thumbs up. Anything to prove that he saw you.

But now it’s been long enough that sending something new would feel desperate. Like you’re chasing him. Like you’re asking for something you’re not even supposed to want.

You lock your phone and throw it face down on your bed.

Then pick it back up five seconds later.

Then toss it again, harder, as if that’ll prove something.

You wish you were mad. You think you are mad — at least a little. But it’s a tangled kind of anger. One that knots itself up with embarrassment and sharp, bitter shame. You want to scream at him, yeah. But also at yourself.

Why did you let this happen?

Why did you let him blur the lines and kiss you like that and touch you like he meant it?

You were supposed to be smarter than this.

You lie back across your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. It was just sex. Just two nights. Two insanely good, dangerously close, way-too-connected nights. But still — technically just sex.

Except it wasn’t.

Not when he remembered your favourite sauce order without asking. Not when he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear while you ranted about work.

And especially not when he went cold the second things felt too good.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. That shift in him. Like someone flipped a switch and rewrote the script. One minute, he was holding you like you mattered. The next, you were stepping out of his bathroom and into a stranger’s apartment.

You haven’t heard his voice since.

You bite the inside of your cheek and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down that lump of feeling before it rises too high.

It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re overthinking it.

Maybe he’s just going through something. Maybe he didn’t mean to shut you out. Maybe he thought you didn’t want to hear from him. Or maybe he’s just a fucking coward who got scared when the stakes changed.

But then, why didn’t you reach out?

Why didn’t you ask if he was okay, or tell him he was being weird, or demand an explanation like you’re owed one?

Because you’re afraid.

Because you don’t want the truth if the truth is that he regrets all of it.

Because deep down, you know this isn’t just a friendship anymore, and pretending it is would break you worse than silence.

Your phone buzzes once on the comforter beside you.

You freeze. Then sit up fast, breath catching halfway in your throat.

Your eyes are already scanning the screen before your brain can fully catch up.

Kook 🍜: hi

One word. Just hi. Like the last seven days didn’t happen. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots trying to make sense of his silence. Like he didn’t vanish without warning after folding you into his sheets and leaving you to figure out what the hell it meant.

Your breath leaves you in one uneven exhale.

You blink at the message, your body locked in this strange stillness. Your thumb hovers, frozen. Part of you is tempted to stare at it until it disappears. Ignore it. Let him feel what it’s like to be the one left hanging. But your hands betray you again — just like they always do with him.

You: Radio silence for a week and all I get is a fucking hi? Wtf Jungkook

It’s not even what you really want to say, but it’s the closest thing you can manage that doesn’t sound like I missed you so much it made me sick or please don’t do this again.

Three dots appear.

Your heart squeezes like it’s caught in someone’s fist. And then the dots vanish.

Then come back.

Then vanish again.

You mutter, “Fucking say something,” to no one. It comes out too small, too desperate. You shut your eyes tight for a second like you can wring the feeling out of yourself by force.

A minute or so passes before his reply finally sends.

Kook 🍜: sorry. can i talk to you today?

You reread it so many times the text starts to lose meaning. Can I talk to you today?

You feel sick.

There’s no way you don’t know what this is. The phrasing. The tone. He wants to talk? What the fuck else could that mean, if not that he’s about to cut things off? That he’s going to hand you some polite little speech about how you’re great, but this can’t happen again. That he wants to stay friends and he doesn’t want to confuse things any more than he already has.

Or worse — he thinks you guys are better off cutting contact all together.

You bite down hard on your thumb, suddenly on the verge of tears and furious at yourself for it. You should’ve never let it get here. You should’ve drawn the line before the second time. Before the car. Before the party.

You should’ve been more careful with your heart.

But you’re here now. So far past the line you can’t even see it anymore.

You open your keyboard, then close it again. You want to ask what he wants to talk about. You want to demand answers over text so you don’t have to see his face when he says the words. But you know you won’t get anything that way.

You: Where?

Kook 🍜: i can come to yours

You sit there for a second, just breathing. You feel like you’re bracing for a crash that’s already midair.

You: What time?

Kook 🍜: i can be there in an hour?

You don’t answer. Not right away. You’re too busy staring at your reflection in the dark screen, wondering why your face looks so calm when your body feels like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

You: Okay

You put the phone down carefully, like it might go off again, or explode, and turn your gaze to the ceiling. Every minute after this is going to stretch like it’s mocking you.

You don’t know if you’re getting closure or clarity. You don’t even know which one would hurt more.

But you know you won't cancel.

Because if this is going to end — if he’s going to say it — it has to be to your face. You need to see it.

You need to know for sure.

Jungkook is fucked.

Like, actually, cosmically, irreversibly fucked.

He stares at the elevator doors like they’re the gates to hell, and his own reflection in the brushed metal does him no favours. He looks tense. Jaw tight, shoulders hunched up high like he’s trying to fold himself into a more manageable version. Someone chill. Someone who isn’t about to shit himself over the thought of seeing you.

He rolls his shoulders back, shakes out his hands. Useless. He’s already sweating through his hoodie.

Every nerve in his body feels like it’s tuned an octave too high. Like if someone so much as breathes in his direction right now, he’ll either snap or confess something humiliating.

He wipes his palms on his jeans again. That’s the fourth time since the lobby.

The worst part is, he knows how he got here. He knows exactly when it happened, too — the moment the line moved.

It was your laugh. The tired kind, all cracked at the edges after that hellish Friday you had. You were curled up in his passenger seat, half out of it, feet tucked under you, and you’d looked over at him with that soft, worn-down smile.

And it just… hit him.

The weight of it. Of you.

He wanted to reach over and touch your face. Not to tease. Not to start something. Just to feel your skin under his fingers like it was allowed now.

And the second that thought formed — clear and blinding and way too tender — it was over. Game fucking over.

Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that.

You’re his best friend. Have been for years. He knows how you take your coffee, how you organise your playlists by mood, how you chew on the inside of your cheek when you're anxious. You’re not just some girl he hooked up with at a party. You’re you.

And now, he’s standing in an elevator on the way to your apartment, trying not to think about how badly he messed it all up.

He hadn’t meant to ghost you. Not really. It was just — after that night, after the way you looked at him, all warm and trusting — he panicked. Full-body, brain-scrambling, total system failure. He couldn’t even look at you without feeling like he was seconds from saying something stupid like "Don’t sleep with anyone else, please," or "I think I’m in love with you."

So instead, he shut down. Did the one thing he always swore he wouldn’t do with you — he pulled away. Got weird. Avoided it. Avoided you.

And now you’re pissed.

Rightfully so.

He deserved that text you sent. Probably worse. You could’ve ignored him completely and he wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. You texted back and he’s clinging onto that like a lifeline. Because it means there’s still time. Still a chance to fix it — if he doesn’t blow it again.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest like that might steady the erratic rhythm of his heart.

What the fuck is he even going to say?

Sorry for being an emotionally constipated idiot?

Sorry I ghosted you because I realised I’m in love with you and it short-circuited my whole fucking personality?

Sorry I thought I could fuck you and still keep pretending like you don’t mean more to me than anyone else?

The elevator dings.

Jungkook flinches like it slapped him, then scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a tight breath, and steps through the doors before he can change his mind.

He’s here.

Fuck. He’s actually here.

Jungkook looks like he didn’t sleep last night. Hair messy, clothes a little wrinkled, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a second before they dart away again. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he’s afraid of what they’ll do if left unsupervised.

You tell yourself not to feel relieved. Not to let it show. He didn’t cancel. He showed up. That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It really, really shouldn’t.

But still — there’s something in your chest that unclenches when you see him standing there, real and present. Even if he does look like he’s about to apologise for burning down your house or something.

“Hey,” he says, voice quiet.

You step back from the door to let him in. Dry. Wordless. The move is automatic, but your body feels stiff with it, like your own muscles are annoyed on your behalf.

He hesitates before stepping inside, like he thinks the floor might swallow him up. You don't offer a smile. Don't even look at him once the door’s closed behind him.

You cross your arms and lean back against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching him with a blank expression that’s only half-real. The other half is tightly coiled under your skin — anger, sure, but under that, all the feelings you’ve been pretending not to have.

He does a slow, uncertain glance around your apartment like something might’ve changed since the last time he was here. But it hasn’t. It’s still your place. Same plants, same overhead light humming softly, same faint scent of laundry detergent that clings to the air.

He stands there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It’s like he doesn’t know where to put his body.

You’ve never seen him like this before. Not around you. Jungkook’s always been comfortable here. The kind of comfortable that leaves shoes by the door without asking. The kind that opens your fridge like he owns a shelf. But right now, he looks like a stranger in someone else’s house.

You let the silence stretch out. You’re waiting for him to just speak, but he doesn’t

He doesn’t even try.

Eventually, your voice cuts through the air, a little too sharp. “Jungkook, you said you wanted to talk.”

His head snaps up like he forgot that was part of the deal. Like the fact that he came here at all already cost him everything he had in reserve.

“Yeah,” he says. His throat moves when he swallows. “I do.”

You raise your eyebrows, waiting.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to start, then closes it again. Shifts his stance. Rubs the back of his neck with one hand. You catch the way his eyes flick to the floor, then back to you, then away again.

You narrow your eyes. “Well?”

He breathes out a weak, almost bitter laugh and runs both hands down his thighs, like he’s physically trying to ground himself. “I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters.

You frown, arms still crossed tight across your chest. “What? Talk?”

You hate being like this towards him — you feel like a bitch. But it’s the only way that you can stop yourself from just spilling all of your thoughts and feelings to him.

“No, I—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “No. I mean… say the right thing. Say any of it without sounding like an idiot.”

You blink, unimpressed. “So you came here without knowing what you were gonna say.”

He looks at you then. Fully. And for the first time since he walked in, you see the real wreckage behind his eyes. There’s nothing cool or casual about it. He’s unravelling in slow motion. Everything about him is quiet desperation wrapped in someone trying really hard not to fall apart.

“I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says finally. “And then I figured it out, and that somehow made it worse.”

You stay silent.

He shifts closer, not by much — just a few inches. “I fucked up,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I did. I know I disappeared. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care. I was just—” he stops, jaw tightening again. “I got scared.”

You scoff under your breath and look away.

“I’m serious,” he says, softer now. “It freaked me out. How fast it happened. How much it changed.”

You look back at him, jaw set. “What changed?”

He swallows again. Stiff. His voice cracks a little when he speaks next.

“You,” he says again. “How I feel about you. That changed.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t react, not visibly. You keep your face still, unreadable, even though your brain is suddenly scrambling. You’ve been yanked in too many directions this past week. You’re not going to lean into hope just because he finally decided to speak.

So you say nothing. You just hold his gaze and wait.

Jungkook takes a breath, his shoulders rising with it, then falling in a slow, deliberate exhale. The nervousness is still there — but it’s settled into something quieter now.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t mean anything,” he says. “That it was just— whatever. Two friends, getting carried away. We were drunk the first time, right? It was easy to lie to myself about that. Easy to say it didn’t have to go anywhere.”

His voice is calm, but there's tension underneath it.

“But the second time?” He pauses, tongue running along the inside of his cheek, eyes still locked on yours. “That wasn’t drunk. That wasn’t casual. That was me driving us across town just to make you feel better, because I can’t stand it when you’re not okay.”

You flinch — barely — but he sees it. You know he does.

“And then it was me kissing you like I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. You think I didn’t notice how different that felt? I’ve never kissed you like that before. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you.

You’re still standing by the counter, arms crossed, but now your grip has loosened. You hate how much this is getting to you, how badly you want to give in, how your chest aches just hearing him say the things you’d only let yourself think when the lights were off and your phone screen was dark.

Jungkook takes another step toward you.

“When I brought you back to mine that night… when you came out of the shower, and I saw you just standing there in my space, looking at me like I was safe…” His voice catches, but not in a way that makes him crumble — just enough to show the truth of it. “I freaked the fuck out.”

You blink at him, finally speaking. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffs out a breath that's almost a laugh, but not quite. “I didn’t mean to shut down. I didn’t even know what I was doing in the moment. I just— everything in me wanted to pull you close, and that’s when I realised I couldn’t keep doing this the way we were doing it. Not without losing my shit every time you left.”

Your throat feels tight, but you still ask, “So you decided to ghost me instead?”

That lands. His jaw flexes, and he nods once. “Yeah. I did. I thought if I gave it space, I could go back to being normal. Go back to just being your friend. But I couldn’t. I can’t.

“I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Not because of the sex, not because it was good— which it was, but that’s not the point. It’s you. It’s always been you. I didn’t realise how much until I almost lost it completely.”

You swallow hard. Your arms are uncrossed now. Not folded in, not defensive — just hanging at your sides like you’re too stunned to remember what to do with them.

Jungkook steps in closer. Not touching you yet. But near enough that you can smell him — faint cologne, his laundry detergent, the scent you associate with your car windows fogging up.

“I missed you,” he says, and his voice turns softer. “Every day. And it scared the shit out of me, how badly I wanted to talk to you. Touch you. Just be around you. I wasn’t ready to admit it last week, and I was a coward for that. But I’m not running anymore.”

Silence again.

Except it doesn’t feel like the ones you’ve been drowning in for a week.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says, lower now, like the words might break if he’s too loud. “And I’m not assuming anything. But if you still want me around— really want me— just say the word. I’ll figure out the rest.”

You inhale slowly, try to even out your breathing, but your chest still feels like it’s barely holding together. Your heart’s doing that thing where it thuds too hard without speeding up.

You hate that you believe him. That you always would’ve. That no matter how angry you were, no matter how cold you tried to be when he walked in — you still wanted him to explain, to prove it wasn’t what your worst thoughts told you it was.

And now he has.

He’s standing in front of you with open hands, with the words you oh so desperately wanted to hear. And for a moment, you’re not sure what to do with that.

“I hate you,” you say quietly.

It’s not true. Not even close. But it’s the first thing that leaves your mouth.

Jungkook huffs out a dry laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I figured.”

You shake your head once. “No. I mean it. I fucking hate you for this. For—” You break off, because your voice is shaking now. “For making me feel like I was crazy. For not even saying goodnight after… after everything.”

His face tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You could’ve just told me,” you go on. “You could’ve said it was too much. That it got weird. That you needed time. Anything. But you disappeared. And I had to sit here wondering if I made it all up."

You pause, pressing your lips together.

“And I— I missed you too, you know,” you add, quieter this time.

His mouth opens like he might speak, but no sound comes out at first. Instead, he closes the space between you by half, slow and steady, like he’s afraid of pushing too far.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you whisper, but your tone isn't mean. Not even close.

He laughs, soft and low. “Yeah. I know.

“You promise me you’re sure? Cause Jungkook, I will fucking cut off your dick if you pull this shit again.”

He smiles but doesn’t hesitate. “I promise. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You stare at him.

Long enough that the air between you stretches taut, thin as thread.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but still doesn’t know if he’s allowed. His jaw flexes, his chest rising and falling in uneven swells. You can tell he’s waiting — for a sign, for a go-ahead, for you.

And even though part of you still wants to be mad, still wants to make him sweat just a little longer, the rest of you aches. For his mouth. For his hands. For the solid, grounding weight of him.

So you move.

You step into the last inch of space between you and grab the front of his hoodie. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

You kiss him.

Not out of impulse. Not for show. You kiss him because you need to. Because your chest feels like it’s going to split open if you don’t.

At first, it’s quiet. Just lips pressed to lips — careful, slow. There’s a pause between each pass of your mouth over his, like you’re both trying to remember how this started. How you even got here.

But then he sighs against you — not loud, not dramatic, just a sound full of relief — and it unravels something.

His hands lift, hesitating for only half a second before they settle on your waist, fingers curling tight. You press closer, and his lips part beneath yours. The angle shifts. Your nose bumps his cheek. It’s not perfect, but it’s real, and when your tongue brushes his, everything tilts.

The sweetness melts fast.

He makes a sound low in his throat and drags you in like the distance is unbearable. Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers threading through the strands at the base of his neck, and the way he reacts — the little shiver he tries to swallow — sends heat straight down your spine.

You kiss him harder.

His body crowds yours until your back meets the wall. Not rough, not rushed. Just firm. His chest presses to yours, and you can feel the way his heart races. How your own pulse kicks up to match it.

The kiss deepens, turns messy at the edges. His teeth catch your bottom lip and your breath stutters, but you don’t pull back. You tilt your chin, chasing more, and the next time he kisses you, it’s hungrier. One of his hands slips to the small of your back, palm dragging slow and warm beneath your shirt. The skin-to-skin contact makes your whole body twitch.

You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his hands tightening. His other arm slips around your waist completely, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just feeling.

The tension that’s been bottling up between you two — the silence, the week of wondering, the ache of missing him so much it hurt — it all floods to the surface.

You fist your hands in his hoodie, yanking him impossibly closer. Your hips shift forward, just enough to brush him, and the sound he makes is sharp and involuntary, caught between a breath and a groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “You’re driving me insane.”

You huff, lips brushing his. “That’s fair.”

Then he kisses you again. Rougher this time. Desperate in a way that makes your knees go soft.

He doesn’t stay at your mouth for long. His lips trail down — your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. His breath is hot and uneven, and when he finds your neck, your whole body reacts. Your hands clutch at him, your back arches off the wall, and the soft sound that escapes your throat isn’t one you mean to make.

He feels it. Hears it. Answers it with a low, reverent sound that seems to vibrate straight through you.

His tongue traces the spot beneath your ear, slow and deliberate, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, your breath catching sharp in your throat. You pull back for a second before lowering your mouth to his neck, right where the collar of his hoodie dips. He lets out a small sound, hands flexing on your waist, when your lips press there.

You start slow. You can feel his pulse under your tongue, the way his chest rises against yours, unsteady and warm. Then you part your lips and suck gently at the spot just below his jaw. His whole body stutters, hips jerking against yours before he can stop it.

Your fingers trail down his chest, tugging his hoodie collar aside for better access. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted.

You do it again, this time with enough pressure to leave a mark, and the sound of your mouth working against his skin is lewd.

He groans. It’s low and rough and barely held back, and the sound shoots straight between your legs. You feel him hardening now, undeniable through the fabric where he’s pressed against you.

“All mine?” you whisper, your lips brushing over the new mark you’ve left.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “All yours.”

His voice is breathless. Wrecked. And so damn certain it knocks something loose in your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him — really look. His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, a flush climbing high on his cheeks. He looks at you like he wants to devour you. Like he would if you let him.

“I missed that mouth,” he mutters, hands gliding under your shirt again, palms broad and warm. “Missed everything.”

You kiss his throat in reply and drag your teeth across it until he swears under his breath.

His hips grind against you again, harder this time. You both feel it — the friction, the heat building between your bodies.

His arms shift beneath you and he lifts you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, hands strong under your thighs. A startled sound escapes your throat as your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, gripping him tight.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I want you so bad it’s actually stupid.”

You smile, drunk on the feel of him.

“Bedroom?” you murmur, tracing your lips over the new mark blooming against his skin.

He hums lowly, and shifts his grip on your thighs.

He carries you through the hallway and your lips never leave his skin for more than a second.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside and drops you onto the mattress in one fluid movement.

You barely get your bearings before he’s crawling over you, slotting his body between your legs, His mouth finds yours again, and you moan into it before you can stop yourself when his knee presses between your legs.

Your hips twitch, grinding down against the pressure, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through your chest as his mouth moves with yours. His hand slips under your shirt again, this time bolder, fingers spanning across your ribs and inching higher until his knuckles brush the curve of your breast.

You gasp softly, and he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Off.”

You sit up just enough to grab the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head in one smooth pull, your hair mussed from the friction. He watches the fabric fall to the floor, then looks at you.

“You’re so fucking pretty," he breathes.

You roll your eyes automatically, even though your face is already burning. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and his voice drops low. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His lips part and he kisses along your sternum — slow, wet presses of his mouth that trail up and then out, over the swell of one breast, then the other.

You inhale sharply when his mouth grazes the sensitive skin beside your nipple, and his eyes flick up at the sound, pupils blown. He kisses lower, then higher again, murmuring against your skin, “Can’t believe I went a week without this.”

The vibration of his voice right against your skin makes you arch, and he meets you halfway, grinding down slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what you’re chasing and wants to stretch it out just to watch you squirm.

Your hands curl into his shoulders, nails biting down just enough to make him grunt softly into your skin. He rolls his hips again, slow and heavy, and the pressure against your core has your breath catching in your throat.

“Koo,” you whine out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, lips pink and wet, hair falling into his eyes. He grins, crooked and hot and deeply pleased with himself.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, and his voice is pure sin.

You glare, but your thighs shift open under him anyway.

“Please.”

He hums, satisfied, and starts working his way lower. Every kiss is wet and unhurried. Down your chest, across your stomach. His hands follow, smoothing over your ribs, down to your hips, dragging the waistband of your pants just slightly with them. His thumbs hook in the fabric, pausing right above your pelvis.

He looks up at you, smug and dark-eyed.

“Gonna let me take these off?”

He's so annoying you're gonna kill him. “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

“No,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your navel, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You huff, fingers threading into his hair again. “Take them off, Kook.”

He eases them down slowly — too slowly — dragging the fabric down your legs while his mouth follows in a path of heat and pressure. He kisses your hipbone, your inner thigh, every patch of skin he uncovers like it’s something sacred. When your panties go next, he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat — more reverent than smug this time.

You’re already wet, already aching, and from the way his eyes flicker as he takes you in, he fucking knows it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked. You missed me that much?”

You exhale hard, cheeks hot. “Shut up and do something about it.”

He grins again, slower this time. “Anything you want.”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them further apart, and before you can say another word, his mouth is on you.

The first swipe of his tongue is long, and delibirate. You jerk at the contact, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he groans like he’s the one falling apart. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place, and does it again.

Every movement of his tongue is practiced and precise. He starts slow, almost gentle, licking through your folds with a kind of focus that makes your head spin. Your thighs threaten to close around his head, but he pushes them apart with ease, never breaking rhythm.

Your hands move to the back of his head, gripping tight. His tongue circles your clit once, then again, and the third time he sucks it between his lips. You try to stifle a moan, but it slips from your lips anyway.

He pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your skin.

“Keep making those sounds, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Wanna hear every fucking thing I do to you.”

He movements turn faster, his mouth messy and hot and relentless. You’re already close, the build-up sharp and climbing, and he can feel it. One of his hands slips lower, spreading you open further with his thumb, and his tongue drags in tighter circles.

You’re writhing, panting, toes curling into the sheets. Your fingers tug at his hair, your spine arching off the bed.

“Fuck— Kook—” you gasp, head thrown back.

He groans again, the sound vibrating straight through your pussy. He doubles down, mouth moving faster, and when your hips start to stutter, erratic and desperate, he presses his hand over your stomach, grounding you.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he murmurs against you, mouth slick with you. “Gonna let me taste it?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak, your whole body wound tight and ready to snap.

He presses his mouth against you again, lips sucking against your clit, and the feeling has you squirming with pleasure.

“Kook—” your voice breaks open as you come hard against his mouth.

He moans, but his movements don't stop.

Your body arches helplessly, heels digging into the bed, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair as you ride out the wave. You’re gasping, blinking hard, your heart trying to punch through your ribs.

Only when your legs start to tremble uncontrollably does he finally pull back.

His lips are slick and swollen, jaw damp, hair messy from where you’ve been gripping it. And he looks wrecked — eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, like just being between your thighs has undone something in him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his lips slowly up your inner thigh, leaving lazy kisses in his wake.

You’re still catching your breath, staring at the ceiling like your soul just left your body, when he plants a final kiss on the inside of your knee and murmurs, “Yeah. I’m never ghosting you again.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too blissed out to be mad. “You better not.”

“After that?” he says, crawling back up your body, slow and unhurried. “I’d be clinically insane.”

He settles over you again, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, then another between your breasts, then finally your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and when he groans against your lips, it sends a fresh jolt of heat straight through you.

His body is flush against yours, his clothed cock thick and heavy where it presses against your thigh. You let your hands trail down his chest slowly to tug at the denim loops of his jeans.

"Want these off," you mumble against his lips.

He smiles and presses one last kiss to your mouth before he leans back onto his knees. His hands go to his belt, and you watch the way his fingers fumble for just a second.

He gets the buckle undone, then the zipper, the sound louder than it should be in your quiet bedroom. You watch as he shucks them down, boxers and all, and your breath catches slightly at the sight of him — flushed and hard and achingly ready.

“Better?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, breath shallow, and he’s already crawling back over you. The heat of him sinks into your skin as his body settles between your thighs, bare now.

Your legs part without hesitation.

His weight, the press of his chest to yours, the familiar scent of him wrapped in something raw and new — it all hits at once, and your whole body shivers.

He’s warm everywhere. The kind of warmth that soaks into your bones and makes you ache for more.

His hands slide along your arms until they find yours where they’re resting above your head. He threads his fingers through yours and presses them gently into the pillow, pinning you there. His eyes search yours, and you feel the first brush of him between your legs, just the tip, teasing the edge of you.

He doesn’t move yet. Just rests there, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

You don’t answer — not with words. You just tilt your hips up, welcoming him in with nothing but a look.

He pushes in slow — painfully slow — each inch dragging fire across your nerves as your body stretches to take him. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp, your fingers clenching around his. When he’s fully buried inside you, he stills completely.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel… unreal.”

You can’t speak — your body’s too full, too wrecked already — so you kiss him instead. Slow and sweet and a little desperate. Your hips rock up, seeking more.

He groans into your mouth, finally starting to move, and every thrust is so fucking deep. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s him savouring you, like he wants to remember how this feels with every part of himself.

His hands stay tight around yours, anchoring you both to the bed, to each other.

The rhythm builds, a slow burn that spreads everywhere, and between kisses you catch the way he looks at you — like he’s seeing something he’s afraid to lose. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t yet.

“You were supposed to beg,” you manage to murmur against his mouth, breathless. “Grovel a little.”

That crooked smile curls against your lips. “My bad, baby,” he murmurs. “You can make me beg next time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He shifts his hips, thrusting deeper, and your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp.

“You promise?”

The challenge in his voice is smug, but his eyes are dark and glassy, his control hanging by a thread. You whimper in response, thighs tightening around his waist, and he dips his head to your throat, dragging his lips along your pulse like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He starts to move with more purpose now, making you feel every second of it. His cock grinds into that spot that makes your vision blur, and your whole body tenses, fingers squeezing his like a lifeline.

The moan you let out is shameless, high and wrecked, when he tilts his hips just right — again and again, like he’s carving his name into your body from the inside.

“Right there?” he murmurs, already knowing. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you — every reaction, every sound. “God, you’re so fucking wet. You always get like this for me?”

“Koo—” His name slips out broken, a warning and a plea wrapped in one.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice ragged, forehead pressed to yours. His thrusts get rougher now, faster, the rhythm losing polish but gaining intensity. “Let me have you, baby. Come again for me.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your whole body winding tight. His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond, tongue tangling with yours, greedy and open and honest in all the ways his words still aren’t.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, “You feel like heaven, fuck.”

You can’t even process it — not now, not when his rhythm stutters and his hips slam harder, each thrust jolting a cry from your throat. Your legs are trembling, your grip bruising where it clings to him, and you can feel the knot in your stomach tighening.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, and you cry out his name. His hand squeezes yours back, holding you through it.

Your walls grip him tight, and he groans loud against your skin, hips faltering. “Fuck— shit—”

He thrusts once more before spilling into you with a broken sound, voice rasping your name like a prayer.

His whole body shudders as he comes, arms locked tight around you like he needs you to stay exactly where you are — here, under him, around him, real. His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp curls brushing your skin as he exhales, long and shaky.

Neither of you move right away. The air between you is thick with heat and breath and a comforting silence.

Eventually though, he shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone. Then another, softer.

His hand slides along your waist, fingertips brushing lazy patterns into your skin. You hum under your breath — not a word, just a sound — and he responds by kissing your shoulder again.

Your legs are still tangled together. His body still half-draped over yours. There’s a mess between your thighs and sweat clinging to your skin, and you should probably say something, anything — but there’s something sweet about the silence now. It’s soft. Unspoken. Peaceful, in a weirdly intimate way.

He shifts again, easing out of you with a quiet groan, and you wince a little at the loss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over your thigh like an apology.

“It’s fine,” you breathe, eyes closed, chest still rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t go far. Just rolls to the side, still close enough that his leg stays pressed against yours, and reaches for the blanket to pull it up over you both. He tugs you into his chest like second nature, burying his nose in your hair, his hand stroking absently up and down your arm.

“You good?” he asks softly, lips brushing your temple.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “You?”

He pauses. Then he nods against your skin. “Yeah. More than.”

You lay there like that for a while, heartbeats evening out. He’s still drawing shapes on your skin — fingertips slow, mindless — and you smile to yourself, warmth blooming low in your stomach.

“So,” you murmur eventually, voice still hoarse. “What now? We high-five and call it a night?”

He huffs a laugh into your hair. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a high-five.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects, grinning. “But really—” He shifts a little so he can see your face, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If we’re doing this, I wanna do it right.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice. “Do what right?”

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. “Us.”

There’s a pause. You look at him, and he looks at you, and it’s terrifying and sweet all at once.

“I really like you,” he says, quieter this time. “And I’m not just saying that because I just got laid.” He cracks a small smile. “Though, to be fair, that was mind-blowing.”

You snort. “So humble.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “I’ll take you out. I’ll plan dumb dates. I’ll be obnoxiously charming and show up with flowers. I’ll be— like— a gentleman, or whatever.”

You give him a look. “You should’ve done all that before you fucked me.”

His grin spreads. “Yeah, well. Guess I got the order wrong. You gonna hold that against me?”

“Maybe,” you say, lips twitching.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, fingers brushing your cheek. “You’ll see. I’ll be so romantic it’ll make you want to punch me.”

“I already want to punch you.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, pulling you closer, “you’re still in my bed.”

“This is my bed, dumbass.”

He pauses. “Okay, fair. But I am naked in it. With you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face won’t go away. His arm tightens around your waist, and you let yourself relax into it — into him. For once, it doesn’t feel like something to second-guess.

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

You tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “You better bring the good flowers. Like the ones that don’t die in two days.”

“Oh, so now you’re picky?”

“You said dates and flowers. I’m holding you to it.”

“Noted,” he says, fingers threading into your hair. “I’m gonna be so disgustingly good to you.”

You laugh softly into his skin.

And he just holds you tighter.

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

771 notes · View notes

neellscapsule · 3 days ago

Text

My Heart — Part One

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic slight yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, a bit of trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

next.

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about?

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life.

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished.

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father, I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick.

I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason, You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest.

Cass, There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes.

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian, You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come.

You sign that one with less happiness.

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred, I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box.

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #batsis #batfam x neglected reader #batsis reader #platonic yandere #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batboys #neglected reader #yandere batfam x neglected reader #my heart

841 notes · View notes

ninisdollie · 2 days ago

Text

summer bummer - jake sim 𓈒ིུ ❤︎

‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

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

�� ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ Content: +18MDNI

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

word count: 7.0k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake Sim: you coming back this year?

Your fingers trembled over the keyboard.

Me: of course, always.

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

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

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

Your stomach twisted when you heard it.

Tires crunching over gravel, laughter, car doors slamming.

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

He was here.

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

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

Jake looked straight at you.

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

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

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

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

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

“I always come, Jake.”

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

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

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

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

“I always look good” you whispered back.

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

But you knew how this would end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you said anything.

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

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

You turned toward the window.

“Yeah, it’s been nice. You?”

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

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

You bit your lip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips brushed your ear again.

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

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

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

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

You jolted, heart hammering.

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

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

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

But you weren’t. You were literally shaking.

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

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

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

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

Jake was there too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t turn around.

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

He chuckled, dark and quiet.

“You know i love when you get cocky.”

You don’t even remember who touched who first.

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

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

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

Then, his mouth was on yours.

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

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

Jake pulled back just long enough to look at you.

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

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

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

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

He grinned like he already knew.

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

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

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

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

Your fingers laced through his curls, pulling.

“Jake—oh my God.”

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

You gasped, back arching.

“Jake, please—”

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

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

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

“Please, Jake—don’t stop—”

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

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

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

You came hard.

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

Jake only pulled back when your legs gave out.

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

“So fucking good” he said, voice ruined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake—oh my god—yes—fuck me, please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You never do, anyways.”

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

“Summer’s just getting started, baby.”

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

Except you.

And Jake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still lazy, but hungry.

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

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

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

“I thought I already did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake groaned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—fuck”

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

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

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

“Say it louder.”

“I’m fucking yours!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because sometimes, you thought maybe he already had.

And sometimes you thought maybe you had too.

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

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

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

But then he spoke.

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

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

“What?”

He didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

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

“Jake…”

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

That word.

Love.

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

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

“Why not?” he asked, brow furrowed.

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

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

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

“I’m not running.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed, bitter and humourless.

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

You turned to him finally, heart in your throat.

“I never asked you to wait.”

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

The city felt bigger than usual.

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

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

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

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

Everything was fine.

But then you opened your phone.

And scrolled.

And there he was.

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

Your heart twisted, sharp and slow and sick.

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

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

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

And you didn’t reach out.

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

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

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

But this time you weren’t her.

This time, you wanted more.

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

But you were too scared to say it.

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

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

And then… A knock.

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

Then it came again.

Three gentle raps against your apartment door.

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

Jake was there.

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

“Hi,” he said softly.

You stopped breathing.

He looked… wrecked.

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

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

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

“I almost didn’t.”

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

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

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

He took a tiny step forward.

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

“Jake…”

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked fast, heart beating so loud it hurt.

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

He nodded.

“So did I.”

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

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

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

You were his.

Not just in summer or just in bed.

Just completely his.

597 notes · View notes

lymtw · 1 day ago

Note

hi!! i love your fics theyre highkey my fav rereads🤭idk if youre taking requests but if you were, could you possibly do a hurt/comfort fic with toji and shy reader where shes mad/upset with him? hope youre having a great day btw!

A/N: Five years later... 🫩👍 I'm sorry this took so long. I really, really appreciate your support 🫶 I hope this turned out at least okay, it's been a minute since i've finished any writing 🥲 Anyway, I hope you're having an amazing day :))

Thank you for sending in this request 💙

Toji and His Shy Girl

It's been a week since you and Toji have spoken, not for lack of effort or opportunities, but because the one sided attempts are not corresponded. It's hard to think about him, it's hard to read his words through your screen and see his name flash briefly, before your phone does its job of sending him to voicemail.

'Maybe we shouldn't be together, Toji. If me simply trying to talk to you is such a burden... I don't know if I should keep trying.'

You said this to him a week ago. You clicked the door shut and he sped off in his car, bleary-eyed, brimming with rage and regret the whole way home. He couldn't get the sound of your voice out of his head—the cracks, the occasional sharp inhales that came with your suppressed emotions. Even in the moment, he knew it was so, so wrong for you to be looking the way you did.

The instant he got home, all hell broke loose. His fists were clenched as he treaded towards his bedroom, and as if possessed by the force of a natural disaster, he tore apart his room—demolished it—throwing things blindly, uncaring if they broke beyond repair. The picture he keeps on his nightstand of the two of you was not safe. The encased memory was thrown with all the strength he has, at the wall, the frame instantly falling apart and the glass shattering to pieces.

He couldn't stop, it all hurt so much. His chest burned, his head was pounding, he felt like he couldn't breathe, and once there was nothing left to throw, nothing left to break, he finally broke down—wholly. Harsh, uncontrollable sobs racked his entire body as he sat there in the debris—the aftermath of losing his mind over you. Barely any sound came of it, his voice was shot, courtesy of the tormented screams that accompanied his meltdown.

This all happened a week ago. You won't talk to him and these days have been hell without your company. You won't respond to his good morning messages, and if he asks to meet up, you always have something to do. He calls you whenever he can, but you don't pick up. You're avoiding him like it's your job.

Everything feels pointless without you around, his little sunshine, the reason he wakes up motivated every morning, the light of his life. His routine has been altered in the worst way. It's work, home, work, home, and he absolutely detests it because if it weren't for that damned day, he would be with you, smothering you with the borderline overwhelming love he holds for you, making you laugh and watching you get flustered over the words he whispers in your ear. He wants it back—all of it. He can't let you go, it would break him entirely.

You don't want to let go of this love you have for Toji, either. You miss being in the warmth of his embrace, and you miss the sound of his voice, and the way he calls you 'sweetheart' when you're not focusing on him. You see every single one of the messages he sends you and the phone calls.

Good morning, baby.

Morning, sweetheart. Make sure to eat breakfast and lunch. One meal isn't enough.

Saw those fields of flowers you point at all the time on my way home. I miss you.

Baby, will you talk to me, please?

[Missed Call]

And you cry, because all you want to do is respond to every one of those messages and hear his voice again, but something always stops you. The memory of when he snapped at you. The sound of his voice—cutting and utterly spirit crushing. The furrow of his eyebrows that made you feel like everything you did was wrong. It hurts to think about the whole situation, and all these notifications only serve as reminders. Reminders of the way you immediately wilted when the door shut, chest heaving as you cried your way to bed and then to sleep, wondering what you did to deserve being lashed out at.

You're lying in bed, scrolling through your phone when he calls again. The instant you see his contact picture, your heart plummets to your stomach, but an irrepressible giggle escapes you. The picture on your screen... it's kind of blurry because he was chasing you and you were laughing so hard that you couldn't hold the phone steady, but you love it. You love the man in the picture, you love that he can make you smile through memories, even during tough times.

"Baby?" You hear through the speakers of your phone. A lump immediately forms in your throat and you painfully swallow. "Baby, can you hear me?" He tries again.

"Yeah, I'm here," you respond, quietly.

"Holy fuck, doll. Can I... Are you busy? Are you doing anything right now?"

"No, i'm home," you mumble.

"Can I come see you?"

"Toji..." you start, your tone conveying what you haven't even said yet. Your uncertainty.

"Baby, we have to talk. It's been a week and-- This can't be it. Please, just... just five minutes. Five minutes and i'll go."

You know it won't be five minutes. You can't force a solution out in five minutes—not a sincere one at least. Some part of you is soothed by the sound of his voice, regardless of how frantic and desperate he sounds. That's your love right there, and no matter how much hurt lingers from this whole dilemma, there's nothing you can do about your heart's response to him. So you open a door for him.

"Okay, Toji. I'll be here waiting for you."

"Thank you, pretty girl. I'll be there in a few. Love you."

There's a heavy, tense pause. Neither of you has hung up the phone, because something hasn't been done yet and he knows you know what he wants to hear. It would be enough for him to believe that you haven't forfeited. It would make him feel even the slightest bit of relief if you said those words he's been aching for.

"I love you, too, Toji," you utter, hanging up a couple seconds after.

Toji would be bouncing off the walls if he wasn't in such a hurry to get to you. He's been deprived of any form of love from you for a week and he was starting to go crazy, but hearing you say those words was all he needed for now.

Twenty something minutes later, you get a text from him, letting you know that he's outside. Your heart is in your throat, your stomach keeps flipping, and yet you use all the strength you have to get out of bed to meet him. Though you decide to take your time to get to your front door, you find that you're still there too soon, no time left to mentally prepare yourself for what is about to happen. With a final deep breath, you turn the lock, twist the doorknob, and open the door.

There Toji stands, hand suspended in the air with your spare key pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He steps back instinctively when you step aside from behind the door.

"I uh... I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with me using it, but you were taking a bit, so I thought maybe you'd want me to come in and we can talk inside or... I don't know."

He's rambling, there's a light stubble on his face, he's smiling at you like he always does—like you're his everything. Him being there doesn't actually process in your mind until he speaks up again.

"Hi, baby," he says, softly, observing you like you're some majestic painting hung up in a museum. Your eyes well up and it feels like there's a red-hot metal sphere lodged in your throat. "You're a saint for letting me come here and see you, you know that?"

Out of habit, you nod and mumble out a small, "yeah."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, reaching for your hands to hold them. He barely manages to grab them, get a feel for your soft skin after so long, before you're pulling them away from him. "No, come on," he pleads, grasping your hands again. "Please? Please, look at me."

"You can't talk to me like that, Toji," you utter, voice unsteady because you're not used to having to stand up for yourself against the one who loves you like it's his life source.

"I know. I know that, baby, and I'm so fucking sorry," he says, nearly tripping over his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of the shit I said. I was having a bad day, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I don't know what the hell got into me, but please..." he mumbles, bringing your hands up to his lips, pressing weightless kisses on your fingers and knuckles. "Please, I love you, you have to believe me."

"You said..." you inhale sharply, doing all you can to get through this without choking on your emotions. "...you said you didn't have time to listen to me talk about nonsense, and that you wanted peace and quiet for once. Isn't... Isn't that all you get from me?"

"No tears," he says, warm palms moving up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the crystals that glide down them. "No tears," he repeats, softer this time. "This is gonna get worked out, my sweet girl. I swear."

"I don't know how you want me to be," you admit, your voice wavering. "And I don't have the ability to read minds. You acted like everything was fine when you texted me, and then when you got here..." You let out a shaky breath, your hold on your emotions slipping. "I don't want to be upset with you, anymore, but i-i'm trying... It's not right."

It's as if someone is jabbing at his chest over and over again, relentlessly, even when his skin starts to bruise and little pinpricks of blood begin to appear. He hates seeing you this way, especially when he knows he's the reason for why you're hurt this bad. He wants it to stop and for this enormous raincloud above both of you to just dissipate.

"Come here," he says, low, almost inaudible. His hands lower, arms making contact with your sides. It's been too long since he's held you, yet, pulling you in feels as natural as breathing.

Your hands come up to rest on his abdomen, keeping him at a distance. It feels unnatural, because you're so used to letting him handle you like you're a stuffed animal, pulling you around when you're adventuring together and picking you up just because he feels like it. Your mind immediately clouds with guilt at your denial of his embrace, you can't even meet his eyes, opting to look down at where your hands are.

"Please don't," he says, his voice so soft that it makes your chest feel tight again. He grabs ahold of your wrists, just to have some sort of contact with you. His grip is almost entirely loose and you're in control, he won't move until you pull your hands away. "I'm not gonna hurt you like that again."

You love him and you know he needs this—holding you in his arms, your confirmation that it's all going to be okay. You've said it before and the words have become one of his greatest comforts. What could be so bad when you tell him that it'll all turn out just fine?

"We've been apart for too long. A week shouldn't have gone by like this... and, fuck, I know it's my fault. I don't blame you for not wanting to see me, but... please, baby." His thumbs brush the insides of your wrists, eyes never leaving the sadness of your face, regardless of whether you look at him or not. He'll take this over not getting to see you at all, any day.

"Sweetheart."

You sniff, unmoving for a few more seconds. Your heartbeat is thrumming wildly in your ears, almost suffocating you with its relentlessness. It's all you hear, words lost in a spiral of ongoing silence. You still don't look at him when you finally pull your hands away, but you can feel his heavy, unwavering attention on you.

You're glad he doesn't wait for you to give him the green light to pull you in, because you have nothing to say at the moment, and it would be another test of patience. Instead, the second your hands are balled up at your sides, he moves at the speed of a lightning strike, your body colliding with his in an almost aggressive manner—there's an audible thump. His body heat mingles with the cologne on his shirt, the smell coiling around you and rushing through your nose with every breath you take. The feeling is familiar—love, safety, comfort—a second home, all wrapped up in your favorite person.

His hands scrunch up the back of your shirt like he's afraid you'll push him away again. "Baby," he mumbles, his voice almost inaudible. "Don't disappear like that again." A soft breath is expelled from his chest, riddled with the genuine fear he felt that he would never get to see you again.

"I know it's unfair of me to say this. I was an asshole and you were hurt, but, doll... I thought you were leaving me." There's a pause. Toji stares at the ground behind you, his hands deepening the creases he made on your shirt due to his unfaltering grip. "I don't want that."

"I'm not," you respond, heart shaking. "That day... it felt like you didn't even want to see me and you only came over because I asked not because you wanted to." The familiar ache in your chest stirs slightly, but you give it your all to get everything out in a steady and clear manner. "You can tell me you're tired, Toji. That you want to rest in the comfort of your own home, and I'll understand. I don't want to be another cause of stress for you."

It pains him to hear that because you're the one who keeps him sane, the one he thinks about when he settles into bed but can't get to sleep, the first person to know that he's still alive in morning, the one who has made him feel so safe, that he feels no shame when he occasionally calls to confirm that he's still loved by you.

"You're not," he simply murmurs. "It's not true."

"You don't have to worry about protecting my feelings."

His arms loosen around you, the back of your shirt wrinkled but freed from his clutches. Your heart is beating too fast, attempting to leave your chest. Now you're standing up straight, doing your best to not avert your gaze from the man before you.

"You're not a burden to me. Okay?" He says, and you want to believe him because of the way he's looking at you, like he's searching your eyes for even the smallest bit of confidence from you about the fact. "Say it."

The words are stuck, it's visible. Your lips twitch, but your voice doesn't progress. You just look at him, feeling the sadness seep into every part of you.

"You're not a burden to me. I need you to get that through your pretty head, right now," he says, only to feel his own heart skip a beat at your reaction.

"Sorry," you mumble, unable to instantly straighten out the curl of your lips.

In this moment, Toji knows that everything is going to be okay. He hasn't heard you laugh in a week, and though it was only a small, congested giggle, he savors it along with your inability to regain your bearing, like it's his last sip of water while he's stranded in the desert.

"Gets you every time, huh?" He says, his own faint smile emerging.

'Right now', a habitual phrase of his that is meant to comfort you. You've told him before that not everything can be fixed or healed in an instant—things don't work that way—but he never backs down. You've translated it into something akin to a bandage—the words are meant to cover you while you take the time to fully and properly heal. The joy you find in hearing them is a small beginning.

"It's funny," you respond, taking in his amused little grin. God, you missed his handsome face and the way he looks at you like everything about you makes perfect sense to him.

"My impatience is funny to you?" He teases, loving the way you press your lips together before proceeding to nod. He can't even be playfully offended, too entranced by the way you're actually smiling at him. He sighs through his nose and just watches you—admires you for a couple seconds, and when you start nervously shifting on your feet, he pulls you closer to him, his hands on your lower back as your body presses against his once more.

"Can you just say it, please? For me?" He murmurs, recognizing every one of the stars in your eyes. Though he thinks it's a tragedy to have gone a week without this view, he'll make up for lost time by creating new constellations.

"I don't know," you say, softly—filler words, your brain short circuits whenever he looks at you like that.

"For me, baby," he pleads once more. "Just wanna hear you say it."

You hum, unsure of whether you can say something you don't entirely believe. You want to make him happy, you want things to be better, you want to believe what he said—what he wants you to repeat to him, but it's hard. Damage is easy to inflict and hard to heal. It won't go away immediately, no matter how much you love the person who is trying to fix their mistake.

"I don't know-"

"Please?" he blurts.

"Toji, I don't-"

"Pretty please?" he cuts again, seeing the way your seriousness falters like before. Your laugh finds his ears once more, a sound he just wants to keep hearing. The sound embraces him. "With a cherry on top?" he adds, a sly little grin on his lips.

It's getting harder and harder to turn him down. He's precious, he's trying, and you cherish his effort. It's not going to kill you to just say it.

You sigh, "I'm not a burden."

"To who?" He questions, seeking elaboration from you.

"To you."

"Damn right," he says, proud. "We'll get you there. I'm not gonna leave you like this, alright?"

"Okay," you confirm, nodding slightly.

"Can I get a kiss?"

Again, you nod, expecting a quick peck—maybe a few quick pecks, but no, he goes on to kiss you like its been months since he last saw you, not a week. He's desperately chasing after your lips, seeking more and more of what he's been deprived of for too long. In his mind, he says 'never again, never again, never again', because he can't imagine going so long without your sweetness again. Without the softness of your lips against his, without those pretty smiles and laughs being thrown at him. It sounds like hell 2.0. when he thinks about losing it all over again.

"Fuck, I missed this," he murmurs, still just a breath away from your lips.

"Yeah," you respond, eyeing the short little pins of hair that sprinkle over his jaw and upper lip area. It makes you smile, you don't always get to see his face when it's not clean shaven.

"I was in a rush," he explains, unnecessarily, following the way your eyes trace his face.

"Mm," you hum, smiling. "Can I shave your face?"

"You wanna clean me up?" he asks, almost as if he's surprised.

"Only if you want me to. It was just an idea," you say, smiling sheepishly.

To that, he chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach flip and your cheeks feel warmer.

"Oh, I want you to," he says, leaning forward to peck your lips, luring quiet giggles from you when he doesn't want to pull away.

Now, you sit on the counter of your bathroom sink, with Toji standing between your legs. There's a slight tremble in your hand, spurred on by his hands resting on your hips and the way he watches you with so much focus, trusting you enough to let you do this without a word from him. You drag the razor carefully along his cheek, making sure not to move too fast or use too much pressure.

Toji waits until you're cleaning off the blade to make his move of leaning in to press kisses to your face. Small peaks of foam are left behind on your skin, wiped away by gentle strokes of his thumb.

"I'm about to start again," you say through a laugh, leaning away to avoid ridding his face of all the protective spume on it. The razor remains beside you until he finally behaves himself. He huffs like you've been rejecting his affection the whole time, but nonetheless stands up straight and as still as a statue.

After some time, longer than it would have taken him alone—longer than it would have taken you if he didn't smother you every time you paused to clean the razor—you got it done. You brought back the smoothness of his skin.

"Am I pretty again?" he jests, drying his face with one of your towels.

"Stunning," you quip in response, shifting on the counter to signal that you're going to hop off.

"You're stunning," he says, low, unmoving from where he stands between your legs. "My gorgeous, gorgeous girl," he adds, seeking more of that feeling the flustered smile on your face gives him. "Missed you lots, you know that?" You just laugh and shake your head, like you're silently calling him crazy. "What? I'm serious," he says in response, a soft grin on his face. "Did you miss me? Even a little bit?"

A single second passes by. You can't lie to him and say you didn't. You missed him every single day, through the hurt. Your chest ached and your heart dropped every time you remembered the incident, but your love for him never wavered. You couldn't stop thinking about him, and with how often he tried to reach you, it was nearly impossible not to have him on your mind.

"Of course I did. I took the time I needed, but that doesn't mean I wanted it."

"I know, baby. And I would never hold it against you. I'm just... glad I can see you again, is all."

You smile. The gleam and sincerity in his eyes is a wonder to witness and well worth the butterflies that overly crowd your stomach.

"I really did miss you," you mumble.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "'Lots.'"

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, then he leans in close for nth time, peppering kisses across your cheek until he reaches your lips. He can feel you smiling into the kisses, a sensation he yearned for with every fiber of his being for the past week. One of his hands rests on your thigh, caressing the inner part of it, while the other slides up your shirt and settles on your waist. The lip-lock steals your breath away, but even then, you challenge your lungs for your lover's sake, only pulling away when you're a panting mess and Toji's breathing is more audible.

The tension is palpable, the silence loud as you look at one another like you're still taking in the fact that you can be loving towards each other again, in a manner that doesn't derive from guilt for the time that you didn't get to demonstrate how much you truly love each other. Enough to not be able to leave a fresh wound alone, enough to forgive while outwardly expressing that you have not healed but are patient enough to work towards regaining that strength.

"I don't wanna go home," he murmurs, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips before focusing on solely your eyes.

"You don't have to," you respond. "Stay as long as you'd like."

"And if I said I wanted to spend a week here with you? Would you hate it?"

You shake your head. "No, but I think you'd get tired of seeing me all the time."

"You're wrong, pretty girl. Is this your subtle way of saying you're tired of looking at my mug, already?" He asks, lips curling with amusement at your giggle.

"No, I want you to stay," you say, honest.

"Promise?"

You nod, followed by an affirmative hum.

"Say it again," he requests, heart thudding just a little faster when you smile.

"I want you to stay, Toji," you repeat, his name on your tongue causing your cheeks to warm up.

"Again." His hands mold around your hips—squeezing, loving.

"Stay," you say, softer.

He sighs, heavy, an enamored look in his eyes that you have never been able to comprehend. Those dark, viridescent eyes, have a brilliance to them as he looks at you like you're the last good thing he'll ever be able to call his. You're good for him, you're good to him, and there is nothing in the world that he wouldn't do for you because you gave him your heart.

"Yeah... you're stuck with me here for a week and you're come with me to pick some stuff up from my place, tomorrow. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, with a laugh.

"Now, we get you off this counter," he says, lifting you like you're a teddy bear that he carries around for protection. He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the suddenness. "Hold me tight, baby," he says, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist before moving anywhere. A kiss is planted on your shoulder as he turns around to exit the bathroom.

"And now you let me show you some love," he says, low, carrying you to your bedroom.

578 notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 21 hours ago

Text

private gallery 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, sexting, phone/video sex, masturbation (m & f), oral sex (f rec), rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie

summary: sexting while he’s on a mission seemed like a good idea, until bucky comes home early and fucks you like he’s been counting the days.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: hi loves! i love the idea of phone sex / sexting, i think it's pretty hot, and here's my take on bucky doing just that! i hope you enjoy it! love you guys and please stay safe out there!

It started with Bucky's shirt.

One of his old ones, soft from too many washes, black faded to charcoal, sleeves loose enough to slip past your elbows. It hung just a little too long on you, clinging in places and bagging in others, but it still made you feel close to him.

Safe.

Like he was there in the room with you, instead of halfway across the world on some mission that wasn’t quite classified but still distant enough to keep him mostly off the grid.

You hadn’t meant to send anything. You really hadn’t. You were just curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath a throw blanket, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

The lights were low, the silence thick, and your phone screen glowed faintly in the dark as you scrolled thumb dragging slow over your camera roll until you landed on the last photo the two of you had taken before he left.

It was a simple one. His chin tucked over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, his arm slung lazily around your waist like he always had to be touching you, which was true.

Your smile was soft. Lazy. Your eyes half-lidded, hair messy from bed. It had been two weeks since that photo. Two long, aching weeks.

He still texted you, when he could.

Little things.

A quick “miss you” before lights out. A blurry image of the skyline, always from strange places. A half-joking voice note once where he said, “They’ve got me living off protein bars. Save me leftovers,” like he wasn’t out there risking his life for something you weren’t even allowed to ask about.

But the replies came slowly, and they were always short—just enough to let you breathe, but never enough to fill the space he left behind.

And it was that space—the hollow of it, the need—that made you do it.

You lifted your phone again, shifted your weight where you sat, and tugged the hem of his shirt just far enough down your thighs to frame the shot.

Your knees were drawn up, one bare shoulder exposed, your smile caught halfway between innocent and deliberate. It wasn’t explicit. Not even close. But it felt like something—a tease, a thread you knew he’d pull if you gave him the chance.

You didn’t overthink it. Just typed:

“Still smells like you.”

And hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

Then you tossed your phone aside like it burned.

Your heart was pounding. You weren’t even sure why.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you in less. Hell, he’d kissed every inch of your skin. Touched you in ways that still made your legs tremble if you thought about it long enough.

But this was different. The distance made everything charged. Every word, every image. And something about that photo—about the softness of it, the suggestion felt like more than just missing him. It felt like wanting him.

You tried not to think about it as you got ready for bed. You left your phone face-down on the nightstand, buried your face in his pillow, and told yourself not to obsess.

But in the morning, the reply was waiting for you.

Two words.

“Fuck. Baby.”

You sat up too fast, stomach flipping, and opened the photo he’d attached.

His boots were kicked up against a wall of stacked sandbags. The sun was low, desert light bleeding gold across the sky, casting long shadows across the terrain.

You could only see the lower half of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble on his throat, the faint tension in his parted lips. It was so him, and so not him, like a snapshot of something private, pulled from a world you didn’t belong to.

Beneath it:

“I miss you like hell.”

You stared at the screen for a long moment, then tucked the phone against your chest and exhaled.

It didn’t stop there.

A few days later, you sent a shot from bed. Nothing scandalous—just the soft tangle of your legs under half-kicked sheets, one bare thigh caught in golden morning light. The caption was short. Flippant, almost:

“Too much space without you here.”

Another from the bathroom—mirror fogged, droplets still clinging to your skin. Only your collarbone and the curve of your neck visible, hair wet, mouth parted like you’d been mid-sigh. You typed:

“Shower’s not the same without you.”

And hit send before your brain could stop your fingers.

Then you panicked. Tossed your phone across the bed, buried your face in your hands and groaned into the quiet.

What the hell were you doing?

He didn’t reply for hours.

But when he did?

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You swallowed. Your pulse throbbed low and slow in your belly.

A few hours later, just three more words:

“Show me more.”

And that was when it shifted.

The line between playful and needy started to blur—not all at once, but gradually. Incrementally. Like dipping your toes into warm water and not realising how deep you’ve gone until you’re sinking.

You found yourself leaning into it. Subtle provocations. A bite of fruit caught on camera, lips parted just enough. A sleepy video of you stretching in bed, the hem of your shorts sliding higher than necessary.

You weren’t posing, exactly. But you knew what you were doing.

You left him a voice memo once, late at night—soft laughter curling at the edges, his name whispered like a secret. Breathless. Wanting. He replied with a single line.

“Play that again. Slower.”

The escalation was inevitable.

One night, you propped your phone against a pillow and hit record. Ten seconds. That’s all. Just your hand, sliding low across your stomach, dipping below the band of your sleep shorts.

You didn’t touch yourself. Not really. But the implication was there—the slow exhale, the tension in your muscles, the camera cutting out just before anything too much.

You didn’t write a caption.

You didn’t need to.

He left you on read for an entire day.

When he finally replied, it was a photo—his hand, gloved, twisted tight in a white bedsheet. You stared at it for longer than you should’ve, pulse hammering behind your ribs, and saw the words beneath it.

“I don’t have the words for what you’re doing to me princess”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. You laid in the center of your bed, one hand between your thighs, too wound up to find relief. It wasn’t about the tension—not really.

It was him. Or rather, the absence of him.

You didn’t want the release if it wasn’t his hands, his voice in your ear. You wanted the weight of his body pinning yours to the mattress, the rasp of his breath when he lost control. The look he gave you when he was so far gone in you, he forgot how to be quiet.

By the third week, it wasn’t even teasing anymore.

You were in a tank top and soft shorts, sprawled across your bed. The cotton rode low on your hips, one hand resting just beneath the waistband, fingers grazing bare skin. You took the photo slow. Deliberate. Soft lighting. Warm shadows.

You looked at the camera like you knew what it would do to him.

The caption?

“Can’t stop thinking about you.”

You didn’t expect a response right away, but it came quicker than anything before.

A voice note.

You hesitated—thumb hovering over the play button.

Bucky’s voice was rough. Lower than usual. Just a little frayed at the edges.

“Don’t send that kind of shit unless you want me jerking off to it in the middle of a barrack full of mercs.”

You froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then, after a beat—quieter, deeper:

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you either.”

You didn’t send anything else that night.

You couldn’t.

You were already curled around the pillow he used to sleep on, heart pounding, thighs pressed tight, your body wound up with no place to go. You didn’t come—not properly—but you hovered close. Just enough to feel it ache in your bones.

The next morning, your phone lit up.

Call me tonight, when you’re alone

You stared at the message for a full minute, thumbs poised. Then, without thinking, you typed:

“Been waiting for you to ask.”

You hovered over the message, thought about deleting it. But you didn’t. You let it fly.

No reply came.

But just before midnight, your phone buzzed. The screen lit up with his name, and the words:

Incoming Video Call.

Your heart stuttered. Your breath hitched.

And you answered.

The screen lit your face with soft, flickering blue, catching on the curve of your cheekbone, the hollow of your throat. You hadn’t moved since the call came in.

The phone vibrated once in your hand and you stared at his name on the screen like it might vanish if you blinked too hard. And then you picked up—not thinking, not breathing—just hitting accept because you couldn’t not.

And suddenly, he was there.

The image was a little grainy. The lighting was bad—shadows cutting across his face in places, harsh fluorescents glowing behind him. But none of it mattered.

Because even through that poor connection and a scratched front camera, Bucky still looked devastating. Like he’d walked straight out of your memories and into your bedroom. His hair was pushed back, his jaw dusted in scruff, a faint glisten of sweat still clinging to the side of his neck.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

Just those two words. But they wrapped around your spine and tugged hard.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You’d prepared for this—half-expected it after the last few days—but somehow you still felt caught off guard.

Because this version of him, this present Bucky, this heavy-lidded, shirt-stretching, arm-tensing Bucky was a living weapon, and you were entirely unarmed.

His gaze dropped slowly. His mouth curled just a little.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You glanced down, smoothing your palm over the fabric like you’d forgotten. The neckline hung off your shoulder. The hem brushed the tops of your thighs. “I just missed you.”

He chuckled softly, but it was breathless. “Fuck, you look good in it.”

You didn’t respond. Not verbally. You just shifted your legs slightly, enough to show the bare stretch of skin where the shirt stopped and your thighs began. His eyes tracked it instantly.

“You’ve been torturing me,” he muttered, voice pitched low now, almost reverent. “All those pictures. All those fucking videos. And now this.”

You tilted your head, letting the shirt slip just a little further down your arm. “Thought you could use a reminder of what you're missing.”

His eyes burned. “Take it off.”

Your chest rose sharply.

He didn’t growl it, he didn’t snap. He just said it—low, intent, like he needed it more than breath.

You peeled it off slowly, fingers curling into the hem, lifting the worn cotton inch by inch until your bare skin caught the light. You pulled it over your head and let it fall behind you, leaving you in nothing but your panties—soft and thin and dark with the heat that had been building through the day.

His breath hitched audibly through the mic.

“Fuck. You’re even prettier than I remember.”

You smiled. “Your turn.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up to reveal that perfect stretch of hard stomach and the dark trail leading below his waistband.

His abs flexed as he pulled the fabric over his head, tossing it off-camera. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly as it dropped back to his thigh, and your thighs squeezed together instinctively.

“You wet already?” he asked, eyes dragging over you like he was memorising it.

You bit your lip. “You wanna see?”

He groaned. “Show me, baby. Please.”

You shifted onto your back, propping the phone just right so he could see your whole body. Your hand drifted down, fingers hooking the edge of your underwear, dragging it slowly to the side until your pussy was bare and glistening in the soft glow of your bedside lamp.

His breath caught. You watched him exhale like he’d just been punched in the gut.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he muttered. “Look at that mess.”

“I made it thinking about you,” you said softly. “Thinking about your fingers. Your mouth. The way you fuck me when you’re too worked up to talk.”

His hand was moving already. Just slow strokes at first, under the waistband of his sweats, but you could see the outline of him—thick and heavy and aching—and when he tugged them down, your mouth actually parted.

“No boxers?” you asked, a breathy tease.

“Didn’t need ‘em,” he said, eyes glued to the screen. “Knew I wouldn’t last long.”

Your fingers moved to your clit, slow circles at first, dragging slick over swollen nerves. You moaned quietly, hips tilting into your own touch as you kept your eyes locked on his face. He was jerking himself now—long, firm strokes, the head flushed and leaking as he tightened his grip.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice shaking. “All fucking mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathed. “Always.”

He swore again, his free hand bracing against his thigh as he fucked into his fist, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether to slow down or come apart.

“Spread wider for me,” he demanded, breath hitching. “Let me see how wet you are.”

You obeyed—lifting one knee, baring yourself fully for him. He made a sound then, dark and ragged.

“Fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I want you to cum with me.”

Your fingers moved faster now, circling, pressing. You were soaked—obscene sounds rising between your thighs as your pleasure climbed. Your hips rolled helplessly into the motion, breath coming in short gasps.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. You were close — embarrassingly close—the pressure in your core wound tight, ready to snap.

“Say my name when you come,” he gritted out. “I want it in your mouth when you fall apart.”

“Bucky,” you moaned. “Bucky, I’m gonna—fuck—”

He was right behind you.

You cried out his name as your orgasm tore through you—sharp and fast and deep—your body arching, thighs trembling, pleasure blinding and raw.

You barely had time to breathe before you heard it—the low grunt, the curse, the slick sound of him spilling over his hand as his eyes fluttered and jaw locked.

“Shit. Fuck. You’re perfect,” he gasped. “Perfect.”

When it faded, you lay there panting, spent, legs still twitching. He mirrored you—head tipped back, chest heaving, hand slick where it rested on his stomach.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

And then he looked at you.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “I miss you James."

“I know,” he said softly. “I miss you too.”

You pulled his shirt back on, the fabric warm from your skin. Bucky smiled, eyes soft now.

“Keep wearing it,” he murmured. “Until I can pull it off you for real.”

“You better hurry home, Barnes.”

“I will,” he said. “First chance I get.”

It was close to 2 am when you heard a knock on your bedroom door, you opened the door without thinking, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

You hadn’t expected him this early, hadn’t dared to believe he could really be home. And yet, Bucky stood there in the dim hallway light, silent and eyes dark, his chest rising like he’d sprinted the last block just to get to you.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He just stepped inside, slammed the door with one hand, and grabbed you like a man starved.

His mouth was on yours before the lock clicked. Hot, hungry, no prelude. Just teeth and breath and weeks of desperation, his tongue claimed yours, kissing you like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a snarl of lust and longing wrapped in salt and spit and the sound of you gasping his name.

You tugged at his jacket, fumbling the sleeves as he walked you backwards. His hands slid down your spine, possessive and certain, gripping like he needed to confirm you were real.

When the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed, he broke the kiss long enough to lift you. Your back thudded against the wall as his hands slipped under your shirt, dragging it up and off like he was tearing away the weeks that had kept him from you.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

You managed a shaky breath. “Didn’t bother.”

His groan was low, a dark rumble in his chest. “Fucking perfect.”

He didn’t waste time. He dropped you on the mattress, eyes drinking in every inch of your bare skin as you lay sprawled across the sheets.

You reached for his belt, fingers eager, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. His grip wasn’t tight, just firm enough to hold.

“Don’t,” he said, his gaze sharp, locked to yours. “Let me look at you.”

And he did.

His eyes moved slowly, reverently. Taking in every line, every shadow. Your nipples peaked under the weight of his stare, your thighs shifting restlessly where they parted for him. He stepped back, stripped off his shirt with one pull, then dropped his pants and boxers in a single motion.

He was already hard, thick and flushed and heavy against his stomach, and you reached again without thinking.

“No,” he growled, batting your hand away. “Spread your legs.”

You obeyed, legs falling open, your skin flushed and aching. He dropped to his knees between them, hands gripping your thighs, and dragged you closer to the edge of the bed.

His mouth was on you before you could take a breath. One long, hot lick that made your back arch off the mattress.

He moaned into your pussy, the sound guttural and needy. “Jesus, baby. You taste like a fucking dream.”

You fisted the sheets, thighs trembling as his tongue circled your clit, slow and unrelenting. His fingers dug into your hips, keeping you pinned as he devoured you. No teasing, just his mouth working you open like he could undo the time you’d spent apart with every stroke of his tongue.

You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, sharp and tight and perfect. Your thighs shook, your breath stuttered, your entire body burning from the inside out.

“Thought about this every night,” he muttered, dragging his tongue down, slipping it into you with obscene ease. “Thought about how wet you’d be. How you’d taste after driving me crazy for weeks.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, already so close it hurt. “I’m gonna—”

He pulled back. Just like that. Leaving you throbbing, breathless.

You whimpered, hips chasing him. “Why—?”

He stood. His cock glistened with precum, flushed dark and twitching. He grabbed himself and stroked once, eyes still on you.

“Turn over.”

You rolled onto your stomach and pushed up onto your hands, arching your back as you felt him behind you. His hands gripped your hips, spread you wider. He dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick, then slid inside with one deep, brutal thrust.

You cried out, nails clawing at the sheets.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. Just started fucking you like he owned you. The slap of his hips echoed in the room, his grunts raw and low, breath punching out of him with every thrust.

“This what you wanted?” he snarled. “Sending me those fucking videos? Making me jerk off in some goddamn bunker?”

You moaned, the sound wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back so your spine arched for him. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Bucky.”

“That’s right,” he gritted out. “Fucking mine.”

His flesh hand landed hard on your ass, the slap stinging and sharp, making your whole body jolt. You cried out, and it sent you over the edge. You came with a scream, muscles clenching tight around him, body shaking as pleasure ripped through you.

He fucked you through it, rhythm breaking, hips stuttering. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and deep, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself with your name on his lips.

He collapsed over you, breath hot against your neck, arms caging you in. Sweat cooled on your skin, and your heart raced in time with his.

Slowly, he pulled out, hands gentle now, dragging over your waist, your thighs, like he didn’t want to stop touching. You turned onto your side and he followed, pulling you into him, arms wrapped tight around your body like he was afraid you might disappear.

He kissed your shoulder, softer now. “If I knew I’d be coming back to this,” he murmured against your skin, “I’d tell Val to put me on more missions.”

You turned your head with a tired glare, swatting his chest. “Don’t you dare.”

He grinned, “Kidding princess,"

But his arm only tightened around you, and your fingers stayed tangled with his as the quiet settled between you—soft, spent, and just enough.

a/n: have a great day my darlings! ❤️ please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoyed it!

600 notes · View notes

akeaaan · 1 day ago

Text

If Only...

Jinu X fem.Reader

word count: 2.4k

a/n: this is my fourth fanfic of jinu and I'm going crazy someone stop me please. Also I'm losing ideas so if you have any request please do drop a note. I still have another idea of angst until I make some soft happy endings lol

Synopsis:

╰┈➤ If Only...

It was never supposed to happen.

You weren't supposed to feel this. To hesitate.

But fate — cruel, laughing fate — had always toyed with you, over and over again. And here you were, caught in its trap once more.

Your scythe had cut down hundreds of their kind. Demons had crumbled into dust at your feet, your blade unflinching, your heart colder each time.

But now?

Now you couldn't kill even one.

Why him?

You didn't belong in the spotlight. You hated it — the blinding lights, the staged smiles, the never-ending swarm of paparazzi. The fake interviews, the forced poses, the soul-sucking brand deals. You hated being told to be perfect.

So you stayed in the shadows, right where you belonged.

You let Huntrix shine in the public eye: Mira, Rumi, and Zoe — the idols, the faces, the voices. They danced in the light, while you hid behind soundproof glass.

You were their producer — the faceless fourth. The one who stayed up late tuning tracks, patching lyrics when writer's block hit, and crafting every beat that sealed away the honmoon. You wove magic into the melody, just like the ones before you.

Because this was tradition. Always three on the stage. Always one in the dark.

You were older than them — not by much, but enough to feel responsible. You were their unnie, their protector. You had more battle scars, more stories, more secrets. That's why they never worried when you went on solo missions.

And that was your greatest weapon: anonymity.

The demons thought there were only three.

There had always only been three — as far as they knew.

But behind every generation of Hunters, there was someone else. Someone offstage. Someone who wrote the songs, not to climb the charts, but to trap the shadows lurking in the echoes.

You didn't need powerful vocals.

You had powerful visions.

And now... your power betrayed you.

Your mind spiraled. A million thoughts screamed inside your skull.

Should I let my heart keep listening? Up 'til now I've walked the line—nothing lost, but something missing...

You had everything, didn't you?

A found family that never let go. Best friends who would die for you. Your parents—alive and well. A career that others only dreamed of.

So why... why did your chest ache like something had been carved out of it?

And then—you saw him.

That's when it clicked.

What you were missing wasn't something. It was someone. It was love.

The kind that doesn't knock politely—it breaks the door down and stands in your ruined threshold.

You cursed yourself, quietly, for saying yes to Bobby.

"Come on," he had begged, "You've got the lightest schedule. Just help us set up the fan sign?"

And because you were you—softhearted, capable, and impossibly easy to guilt-trip—you agreed.

Even went the extra mile.

You planned the whole event. Stayed up finalizing logistics. Then told the rest of the staff to clock out early and go home to their families.

Now here you were. Alone in the quiet morning, taping up last-minute signage outside the venue.

You were halfway through unfurling a tarp when you spotted them—four bundled shapes huddled in sleeping bags along the curb.

"...Idiots," you muttered, frowning. Fans like these were rare and reckless. Sleeping outside just to be first in line for autographs?

You shook your head and kept working—until one of them stirred. One pulled back his hood and stood, dusting off the creases from his shirt.

That's when you saw him.

Eyes still puffy from sleep. Hair a soft, tousled black. That calm, unreadable face framed by the dawn's early light.

Back then, you had no idea who he was.

You'd been off the grid for days. Locked in the studio producing songs for idols you barely knew. Huntrix had been hunting without you. You hadn't checked socials in a week.

So when he stepped forward and said—

"Uh... can I use the bathroom?"

—you didn't even blink. Just sighed, rolled your eyes, and jerked your head toward the venue.

"This way."

No thanks. No recognition. He simply nodded and followed.

You didn't think much of it. You were too busy—back to climbing a wobbly stool to hang the tarpaulin behind were the girls will be sitting .

Balancing on tiptoe, gripping the thin banner with cold fingers.

Until a quiet voice called behind you:

"You know, that thing's totally uneven."

You didn't have to look to know it was him.

"And you're going to fall if you keep shifting like that."

You gritted your teeth. "I'm fine."

"You're not," he said flatly. "At least let me help."

You finally glanced down—and your heart skipped. He was already walking toward you. Calm. Composed. His face unreadable, but his hand was outstretched, palm open like he already knew you'd take it.

You didn't.

And in that split-second—of course—you slipped.

"Shit—" you hissed as your balance gave out and gravity claimed you. The ground rushed up too fast. You braced, eyes squeezing shut, waiting for the sharp slam of wood against your back—

But it never came.

Instead, strong arms wrapped around your waist, halting your fall mid-air like it was nothing.

Your breath caught.

Slowly, you cracked one eye open—then the other.

There he was.

Smug. Too close. Too confident.

That crooked smirk on his lips practically screamed "told you so."

His dark eyes flicked over your face, glittering with something unreadable—maybe amusement, maybe something else entirely. The hold on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you in his grip.

He was close. Too close.

You could feel his breath against your mouth. Hear the steady, unbothered rhythm of his heart. And yours—yours was stammering like it didn't know what to do with itself.

He tilted his head a little. "You always this stubborn?"

You swallowed hard. "You always this annoying?"

His smirk widened—but his eyes softened, just barely. "Only when I'm right."

Later that afternoon, the event hall buzzed with energy—fans lined up, banners waving, cameras flashing. But your focus narrowed sharply when your eyes caught a familiar face.

Him.

He was back, but not alone this time. He stood upfront at the signing table with a few others you recognized from earlier—those same guys who'd been in the sleeping bags back at the entrance. And now they were freshen up, styled, and posing as if they belonged.

The Saja Boys.

You stood stiffly near a concrete pillar, arms crossed, trying to keep your face neutral. Rumi, Mira, and Zoe exchanged less-than-thrilled glances. No one had told you this was going to be a joint fan sign. The Huntrix event you had personally organized—put your own hours into, from venue to logistics—was now sharing space with a brand new K-pop boy group?

Your eye twitched.

You caught sight of him again, seated right next to Rumi. They were speaking quietly, heads close. Something about the way he leaned in, relaxed but confident, made your skin prickle.

"Do they know each other?" you murmured to no one in particular.

You flagged down one of the event staff, your voice firm. "Who approved the seating chart? Who is that?"

She gave you a sheepish smile, clearly overwhelmed. "Oh—uh, that's Jinu. He's the leader of the Saja Boys.

Your stomach dropped.

Leader? Of course he is.

As if on cue, Jinu glanced up from the table and locked eyes with you across the venue. Recognition flickered instantly in his gaze—and then he smiled.

That same maddening, devastatingly charming smile from earlier. The one that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn't bother looking back.

The moment you stepped off and slipped behind the black curtains marking the backstage area, it was like you could finally breathe again. The air felt less heavy away from the flashing cameras, squealing fans, and—most of all—him. You paced for a second, then stopped by a corner to scroll through your phone, pretending to be invested in it. Anything to not think about the way your stomach twisted when he was near.

The distant noise of the crowd faded just enough for you to hear footsteps. Lazy, heavy, tired ones. You looked up.

It was Jinu—of course it was. He stood a few feet away, sharp eyes unreadable beneath dyed bangs, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, the rest of the Saja boys passed by in a blur of exhaustion—Abby tossing his bouquet dramatically into a trash bin, Mystery yawning, Baby leaning heavily on Romance's shoulder as they all disappeared toward the van.

But Jinu? He was the only one who didn't just throw the bouquet in. He placed it gently—deliberately—on top of the pile. A folded piece of paper stayed clutched in his other hand, something he didn't discard. A letter from a fan, maybe. Or something else.

You glanced back down at your phone. He didn't leave.

"So what are you to them?" he asked, voice smooth, slightly amused. "Their manager? Event organizer?"

You looked up again. He was staring at you, head slightly tilted, brows raised in quiet challenge. The others were gone now—just the two of you. You squared your stance.

"I'm their producer," you replied flatly, folding your arms. Cool. Professional.

Jinu's lips tugged into a half-smirk as he slowly folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "And you planned the fan event too? Damn. All in one, huh?"

He took a few slow steps in your direction, casual but not aimless. Calculated.

"I'm a perfectionist," you said simply, holding his gaze.

"Mm. Figures," he said, voice lower now as he closed the distance just a little more, eyes scanning your face. "You've got that look. Like nothing ever passed by you."

There was something in the way he said it—less teasing, more observant. He didn't mean just the event.

You looked away first.

You always did.

And ever since that day, your lives kept tangling—deliberate or not. Jinu always seemed to be just a few steps behind you. Or ahead of you. Or waiting.

There was something about the way he smiled—just a little too slow, a little too soft. The way his eyes held yours longer than they should've, almost as if memorizing the shape of your face each time. And then there was the way his gaze would flick down to your lips before rising back to your eyes, like a secret only he knew.

It wasn't just glances. It was tension. Thick and charged, like static before a storm.

The day he reached out—his hand resting on your waist to move you gently aside in the crowded idol common room—it felt like something clicked into place. The contact lingered. Not enough to raise suspicion, but just enough to make your breath catch.

Then there were the late-night run-ins. The 24-hour convenience store closest to your apartment, where you'd both pretend surprise even though you frequented it around the same hour. That time he "accidentally" found you working late in the studio, hunched over your laptop, trying to produce a new track under deadline.

"I didn't know anyone else was here," he'd said. But his voice didn't match the words. It was too calm. Too knowing.

Neither of you made the first move right away. But one night, you both stopped pretending.

Your lips met—slow, hesitant at first, then hungry. The kiss tasted like everything you'd both been holding back. Like the first breath after drowning.

And somehow, it felt like more than just a kiss. It felt like a beginning. A fragile, burning beginning.

You were falling for him. And he was falling too.

But then you heard it.

A conversation behind closed doors—Huntrix voices lowered in warning, laced with urgency. Jinu's name. A word you weren't meant to hear.

Demon.

Your heart plummeted like it had been cut loose from your chest.

Enemy.

And now, here you stood—frozen in place, suffocating beneath the weight of everything you knew and everything you felt. Love, twisted with betrayal. Warmth, laced with danger.

I can't decide what's wrong, what's right... Which way should I go?

The lyrics echoed in your mind, torn from a memory you couldn't quite silence. A song that once comforted you—now mocking your indecision.

Your scythe's blade hovered dangerously close to Jinu's neck. Your hands trembled, not from fear, but from fury barely contained. Your jaw locked as your blurred vision clung to the shape of him. The boy you used to trust. The demon he became.

Jinu didn't move. Didn't even raise his eyes to meet yours at first.

The wind whispered across the rooftop ledge, catching the hem of his jacket and brushing through your hair like some ghost trying to push you apart. He let out a slow breath, and when he finally looked at you, it wasn't with defiance.

It was guilt. Heavy. Real. Like he'd been carrying it for lifetimes.

"I never wanted you to find out like this," he said quietly, voice low and raw.

Your grip tightened on the scythe's handle. The curved blade shimmered under the moonlight, inches from his skin.

"You lied to me," you hissed, each word heavy like it cost you something to speak them aloud. "All this time. You were one of them."

Jinu lowered his gaze again. "Four hundred years is a long time to regret something."

"Don't you dare make this poetic," you snapped. "You could've told me. You let me care about you—trust you—when you knew what you were."

He didn't defend himself. Just stood there, letting your anger land where it may.

"I'm still me," he finally said, barely louder than the wind. "Even if the past is monstrous... I never stopped being me when I was with you."

Silence stretched. Your blade didn't waver, but your heart did

You didn't know when the tears started to fall—only that they burned on the way down.

All this time, you thought he was your safe place. The quiet in the chaos. But now... now he was the very storm you'd been trying to survive.

Jinu stepped forward—slowly, cautiously, like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew one wrong move would shatter everything.

"You're right," he said softly. "I should've told you. I should've let you hate me from the beginning. But I didn't want to lose you before I ever had the chance to keep you."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, half-choked and broken. "So instead you let me love a lie?"

He flinched.

The scythe dropped from your hands with a metallic thud against the rooftop. You couldn't hold it anymore. Couldn't hold anything anymore. Not the rage. Not the love. Not the grief curling inside your ribs like fire.

"I don't know if I'll ever forgive you," you whispered.

Jinu looked like he wanted to speak, but the words never came. Maybe there weren't any left that could fix this.

And maybe... that was the point.

You turned away from him, the wind now at your back. The skyline blurred through your tears, the city below indifferent to the war inside your chest.

Behind you, Jinu didn't move. Maybe he knew chasing you would only make it worse.

Maybe he knew he'd already lost.

Your voice broke the silence one last time, barely above a breath:

"If only I knew what my heart was telling me... Don't know what I'm feeling, is this just a dream?"

And then you were gone— leaving Jinu standing alone beneath the stars, with nothing but regret and the sound of your fading footsteps.

#jinu x reader #kpdh #kpop demon hunters #fem reader #jinu kpdh #kpdh x reader #kpop demon hunters au #saja boys x reader #x reader #kpdh angst #light angst

471 notes · View notes

ridingreeves · 3 days ago

Text

𝖮𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖻𝖿𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗑 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

⚠︎︎ 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－explicit smut, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, weed use, fingering, choking (light), rough then tender, praise kink, age gap, daddy kink, possessive behavior, pet names,

𝖠／𝖭－𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗈𝖿 “𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈,”𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝖻𝖾 out. A𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌mut, 𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾. A𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗈 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿or😉

𝖵𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗈

You swore it was just a pickup.

Quick text from Smoke:

“Pull up. Got some shit for you. Strong. Like me.”

Always so full of himself.

You threw on something quick—black shorts that barely covered anything and a white ribbed tank you weren’t wearing a bra under. Not to impress him. Just because it was hot out. That’s what you told yourself.

It was close to midnight when you pulled into the back lot of the old mechanic shop he ran his business out of. The lot was mostly empty, except for one car tucked in the far corner—a black Dodge Charger Hellcat with dark tint, chrome rims catching the moonlight.

You walked up slow, your slides hitting the pavement softly, heart thudding just a little too fast for a “casual” visit.

Driver’s window slid down.

Smoke looked at you from the shadows, leaning back in the seat like he hadn’t a care in the world. Low eyes, chain resting on his chest, blunt between his fingers.

When you walked up to Smoke’s car, he already had your blunt lit and seat reclined, like he’d been waiting for you all night. And maybe he had. That look in his eyes when you opened the passenger door said it all.

Low. Dark. Hungry.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered. “I was startin’ to think you ain’t want me no more.”

You smirked. “I came for the weed, old man. Not you.”

That gold-tooth grin of his flashed. “Mmhm. That why your nipples pokin’ through your lil’ shirt like that?”

You rolled your eyes—but still tugged the door open and climbed in.

Inside, it smelled like weed and leather, and cologne that cost more than your rent.

He passed you the blunt, and you took a long pull. The hit was smooth, but strong. Your lungs burned, head floating almost immediately.

“Shit,” you coughed, handing it back. “You weren’t lying.”

“‘Course I wasn’t.” He looked you over again, this time slower. “Now lemme see what else you came for.”

you passed him back the blunt. He took a long drag, settled back into the seat, and stared out the windshield.

You told yourself you weren’t gonna let it happen again. Not in the car. Not when you knew he could make you come just by talking.

But then his hand slid onto your thigh.

Not rushed. Just resting there. Warm and heavy like it belonged.

“You gone sit over there and act cute all night?” he murmured.

You turned in your seat, one leg folding up under you as you faced him, the leather creaking slightly under your movement. You reached over, hand sliding slow up his thigh.

“You always talkin’ like you got somethin’ to prove.”

Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just raised an eyebrow.

“I do got somethin’ to prove. And you touchin’ on it.”

You didn’t respond. Just slid your hand over his. Guided it higher. Past your bare thigh, up the curve of your hip, and right beneath the hem of your tiny shorts.

No panties.

You felt him tense, then exhale deep through his nose.

“Lil’ nasty,” he said, voice low. “You came outside like that?”

You turned your head, voice syrup-sweet. “You told me to come quick.”

The second you said it, he grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss—hard, wet, deep enough to make you dizzy. He kissed like he owned you. Tongue licking into your mouth, hand gripping your ass, pulling you closer until you were straddling him in the front seat.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. “I missed this pussy.”

You settled on his lap, the denim of his jeans rough against the inside of your thighs. You could feel him—already thick, already hard.

His hand slid between your legs again, fingers teasing you open. He groaned when he felt how wet you already were.

“Damn. She always ready for me, huh?”

He chuckled low in his throat.

Your eyes fluttered shut when his middle finger pushed inside you, slow and thick. He curled it just right, like he knew your body. Like it was muscle memory.

“Keep takin’ that shit,” he said, watching you grind into his hand. “Look at you, fuckin’ yourself on my fingers like a good girl.”

You whimpered, hips rolling faster.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I got you.”

His voice. His voice made your body obey. Made you fall apart for him in that seat with just his hand buried inside you and his teeth grazing your throat. You clenched around his fingers, back arching as you came fast and hard.

“Mm. Look at you. You was missin’ me.”

You grind your hips against him, slow and deliberate. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You did.

Your mouth crashed into his, and it wasn’t soft. It was teeth, and heat, and him grabbing your ass with both hands, squeezing so tight you moaned into his mouth. His tongue slid past your lips, deep and messy, while your hips rolled against him.

When he broke the kiss, his voice was rough.

“Climb on, mama. Ride me like you mean it.”

You blinked, dazed. “Right here?”

He grabbed your jaw, made you look at him.

“You come to me damn near naked at midnight, sittin’ on my dick in the back of a dark-ass lot, and you got the nerve to be shy now?”

Your pussy clenched, and he felt it. Smirked. That knowing, cocky grin that made you wanna slap him and let him ruin your life.

“Come on,” he said again. “I wanna watch you while you fuck me.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. You were on your knees, braced one hand on his chest, the other on the seat. You watched as he unzipped his pants, the heavy sound of his belt loosening making your stomach flip.

He pulled your panties to the side, ran two fingers down your slick folds, and groaned.

“Damn, baby… You drippin’. You need it that bad?”

“Smoke—please—”

He didn’t tease.

He pushed inside you in one deep stroke, and your head dropped forward with a loud moan. He was thick, stretching you open so slow it nearly hurt—but you loved it.

“So deep—” you moaned.

“I know. You takin’ it, though. You always do.”

He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, deep inside you, palm on your lower back, watching your pussy pulse around him.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s mine. Every fuckin’ inch.”

“Fuck.” His hands gripped your hips hard. “Pussy still perfect. Grippin’ me like it missed me.”

You tried to respond, but all you could do was ride him. The car rocked with you, windows fogging as your thighs clapped against his. You reached one hand back to brace on his knee, trying to take all of him.

“That’s it, mama,” he groaned. “Take all this dick. You built for it.”

He leaned forward, palm sliding up your back, around your neck, fingers curling lightly at your throat.

“Who’s this pussy belong to?”

“You,” you gasped.

He tugged your head back against his shoulder, slowing his thrusts to grind deep. “Say it again.”

“You, Smoke—fuck, it’s yours—”

That earned you a slap to the ass, then another. You cried out, and he kissed your neck between spanks.

You were shaking. High, cock-drunk, toes curled, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he reached down and rubbed your clit in rough little circles.

Your body started to tremble.

“There she go,” he cooed. “Go ‘head, make a mess. Cream on this dick.”

“You gone let daddy come in this pretty pussy?”

“Yes—yes, Smoke, please—”

“Beg for it.”

“Please,” you cried. “Please fill me up—I want it—need it—”

He groaned. His pace turned mean, messy, punishing. You came again without warning, clenching around him, and he didn’t last long after that—burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a growl against your shoulder.

The car went still. His forehead pressed to your back. His hand rested heavy on your hip.

The car was silent except for the ticking of the engine and the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.

Smoke leaned back, hands still on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your skin.

“…Damn,” he muttered. “That wasn’t what I planned.”

You were still face in his shoulder, giggling softly.

“You always say that.”

He pulled you back gently into his lap, kissed your shoulder. “Only ‘cause you got a way of throwin’ me off.”

“Uh huh.” You shifted, a little whimper leaving your mouth as he slid out of you.

He grabbed a hoodie from the back seat, putting it on you. Then lit another blunt, passed it to you with a look so soft it made your chest ache.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Good. Let’s go get you fed before I take you to the house and fuck you right.”

@cremeful

@enchanthings

#smoke x black reader #smoke moore #elijah x reader #elijah smoke moore #micheal b jordan sinners #micheal b jordan #sinners smut #sinners x reader #micheal b jordan x reader #sinners x black reader #black reader

859 notes · View notes

kxsagi · 3 days ago

Note

Bllk with a reader who is always at their home and the moment she isn't they panic/feel lonely lowkey me

“𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧”

a/n: just watched flipped and i need a yearnful man

ft. isagi yoichi, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, yukimiya kenyu, shidou ryusei, bachira meguru, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

he walks into the apartment whistling, all happy and boyfriendly, expecting you to be on the couch wrapped in a blanket like a human burrito watching your 20th true crime doc.

but the moment he opens the door and it’s silent… he freezes mid-step like he just triggered a tripwire.

“love? you taking a nap?”

no answer. his eyes dart around like a detective. he starts checking rooms, corners, under the bed?

calls you immediately. your phone rings from the kitchen counter.

“oh my gosh she left her phone. she’s dead. she’s in a ditch.”

doesn’t even sit down. just holds your throw pillow to his chest, stares blankly at the ceiling and whispers, “this is what grief feels like.”

when you walk back in, he’s like, “i thought you got kidnapped and forgot your phone during the struggle. i already made a missing poster.”

you were gone for an hour to buy dish soap.

mikage reo

reo swears he’s the most chill, secure man alive… until he opens the door and you’re nowhere to be seen.

immediately texts you: where are you did i do something be honest. you hate me now right i’ll buy you a new apartment

facetimes you and just stares at the screen without blinking. full deadpan. no words. just sorrow.

“you weren’t here to greet me at the door like a happy little wife. how am i supposed to go on?”

lies dramatically on the couch like he’s in a 1920s soap opera. holds a photo of you to his chest.

considers texting your mom just to feel closer to you.

the moment you walk back in with iced coffee: “oh so you’re alive. and caffeinated. but not emotionally invested in my suffering? okay.”

nagi seishiro

the moment he realizes you’re not home, he literally just… stops functioning.

like, deadass stands in the living room for three minutes straight. motionless.

throws himself on the bed dramatically.

calls you and groans into the mic when you pick up.

“this sucks. i was gonna lay on you like a body pillow.”

ends up opening the fridge 14 times out of boredom, forgetting every time that you’re the one who actually cooks.

texts you “when are you coming home 😩” every 10 minutes and leaves 28 voice notes, all of them sighs.

when you return: “finally. i was thinking about ordering you off amazon if you didn’t show up.”

itoshi rin

rin acts like it’s whatever. says, “she’s probably out. it’s fine.”

it is not fine.

starts pacing the apartment like he’s rehearsing a monologue.

checks the time like he’s your parole officer. opens the closet to see if your shoes are still there.

mutters “what if she met someone smarter. taller. funnier.” like he’s fighting inner demons.

keeps walking into rooms and frowning like they offended him.

when you come back, he’s sitting in the dark, arms crossed.

“you didn’t text me. or call me. or say ‘rinnie, my love, i’ll be back soon.’ what am i supposed to do with that?”

then immediately pulls you into a hug like he’s been deprived of oxygen.

itoshi sae

acts like he doesn’t care. “she’s out. whatever.”

literally sits on the couch with his arms crossed like he’s waiting to argue.

glares at the wall. then at your phone charger. then at your slippers.

ends up scrolling through old texts, rereading the one where you said “brb i’m going pee.”

calls you and doesn’t even say hello. just: “so you abandoned me now?”

you tell him you just went out for groceries and he replies, “okay. so you’d rather be with onions than me. good to know.”

when you come back: “you didn’t even ask if i wanted to come. i could’ve carried the bags. held your hand. flirted with the cashier to get you a discount.”

kaiser michael

absolutely losing it. like, cartoon-level panic.

he opens the door expecting to see you, only to be met with dead silence and a couch that looks too empty.

dramatic gasp.

“she’s gone. my freundin is gone. and i don’t know who i am anymore.”

immediately checks your location. sees you’re at the pet store. starts spiraling.

“what if she meets a guy who likes cats more than me? what if he’s german, too?? no. NO. I’M ONE OF A KIND.”

facetimes you mid-aisle and when you pick up, he says, “don’t buy a hamster, buy a plane ticket back to ME.”

when you return: grabs your face in his hands, all breathless like a war reunion.

“don’t ever leave me again without telling me the exact time, duration, and intention of your trip. and a selfie.”

karasu tabito

the worst combination: clingy and sarcastic.

the moment you’re not home, he sends you a video of him dramatically opening the fridge, seeing it empty, and saying, “wow. abandonment. you left me to starve.”

updates his IG story with a selfie captioned “#widowed.”

facetimes you and holds your blanket up to the screen like, “you see this? this smells like you. this is all i have now.”

calls his mom and says, “remember that girl i told you about? yeah. she left me. she’s dead to me.”

when you get back, he immediately flops on you.

“i couldn’t even be toxic today. who was i gonna annoy? the toaster?? never again, babe. next time you leave, i’m hiding in your purse.”

yukimiya kenyu

starts off normal. reads a book. drinks tea. listens to classical music like a refined man.

but after 45 minutes of silence, he starts looking around like a ghost might appear.

opens the window and sighs like he’s in a french film.

talks to the cat you guys don’t even own: “she’s usually here by now. i hope she’s okay. she’s my sun, my moon, my stars…”

makes himself a sad cup of tea and drinks it in your sweater (that’s too tight for him and the fabric is snapping).

when you finally walk through the door, he says, “oh. you returned. i only had to make three voicemails about how much you mean to me. no big deal.”

hugs you for an entire minute and whispers, “next time, take me with you. i can fit in your tote bag.”

shidou ryusei

bro flips out like a sitcom character whose wife just left him for a yoga instructor.

immediately calls you and when you don’t answer in 0.2 seconds: “babe? where are you?? i’m losing my mind, i think i’m seeing things. the plants are whispering.”

drags your hoodie around the apartment like a lost child. talks to it.

makes a dramatic tiktok where he fake cries into the camera and captions it: “she went outside without me 💔 pray for me y’all”

tries to track your location. can’t. assumes you’re on the run.

when you get back, he clings to you like velcro.

“you LEFT me here, alone, with myself. do you even know how dangerous that is?? never again. we’re getting a gps tracker. download life 360 right now.”

bachira meguru

step 1: walks in.

step 2: realizes you’re not home.

step 3: whispers, “... uh oh.”

this man has the emotional regulation of a bouncy ball. the second he doesn't see you smiling at him from the couch, he starts spiraling like he's in the middle of a villain origin story.

“did she get bored of me? is this my joker arc?”

talks to your plushies like they're your personal council. lines them up and goes, “okay guys, serious meeting. our queen has vanished. thoughts?? theories?? conspiracy??”

makes a whole art piece with crayons titled “come home, baby, i miss you.”

facetimes you with his face one inch from the screen like, “WHERE. ARE. YOU.”

“you said you love me and then you LEFT. you broke the sacred trust. i can never emotionally recover from this.”

when you walk in with bubble tea: “you were gone for so long i started humming to the walls. they’re my friends now. you can’t replace them.”

but then he tackles you in a hug and whines, “next time i’m coming with you. i can fit in a shopping cart if i curl up.”

ness alexis

you are his sunshine. his oxygen. his wi-fi connection.

so the one day you're not home when he walks in with a bright little “i’m back~!” and there’s no answer? he’s devastated.

full meltdown. texts you: i’m home!! wait where are you are you okay?? did someone steal you??? i miss you already. it’s been 3 minutes.

paces around the apartment like a sad little elf, sniffing your perfume from your jacket and sighing like he's in a boyband breakup ballad.

sits on the floor with your fuzzy socks and says, “i wore these once when you weren’t looking. they made me feel safe.”

calls kaiser and says, “yo do you think she left me?” kaiser was like “she went to the pharmacy.” ness: “so she’s gone.”

posts on his close friends story: “miss her. wish she’d come home. i lit a candle for her safety 🕯️😭”

when you come back: “i was gonna knit us matching scarves while crying to sad kpop. you’re lucky you came back in time.”

613 notes · View notes