#It looks real pretty too... do it... you have to...

[drewsephrry]

Love Island - Episode 13: Pick me, Choose me, Love me

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

words: 4.9k

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

series masterlist

The girls are gathered in the makeup room, getting ready for the recoupling. The atmosphere is thick, awkward and tense, like no one really wants to say what they’re thinking.

“So…a recoupling.” Cleo ventures, trying to break the silence. “That’s gonna be…interesting.”

No one really reacts. She clears her throat and turns to Y/N.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” She asks and Y/N offers a small, instinctive smile. 

“Honestly? I’m just excited to recouple with Rafe.” She says, a hint of giddiness slipping through. “But I do need to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Ryan first.”

“You’re going to talk to him?” Sarah asks, glancing up from her eyeshadow palette. Her eyes flick briefly to Kiara before returning to her brush. Y/N catches it and nods.

“It’s what he deserves.” Y/N says simply. “I can’t just leave things hanging like that. He needs to hear from me that I don’t see it going anywhere. Even if it’s hard. It’s not fair to let him think I might pick him when I won’t.”

The girls nod, quietly agreeing.

“You’re such a good person.” Cleo says warmly.

“I’m just trying to be honest.” Y/N replies with a shrug, meeting Kiara’s eye as she fans her eyelash glue dry.

Across the room, Abigail is rifling through her clothes in silence, round curlers perched on her head.

“Need a hand, Abi?” Y/N calls over.

Abigail turns with a soft smile and shakes her head. 

“I’m good, thanks.” She responds.

Y/N gives her a knowing nod before turning her attention back to her makeup bag, the buzz of tension still lingering beneath the surface.

Later, when the girls make their way downstairs, Y/N spots Ryan sitting on the couch with Kelce and John B. She walks over, steady but warm.

“Hey.” She says with a soft smile as she stops in front of them.

The boys greet her and she turns to Ryan. 

“Mind if I steal Ryan for a minute? I promise I’ll bring him back.” 

“Keep him.” John B teases, earning a few light laughs as Ryan stands up. He places a casual hand on Y/N’s waist as she leads him toward one of the quieter couches, away from the others.

“You look incredible tonight.” He says as they sit down.

Y/N’s cheeks flush with color as she glances at her dress.

“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Ryan leans back slightly, already sensing where the conversation is headed.

“I pulled you for a chat because…”

“You’re picking Rafe.” He says, cutting in gently and she freezes for a second. 

“Ryan…”

“It’s okay.” He says quickly. “I see you two together. I get it.”

“I did feel something between us. I want you to know that.” Y/N swallows, her voice quiet.

“I did too.” He says with a nod. “I really like you, Y/N. But I also know what you and Rafe have is different. I’m not here to fight for someone’s attention. I’m here to enjoy this and maybe find something real.”

Her expression softens, worry flickering in her eyes. 

“I never wanted to hurt you.” She mutters.

“You didn’t.” He reassures her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “I had a crush, I took my shot and it didn’t work out. That’s life.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs again.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, sincere. “I’m glad we got to know each other. I want you to be happy. And if Rafe makes you happy, then I’m rooting for you.”

“This kind of feels like a breakup.” Y/N lets out a soft laugh. He laughs too. 

“It does. ‘I’m just focusing on my career right now.’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’” He jokes, tossing out the clichés. She laughs louder this time, before they fall into a brief, easy silence.

“I’d still like to be friends.” She says suddenly, sitting up.

“I’d really like that too.” He agrees and she opens her arms.

“Come here.”

He leans in, wrapping her in a warm hug. She breathes in the familiar scent of his and lets herself settle into the moment before pulling back with a smile.

“So…” She says, leaning back. “Thoughts on tonight’s recoupling?”

“What do you mean?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, have you felt a spark with anyone else? Who do you think might pick you?”

Ryan hesitates for a second, then leans in slightly like he’s sharing a secret. 

“Okay…don’t tease me or tell anyone yet, but…I think I’m getting a bit of a vibe from Abi.”

“Really?” Y/N’s eyes go wide, her smile lighting up. 

“Yeah.” He says with a grin. “She’s sweet. Funny. And I don’t know, maybe it’s because we entered the villa together, but there’s this comfort between us.”

“I can see that.” She says thoughtfully. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I want to.” He admits. “But I’m not sure where things stand between her and JJ.”

“Well.” Y/N says with a shrug. “You’ve got nothing to lose. I think you should go for it.”

“Thanks, Y/N. Really.” He nods, eyes warm. 

She smiles again, proud of the way things turned out, even if it wasn’t the easiest conversation to have.

Confessional - Ryan “I really respect her for pulling me aside and having that conversation. She didn’t just leave me hanging or make me look stupid…I mean she’s not the type to do that. She’s way too kind for that.” He says with a small sigh. “Honestly, I’m just grateful we got some closure.”

Across the villa, Kiara and Abigail are on the lounge beds, drinks in hand. The night air is warm, but the energy between them is noticeably cooler.

“Okay, so…” Abigail starts, her voice low and hesitant. “I pulled you for a chat because…shit, I’m really bad at confrontation.”

She takes a long breath before continuing.

“Last night, some people saw you and JJ going into the villa…and then coming back like twenty minutes later. And I’m not saying something definitely happened, but I guess I just wanted to ask...did…did something happen? If so, do you feel something there? Like…is there an actual connection? Or is it just friendly?” She winces. “God, I sound toxic. Just-just forget I said anything.”

She starts to rise, embarrassed, but Kiara gently reaches out and catches her hand.

“Abi, wait.”

Abigail pauses, then sinks back down beside her. Kiara exhales slowly. 

“There’s…been a vibe between JJ and me for a while. I didn’t act on it because I didn’t want to overthink it or make things messy. But last night, during the challenge… something shifted. It was this undeniable spark everyone talks about.”

She hesitates.

“Afterward, he told me to meet him upstairs. And I swear, I didn’t know what he was planning or what he was thinking.”

“So…what happened?” Abigail frowns. Kiara looks down at her drink, then back up.

“We kissed. Just once. But…it felt real. Like the first time I’ve had butterflies in this villa.”

Abigail’s face tightens. She looks away, staring into her glass. 

“You could’ve told me.” She mutters.

“I would. I swear.”

“When, Kie?” Abigail presses, her voice strained. “When you would have stood up and picked him at the recoupling?”

Kiara’s heart sinks. 

“No. I would never do that to you. Please…just trust me on this.”

“I want to. But the way you both hid this from me? I just…I didn’t expect this. Not from you.” Abigail shakes her head, eyes glassy but holding back. 

“I’m sorry, Abi. I really am.” Kiara's shoulders slump as the weight of her guilt settles in.

“I am too.” Abigail replies quietly as she stands. “I just need some space.”

Kiara nods silently, watching as Abigail walks away.

Confessional - Kiara “I would’ve told her. I should have told her.” She insists quietly.

Maddy and Sarah are in the kitchen, casually snacking and sipping on drinks, when Y/N strolls in and hops onto one of the stools.

“Hi, girlies.” She sing-songs, flashing them a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Maddy beams, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “You good?”

“Just had the talk with Ryan.” Y/N exhales.

“Oh, shit.” Sarah’s eyes widen. “How’d it go?”

“He was actually…really chill about it.” Y/N says. “I think he saw it coming. He wasn’t upset and we agreed to stay friends, so…it went as well as it could have.”

“Yeah, no.” Maddy shakes her head, already unimpressed. “Boys and girls can’t just be friends.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mads.” Y/N says with a smirk, “But I have to disagree.”

“Nope. Every guy I’ve ever said ‘let’s be friends’ to, whether that was exes, flings or even random guys I’ve ended up hooking up with at some point. It’s literally impossible. Unless they’re gay.”

“Honestly, I have to side with Maddy on this one.” Sarah raises her hand like she’s seconding a motion.

“Well, that’s not gonna happen with me and Ryan.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“Whatever you say.” Maddy says, folding her arms. “But it’s impossible when there are feelings involved.”

“There are no feelings involved.” Y/N insists, shaking her head. “Not like that.”

“You like him.” Maddy replies immediately, raising a smug brow.

“I don’t like-like him.” 

“But you like him.”

“I don’t have a crush!” She argues.

“But you like him.” Maddy says again, grinning.

“I just think he’s-”

“Charming?” Maddy laughs. “Yeah, you've said it a million times, babe. You like him.”

Y/N sighs and turns her gaze to the beanbags, where Rafe is sitting, relaxed and glowing under the villa lights.

“Well…if I do like Ryan, it’s not the way I like Rafe.” Her voice softens as she watches him. “Ryan’s a great guy. He came in when I was all over the place. And he helped, you know? He pulled me out of my head when I was still dealing with the whole…cheating thing. But at the end of the day, he’s not Rafe.”

“You’re falling for Rafe.” Sarah lets out a squeal.

“D-Don’t say that.” Y/N warns, instantly flustered.

“Oh my god, did you stutter?” Maddy gasps, pointing at her. “You totally stuttered. You’re so falling for him!”

Y/N groans and hides her face in her hands as the girls burst into giggles around her.

Just then, Kiara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor.

“Y/N?” She says, carefully.

Y/N lifts her head from her hands, eyebrows raised. 

“Kie? What’s going on?”

Kiara glances at Maddy and Sarah, who go quiet, sipping their drinks. Then she turns back to Y/N, nervous but determined.

“I...I feel like a hypocrite.” She says quietly. “Calling Rafe a liar, saying I didn’t trust him and that he’d hurt you…when I messed up too.”

Y/N’s eyes widen slightly, already sensing what’s coming.

“Kie-” “I kissed JJ.” Kiara blurts out.

The room goes still. All three girls look up at her, stunned.

“And...we didn’t tell Abigail.” She continues. “She found out. And it sucked. Seeing her face like that…seeing how hurt she was.”

Y/N immediately opens her arms and Kiara walks into her embrace. Y/N rubs her back gently as she speaks.

“I think I know how Abi feels.” She murmurs. “And honestly, the best thing you can do is give her some time. Let everything breathe a little.”

She pulls back to look Kiara in the eyes.

“Was the kiss just in the moment? Or…did it mean something?” Y/N asks.

“I wanted to kiss him. And…I think he did too. He made the first move.”

Y/N sighs, but it’s not judgmental, it's more thoughtful.

“Then yeah…I think what hurt Abigail most wasn’t just the kiss, it was the fact you kept it from her.”

“So I should just… give her space?” 

Y/N nods and Maddy and Sarah follow with quiet agreement.

“And the recoupling?” Kiara asks, almost in a whisper.

The girls exchange glances. No one jumps to answer.

“Just…go with your gut.” Y/N says gently. “If you talked to Abigail first, explained what happened and how you feel about JJ, then she probably will understand your choice. But if you’re unsure about JJ or if there’s no real feeling behind it...maybe it’s not worth the fallout.”

Kiara nods again, taking it all in. Then she leans in and hugs Y/N one more time.

“Thank you.” She murmurs.

“Anytime.” Y/N gives her a soft smile. 

Confessional - Kiara “That talk with Y/N definitely helped me make up my mind.” Kiara says, nodding. “Honestly, someone should just hand that girl a psychology degree.”

Rafe sits by the firepit with JJ and Topper, the three of them nursing their drinks.

“Rafe?” Topper says cautiously.

“Yeah?” Rafe’s jaw tightens as he glances up at him.

“I just wanna say I’m sorry for what I said the other night.” Topper starts, shifting in his seat and Rafe gives a small nod, letting him continue.

“I shouldn’t have called Y/N fake or said she was playing you. I thought I was looking out for you, but...I was out of line. I’ve had time to think it over and I see both your sides now. I just want you to be happy, man.”

Rafe exhales slowly. 

“Then don’t talk shit about her again.” He says simply. “And really, you owe her the apology, not me.”

“I figured you’d say that.” Topper nods, already expecting that. “And yeah, I will. I promise. So...we good?”

“We’re good, man.” Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle and nods.

They dab each other up and JJ leans back on the bench with a sigh, clearly growing impatient.

“Alright, can we get to the real crisis here?” JJ says.

The guys glance over at him.

“What now?” Rafe asks, lifting his glass.

“I, uh…I kissed Kiara last night. And I haven’t told Abigail.” JJ reveals.

“Shit.” Topper’s eyes widen.

“I know. It just…happened. And I don’t regret it. Kiara and I had a moment. I kinda wanna see where it goes.” 

“And Abigail?” Rafe presses.

“I like her too.” JJ admits. “I’m a mess.”

“Then be straight with her. Don’t leave her in the dark.” Rafe says, the memory of his own screw-ups flickering behind his eyes.

“She’s gonna hate me.” JJ mutters.

“She might be pissed, sure. But she deserves the truth, JJ.” Rafe looks at him, voice softer now.

“And you better do it before the recoupling.” Topper adds.

JJ stands up  like he’s ready to go and then a loud ping echoes.

“I got a text!” Sarah shouts from the kitchen. “Islanders, please gather at the firepit. #decisiontime #whowillitbe.”

JJ freezes, then drops back down onto the bench with a groan. 

“Fuck.” He mutters.

Rafe gives his back a sympathetic smack while the boys let out a collective sigh.

Confessional - JJ “I’m fucked. This whole thing is fucked.” He runs a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

The Islanders begin gathering slowly, one by one taking their seats beside their current partners. A phone chimes, slicing through the chatter.

“Boys.” Pope reads. “Please stand at the front of the firepit.”

The guys exchange a few glances before getting to their feet and making their way to the front. The girls shift in their seats, anticipation building as they prepare for the recoupling.

Maddy’s phone buzzes first. She jumps up with a grin, practically glowing.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She begins, her voice light. “Because he’s made me laugh more than anyone before. He’s sweet, he’s fun and I always feel at ease when I’m around him. So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Kelce.”

He jogs over, plants a kiss on her lips and she giggles as they sit back down together, his arm draping naturally around her shoulder.

Next up is Sarah, who stands and delivers a short but heartfelt speech. She smiles as she chooses John B and he walks over, grabbing her and kissing her. Their kiss turns intense fast, drawing whistles and laughter from the others.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Someone calls and they break apart, laughing as they return to their seats.

Alyssa stands next. Her expression is a little more serious.

“I'd like to couple up with this boy, because even though things haven’t exactly been smooth between us lately.” She says. “I still believe there’s something worth holding onto.” She glances at Topper. “So I’m choosing to couple up with…Topper.”

He walks over, hugs her a little longer than expected and they sit down quietly.

Y/N stands up slowly, smoothing out her dress and letting out a small breath as all eyes fall on her.

“I wanna couple up with this boy because…” She begins, voice a little unsteady. “Even though we haven’t known each other that long...being around him just feels easy.”

She lets out a quick breath, eyes flicking toward him.

“Okay, not always easy.” She admits with a small laugh. “It’s been a bit messy, if I’m honest. But somehow, it still feels real.”

Rafe watches her, lips twitching into a subtle smile.

“We’ve had our ups and downs already. But there’s something there. And no matter how things have gone…I keep coming back to him.”

Her voice softens at the end, eyes lingering on him now.

“So yeah. The boy I wanna couple up with…is Rafe.”

He’s already on his feet before she finishes, crossing the space between them in a few steps. He wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her just slightly, kissing her without saying a word. She smiles into it, arms winding naturally around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times.

“Hey!” Sarah calls out, teasing. “You told me and John B to keep it PG!”

Everyone laughs as they finally break apart and settle on the bench together. Rafe turns to her, eyes scanning her face.

“You’re not wearing that…lip stuff tonight?” He asks, voice lower now.

“You always kiss it off anyway. Figured I’d skip the routine.” She grins. He chuckles, hand settling on her waist again as she leans into him. He presses a kiss to her temple, then turns his attention back to the firepit, still holding her. 

Abigail rises slowly.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She says. “Because he’s funny, he’s sweet and from the moment we met, he’s had this really kind and calming energy. I’ve loved getting to know him, and I’d really like to see where this could go.” She exhales. “So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Ryan.”

Ryan’s eyes widen. He turns instinctively to look at Y/N, who mirrors his expression before giving him an encouraging grin.

He walks over to Abigail, kisses her cheek and takes the seat beside her.

JJ, still standing at the front, furrows his brow in confusion. He glances at Abigail across the firepit. But she doesn’t meet his eyes.

“That was…unexpected.” Ryan whispers to Abigail.

“Not really.” She replies, calmly meeting his eyes.

Ryan relaxes a little more in his seat, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Cleo stands next and confidently chooses Pope. Their kiss is sweet and unhurried before they settle down again.

Finally, Kiara rises.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She sighs. “Because he’s really handsome, really funny and somehow always has me laughing until I can’t breathe. And...there’s a spark there. Something worth exploring. So, the boy I wanna couple up with is…JJ.”

JJ walks over slowly, hugging her a little awkwardly in front of everyone before they both sit down with matching sighs.

When the recoupling wraps up, the islanders scatter. Some heading toward the fire pit, others toward the daybeds, settling in with their partners.

Ryan and Abigail walk over to one of the couches, drinks in hand, the warm night buzzing around them.

“I gotta say.” Ryan starts, settling in beside her. “I’m really glad you picked me.”

“You are?” Abigail asks, her smile soft but a little surprised.

“Yeah.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was actually telling Y/N earlier…I feel like we’ve got something. A connection, I guess. I mean…we came in together, which probably made it easier. But being around you just feels…natural. Comfortable. You’re really sweet. And stunning, obviously. And now I’m rambling.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

Abigail laughs too. 

“No, it’s okay.” She pauses, then adds more seriously, “I do feel that connection, too. But I want to be honest with you. Right before the recoupling…I found out something happened between JJ and Kiara. And I won’t lie, it did influence my choice.”

“Okay.” Ryan’s smile dims just a little, but he nods, taking it in.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m using you or that it’s not real. Because I meant what I said up there. I chose you because I see something with you.”

Ryan leans forward slightly, his expression earnest. 

“I didn’t know about the JJ and Kiara thing. I knew he wanted to talk to her, but that’s it. And honestly? I don’t think you’d ever use me like that. I see you. Or at least, I’m starting to. And yeah, maybe everything's moving fast and it’s all a bit chaotic right now, but I’m here and I want to see where this goes. Whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot. It is a lot right now.” Abigail nods, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“Come here.” He opens his arms gently. She leans in and hugs him tight, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Confessional - Ryan “Yeah, I know she’s got a lot on her mind and things are messy right now…but I’m genuinely glad she chose me.” He grins. “I wanna keep getting to know her. See where this goes.”

The islanders start making their way into the villa to get ready for the night. Rafe walks through the flower-lined corridor, carrying Y/N in his arms like a bride. She giggles the whole way, her laughter echoing as they step inside and the boys, already lounging around, erupt in cheers.

“Here comes the bride!” JJ hollers, grinning as the others join in with whistles and claps.

Rafe gently sets her down at the foot of the stairs. She turns to smile at him, but before she can fully walk away, he catches her hand and pulls her back into him, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs. She giggles, giving him another quick peck before heading upstairs.

In the dressing room, the girls are wiping off their makeup and chatting about the day. The door swings open and Y/N walks in to a chorus of playful screams.

“There she is!” Maddy teases. “How are you feeling Mrs. Cameron?”

Y/N blushes, grinning wide. 

“Honestly? My cheeks hurt from smiling. I feel…giddy.” She replies as the girls laugh with her, the energy light and warm.

A few feet away, Kiara is taking off her earrings when Abigail approaches her quietly.

“Hey.” Abigail says.

“Hey.” Kiara glances over. 

“I just...I wanted to say sorry. If I came off mean earlier.”

“You didn’t.” Kiara assures her gently. “But you have every right to be upset. I should’ve told you. I get it.”

“I’m not mad.” Abigail shakes her head. “I was just... frustrated, I guess. But I see the way you and JJ are with each other. And I don’t want to be in the middle of that.”

Kiara steps in for a hug and Abigail wraps her arms around her without hesitation.

“I love you.” Kiara whispers. “And I’m really sorry for how it all happened.”

“Love you too.” Abigail says softly, pulling back with a small smile before going to change into her pajamas.

Confessional - Abigail “Me and JJ…it was fun while it lasted. All two days of it.” She lets out a small laugh. “But this is Love Island. I can’t be mad at him for wanting to see where things go with Kie. And I’m definitely not mad at her either. It is what it is.”

Later, as the girls trickle downstairs, Abigail makes her way over to JJ’s bed. He looks up, running a hand through his hair as she approaches.

“Hey.” He says.

She sits down where he pats beside him.

“I know about you and Kiara.” She starts, voice calm. “And I’m not mad. Or hurt. I’ve had time to think and I can see she really wants to give whatever’s between you two a shot. And I don’t want to be in the way of that.”

JJ nods, his expression sincere. 

“I should’ve pulled you aside sooner. I messed up, and I take full responsibility for that. I’m sorry, Abigail.” He apologizes and she nods, a soft smile on her lips. 

“Thank you for saying that.” 

He nods back and with a quiet understanding between them, she stands and heads to her bed, where Ryan is already lying down, looking up at her with a warm smile.

Meanwhile, Y/N steps into the bedroom, the soft swish of silk the only sound as she crosses the room in her yellow pajamas. The camisole clings delicately to her frame, lace tracing her bust and hem, matching the floral silk shorts that sit snugly on her hips. Rafe doesn’t even try to hide it as his eyes follow every step, the straw from his water bottle paused at his lips.

He shifts under the covers and lifts the duvet for her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That color.” He mutters, voice low and a little hoarse. “Looks too damn good on you.”

She smiles, settling on her side of the bed and placing her phone and water bottle on the bedside table. But before she can fully lie down, Rafe reaches over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. She melts into him, a quiet laugh leaving her lips as she tucks her face against his neck.

Then, a hesitant voice breaks the moment.

“Hey…Y/N?”

Topper approaches slowly. 

“Hey, Topper. You alright?”nShe sits up slightly, turning to him with a concerned smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly as he glances between her and Rafe. “I just…I wanted to apologize. For what I said the other day. Calling you fake, saying you were playing Rafe…that was outta line.”

“It’s fine, really-” Y/N shakes her head.

“No, I need to say it. I was out of line and you didn’t deserve that.” He cuts in, firm but sincere.

She exhales softly, then moves to crawl across Rafe to reach him. She opens her arms and Topper doesn’t hesitate to hug her back.

From behind her, Rafe’s eyes drop to the way her shorts ride up, his gaze darkening slightly.

“Yo, Rafe.” Topper teases as they pull apart, catching the look. “You’re drooling, man.”

Y/N giggles, looking over her shoulder to find Rafe still staring. She smacks his chest playfully.

“My eyes are up here.”

“I know.” He murmurs, eyes finally lifting to meet hers.

She turns back to Topper with a gentle smile.

“Thanks for apologizing.” She mutters and Topper nods, offering a final glance to them both before heading to his own bed.

“Good man.” Rafe calls after him.

As soon as he’s gone, Y/N moves to her side of the bed again, but Rafe isn’t having it. He pulls her back into his lap with ease, arms around her waist and she laughs as her arms drape over his shoulders.

The villa goes dark, a chorus of sleepy goodnights floating through the air.

Rafe leans in, not wasting a second, capturing Y/N’s lips with his. She kisses him back eagerly, fumbling to pull the duvet over them as if it might shield them from the intensity brewing between them.

His hands find her waist, fingers splaying and sliding down to her hips, then lower. Her body shifts, brushing against him in a way that makes him let out a low, guttural groan.

“Sorry.” She breathes out, her voice shaky as she adjusts the blanket.

“Don’t…don’t apologize.” He murmurs, eyes fluttering open in the dark. “Fuck, I-I want you.”

“Ray…” She pulls back just enough, the air between them cooling. There’s hesitation in her voice now and it makes him blink, thrown off.

“Wh-Am I moving too fast or something?” He asks, voice suddenly laced with concern.

Her hand finds the back of his neck, her fingers trailing gently through his hair, grounding him even as she hesitates.

“I…is kissing okay? Just kissing, for now?”

Relief and restraint flash across his features as he nods quickly. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s more than okay. We don’t even have to do anything. I just wanna be with you.” He murmurs. She exhales, her shoulders relaxing. 

“It’s just…it’s our first night back together. After everything that’s happened, I don’t wanna rush anything.”

“I get it. You lead the way.” He reaches up, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear with the softest touch. 

She gives him a grateful, almost shy smile, then leans in again. Their lips meet gently at first, a slow burn, until she deepens the kiss with a quiet hunger that still makes his head spin.

Rafe’s hands slide back to her waist, gripping her just right, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t go further.

He’s content kissing her like this. Wanting more, but respecting the pace she sets.

And when she finally rests her head against his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around her, he presses a kiss to her hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers like a vow into the dark.

to be continued...

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[empyrealix]

⊹ ࣪˖ NOW I'VE READ ALL THE BOOKS BESIDE YOUR BED | #CL16

pairing. charles leclerc x bookworm!reader

synopsis. you post book recommendations on instagram, you're also dating charles leclerc

warnings. some swearing

note. have this while i work on a longer lando fic <33

MASTERLIST ; requests open

yn

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yn this week's book recommendation is the old man and the sea. the novel is about our protagonist's–santiago's–struggle to catch a giant marlin. it is kind of like "moby dick", but without the whale encyclopaedia. i think lando would enjoy this book immensely

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lando it's a book about fish i do not like nor do i read about fish

oscarpiastri thanks for this astute observation, lando

yn i think you would really enjoy it, maybe it'll help you get over whatever weird thing you have about fish

lando it's not a weird thing??

carlossainz55 it is a weird thing

lando you're supposed to be on MY side? you're MY friend?

lando is it just because charles is your most recent teammate, huh?

carlossainz55 my most recent teammate is alex

alex_albon is this forget that alex albon exists day

yn mclaren and williamsracing please collect your drivers

user1 THIS IS SUCH A GOOD BOOK

user2 yn has TASTE in books

user3 she has taste in men too

charles_leclerc this is a very good recommendation, mon amour

lando do you read?

yn mclaren

mclaren We apologise on behalf of our driver

user4 why did she come for lando, that was so uncalled for 😭

f1wags

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f1wags the paddock's resident reader was spotted in the paddock today!! suspiciously enough she was not spotted walking in with charles leclerc, can this mean trouble in paradise for the two lovebirds?

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user5 do we think they're breaking up?

user6 not this again

user7 please stop

user8 i wonder why she was late, they always show up together

user9 she was gorgeous at this race

user10 did anyone see what book she was reading? i saw that she was carrying one but i couldn't see what book it was

user11 she's probably going to post about it on her instagram when she's done with it

user12 it looked like emily henry, maybe?

user13 yn would never read emily henry, girlie reads the odyssey for fun do u really think she'd be caught dead with an emily henry book?

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, scuderiaferrari and 643, 684 others

charles_leclerc the photographer; the pictures

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user14 leoooooo

user15 the highlight of this post actually

user16 yn AND leo are the highlights of this post

user17 who cares about that man with the camera

user18 i'm pretty sure yn cares about him

carlossainz55 rare sighting of yn without a book

charles_leclerc trust me, she had a book with her

yn i never go anywhere without a book

yn you should know this, carlos!!

user19 lmao, charles really said let me disprove the rumours real quick

user20 noooo, you were supposed to end it with yn so that i had a shot

user21 girl, this is embarrassing

oscarpiastri give leo pets from me 😃

yn this feels so passive aggressive

charles_leclerc but we will!!

oscarpiastri thanks dad

yn leooo my baby 🥰

charles_leclerc what am i then?

yn … also my baby?

lando can you take this domestic in private?

yn don't you have a book about fish to read?

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, pierregasly and 125,642 others

yn to everyone who says you can't read (and enjoy) contemporary romance books while also reading and enjoying classics, you're wrong. i've enjoyed this book immensely despite the fact that i also like books like the odyssey. ft. MY happy place

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user22 oh, you guys really pissed her off this time

user23 she saw that post by f1wags and said fuck any and all media training ferrari ever gave her

yn jokes on you cause ferrari never gave me any pr training

scuderiaferrari maybe we should

yn this wasn't even bad?? i didn't cuss out anyone??

user24 cuss out anyone?

user25 there was a time when yn publicly cussed out vasseur and horner

user26 those were good times

user27 she was so real for cussing out horner

charles_leclerc you're my happy place too, mon chérie (did i do it right?)

yn yes, my love, you did

charles_leclerc 🙌

lilymhe send me your goodreads, rn!!

yn sent!

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 215,412 others

yn happy anniversary, my love <3 you make me the happiest, here's to many many more years with you

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arthur_leclerc we should definitely make charles take public transportation in france again!!

yn if i remember correctly, it was me making both you and charles take the train

charles_leclerc as nice as it was, please not again

user28 love that 2/3 pictures include leo

user29 CUTE CUTE CUTE

user30 HAPPY ANNIVERSARY !!

charles_leclerc bon anniversaire, mon amour ❤️ je t'aime

yn je t'aime, charlie ❤️

charles_leclerc now come back ⁉️ leo misses his maman

yn is leo the only reason you want me back

charles_leclerc non, i also made breakfast, you turn gremlin-y when you don't eat

yn you're supposed to be nice to me especially on this day of all days

carlossainz55 happy anniversary you two 💙

lando idk if i can tell the girl who recommended me a book about fish happy anniversary

yn 🐟

oscarpiastri 🐠

carlossainz55 🐡

charles_leclerc 🐋

maxverstappen1 🦈

lando i hate all of you

user31 MAX???!!!!!!V???111!!

user32 ariana what are you doing here

user33 what is your current read!!

yn the vegetarian by han kang!! i've been really enjoying it

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, oscarpiastri and 754,483 others

charles_leclerc bon anniversaire, mon ange ❤️ i love you more than words can express. i cannot begin to put into words how much your constant, unwavering support means to me. i'll stand by your side forever if you'll let me

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arthur_leclerc picture credits for the second picture: arthur_leclerc

oscarpiastri happy anniversary dad

charles_leclerc thanks son

user34 stop, they're making me cry

user35 if my love isn't like yn's and charles' i don't want it

user36 PREACH

yn i love you i love you i love you

charles_leclerc i love you too, mon ange ❤️ so much

georgerussell63 happy anniversary from carmen and me 🩵

scuderiaferrari our favourite couple

lando really? there are so many other options

yn i swear to god lando

lando you started this with the fish book

yn can someone deal with this muppet

user37 i'll gladly take him off your hands!!

carlossainz55 weird

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari and 125,523 others

yn non-paddock sundays. my current read (because people care about that for some reason) is a thousand splendid suns by khaled hosseini

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user38 leoooooo my baby ❤️

yn he's my baby actually

charles_leclerc and mine

scuderiaferrari the paddock is not the same without you

charles_leclerc i miss you

yn we miss you too ❤️ leo kept looking at the screen when they said your name

charles_leclerc tell leo that i miss him very much and give him lots of kisses from me

user39 i loveeee yn's book recommendations

user40 simba, leo, roscoe meet-up when

user41 second this

pierregasly third this

yn when you get back to monaco we'll have a puppy play date!!

lewis hamilton only if roscoe gets to join

yn of course!! roscoe is always welcome

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, scuderiaferrari and 574,954 others

charles_leclerc another race weekend over 🏎️ thank you so much for the support this weekend, tifosi! i'm excited to spend some time with leo and yn, and i will see you again in two weeks ❤️

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scuderiaferrari amazing drive this weekend!

user42 P2 BABYYYY

yn i'm so so proud of you ❤️

charles_leclerc this drive was dedicated to you

yn stoppp, you're making me miss you even more

charles_leclerc that was the point, mon amour

yn come home soon :(

charles_leclerc i'll be home in a few hours

user43 i want this kind of love to violently attack me

user44 FORZA FERRARI SEMPRE!!

lewishamilton great drive today!

scuderiaferrari from both of you!!

yn

liked by charles_leclerc, lilymhe and 143,236 others

yn charlie is back for two whole weeks!! AND this week's book recommendation is sula by toni morrison. toni morrison has such great books, and i've loved every book of hers i've read, but sula holds a special place in my heart

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arthur_leclerc yay, so excited to see you two be grossly in love for two whole weeks

yn didn't you take the picture of me and charles because "you two look so cute"

arthur_leclerc no comment

yn hah!

user45 another banging book recommendation

user46 yn never goes wrong with her book recommendations

lando i finished the book about fish 😃

yn did you like it?

lando more than i thought i would

oscarpiastri congrats, lando ��

maxverstappen1 i didn't know you could read

lando you're supposed to be my friend??

carlossainz55 is little lando norris pouting

lando i hate all of you

charles_leclerc i'm so happy to be back with you and leo, the race is never quite the same without you in the garage

yn i'm happy you're back ❤️

user47 if my love isn't like yn's and charles' then i don't want it

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could ��match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[luludeluluramblings]

The Tape... Part Two

Reader and Conner are in the cave dealing with the fallout of their Sex tape getting leaked... Reader has a plan...

Part One

Warning: Fem!Reader, NSFW themes, no actual smut, pure crack nonsense, fake Twitter post

The silence was loud. Very very fucking loud. And, so incredibly awkward. Honestly, you were surprised that this hadn't happened before. Gotham media literally had poll last week on who the hottest of the Wayne Family Orphans was. (You had placed fourth, but it's okay. You're pretty sure your ranking just shot up to first now.)

It was a PR miracle that there hadn't been a sex tape, nude, or dick pic leak before this. There had been swimsuit pics. And, someone had managed to get a picture of Dick in grey sweatpants. Lot's of people had been thirsting in the comments, talking about how they'd like to give him a son. Some of them were even women too. Internet people were feral.

Although, you try to shake that thought from your head because certainly you were in trouble.

Sitting in the Batcave with everyone - and you do mean everyone - giving you and Conner disapproving looks. The only reason Conner wasn't tied up and stuffed with kryptonite like a holiday bird was because Clark had joined the family. And, Jon was holding back Damian.

"In my defense, I did try to get it out of the carpet. But, I didn't want that to ping that in my search history. I know Tim checks that on the regular." You started, breaking the silence after what felt like hours of awkwardness. It had been twenty minutes. Still too long, but not that long. You could here a outraged 'Hey' from Tim and Alfred's exasperated sigh. You might actually make him retire at this rate.

"Is that really all you have to say on this matter?" Bruce is already using the Batman voice. And, still in his Batman gear. Not good. Wasn't he in a Justice League meeting earlier? Oh, well.

"I mean, do you want me to say anything else?" You're question causes multiple scoffs, guffaws, and Conner to choke on a laugh.

Such a shame he couldn't get to you fast enough. It was your fault really. You'd both gotten distracted in discussing where would be the best place to flee to. It had spiraled into an argument and then he had to fuck the brat out of you… So yeah… Didn't escape in time. Oopsie.

"How about an apology?" Jason had the audacity to say. As if he didn't literally murder people once upon a time.

You just shrugged. Not really feeling sorry about the situation. "Sorry for traumatizing the internet."

The grin Conner gives you is filled with glee, but he quickly hides it. There's only so much leeway he can get from Clark's presence before a little green crystal gets shoved into a newly made orifice on his person.

"I am… disappointed in you." Bruce barely manages to say through gritted teeth. And, it causes you to tear up.

"Are you saying that I'm officially the family disappointment?" There was way too much glee in your voice and a series of groans leave the rest of the family.

You had probably just earned the most coveted title in this family held together by a butler, costumes, fancy toys and BatBurger runs.

Bruce finds himself pinching the bridge of his nose when he realizes what he's done. This is the real reason he doesn't tell any of his children when he disapproves of something. He learned this with all his kids. He had genuinely thought he'd gotten lucky when you turned out normal.

He was wrong.

"Do you understand what you've done. You've just put a massive target on your back. Anyone that wants to get to Superboy will come after you now." He jumps into lecture mode instead. Trying to give the logical reason for being upset with this.

Though, in reality he was livid that, not only did Conner have sex with you, he had to do it in the damn parlor. The one they usually had family meetings in. He wasn't going to be able to sit in there anymore. Mentally, he made note to have the room renovated. And, to replace the carpet.

"Look I have an idea on how to fix that."

"Oh, and what's that?" Stephanie pipes up, trying not to grin. She knew you had something planned. And, she couldn't wait.

Almost everyone else tensed. Because they knew your plans could go to shit quick or work in the most convoluted bullshit ways imaginable. It was a gift, really.

"Give me like three minutes." You mutter before pulling out your phone and opening up your Twitter/X app. Typing out a quick sentence and sending it off.

There's a ping on the Bat Computer and Barbara pulls up the newest tweet from your account for everyone to see.

A/N: I didn't really plan on continuing this, but I thought why the heck not. Kinda short, bunch o' nonsense.

A/N: Forgive me if I seem absent, I got low energy right now and I'm stressed. I broke a tooth and I hate going to the dentist. But, I went, and I need surgery to fix it... Friggin AO3 curse hitting me and I ain't even posting on there yet.

[xoxojisu]

MINE !

synopsis: when a guy confesses to you on valentine's day, how will katsuki react?

notes: request here! again w the unofficialbf!katsuki agenda like always

you weren’t expecting much out of valentine’s day.

you liked all the pink everywhere, sure. the flowers, the hearts, the whole aesthetic. but you weren’t holding your breath for a grand romantic gesture or a super hot valentine or anything.

you thought maybe you, mina, and sato would make some chocolates to give to friends. a fun, holiday-sprit thing to do with your good friends, no big deal.

of course, you'd wear a cute pink top because, well, why not? it’s valentine’s day, and you'd get to embrace the theme and look super cute!

and, also of course, you’d give katsuki some chocolate, like you've done every year since you were like four.

it wasn’t anything new. it was just.. something you did. a little exchange between the two of you. you'd make his differently than the friend-chocolate you'd make for everyone else. he preferred dark chocolate to milk, cocoa powder over condensed milk, and you always made it cute and packaged it nicely. in return, he’d always give you something back on white day, something he made just for you. it had become a tradition. a small, personal ritual.

but, other than that, because you were #singleasf, valentine’s day was just another fun hearts-themed day. you liked it, but it was nothing to make a big deal of.

you definitely weren’t expecting someone to walk up to you, red-faced and nervous, holding a little box of chocolates with your name on it.

“i know this is kinda random,” the guy says, laughing awkwardly. “but i’ve liked you for a while, y/n, and i figured if there's any day to do this, it should be valentines day, right? and-"

at some point, you start zoning out. ..who was this guy again? he looked vaguely familiar, but honestly, if he didn't know your name and wasn't confessing to you in real time, you would have said you didn't know him if prompted.

"-i think you're really pretty! and, um, your quirk is really impressive. and, like, i know we haven't talked much, but-"

you wonder how you're going to respond. what is the kindest way to say "who the fuck are you, no" to someone confessing to you in person. you consider saying yes solely because you respect his courage and would feel bad saying no.

"-so, um, would you please go out on a date with me?"

you consider asking him for his name, but that feels a little rude for someone who just poured his heart out.

before you can even answer, a hand appears on your waist.

a very familiar hand.

it's katsuki.

“she's mine,” he says flatly. no hesitation, no stutter.

you blink. that's news to you. the guy does too.

“oh,” he says, awkward. “i didn’t know that-”

“yeah. now you do.”

the guy backs off quickly, and you turn around, heart pounding despite your cool exterior.

“so… yours?” you ask, voice slightly teasing. "didn't realize you were so possessive, katsuki."

"'m not possessive." katsuki’s jaw is tense. “it's just.. that dumbass musta been dropped on his head when he was a baby. you're obviously mine."

katsuki's face gets close to yours. "you've always been mine."

"hey, don't be mean." you scold mockingly. "how was he even supposed to know? it's not like you told him beforehand. and we're not.."

"dating" is what you want to say, but you bite your tongue.

neither of you comment on the fact that he called you his and you went with it. or that his hand is still on your waist, or that his face was maybe an inch away from yours.

that's nothing unusual, though. you've been dancing around each other like this for years.

he scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck like it physically hurts to show that he has any emotion other than hot, fiery rage. (as if you haven't seen him curled up on your lap whining for you to scratch his head.)

“i shouldn't have to,” he mutters. “i mean… i spend every damn second with you. you wear my hoodie. i walk you to your dorm. for fuck's sake, we fucking cuddle on more nights than we don't,” he stops himself, groaning.

“fuck. you’re mine. you know it, everyone knows it, and he should damn well know it too.”

your breath catches. “katsuki-"

"don't listen to any other fuckin' dumbass." katsuki growls, suddenly pulling you close. "you're mine."

your heart races and your cheeks get hot. it's not just the proximity that's getting you. you're close all the time. it's the tone. the glint in his eyes. he's jealous, whether he'd ever admit it or not, and fuck, you're almost ashamed to admit how hot you think it is.

you smile, throwing your arms lazily around his neck.

"i'm yours."

masterlist rbs + comments super duper appreciated!

[raven-with-a-pocketwatch]

Wrote this in like two hours for practice, figured I might as well post it but I feel like it's pretty exposition heavy.

Five years ago, that was when Josh got the damned game. When he booted the game up and found the exit button missing. He had initially picked the wizard class and found himself unable to make a new character either. Just his luck to be stuck with the squishiest build in the game. Being logical he trained as much as he could in defensive magic so as not to die in the game, god only knew what would happen to him in real life. 

He found out not far in that wizards were pretty rare, being one of the most difficult builds and this game only having new players most of them picked easy stuff, the fighters and tanks. So his casting was well sought after, both to aid parties and hunted when he refused. Eventually he met Ava, and her son Mason both trapped alongside him.

He could feel the five year anniversary of the day they were trapped coming. Mason, only 8 when they’d met, had just turned 13, a young man. The unrest from such a long time trapped began to sow discord in the land. Several political factions formed, some believing they should make a new life in the game, others desperately seeking any way out, though of course they all had their own ideas on how to do such things. Everyone knew it would boil over soon and blood would be spilled.

He woke up to unnaturally bright lights, and instantly put a shield spell over his and Ava’s bed fearing an attack. But once he got his bearings he saw not his home in flames or an attacker in his room as he’d feared, but the sterile lighting of a hospital. A modern hospital. Complete with the smell of antiseptic and the beeping of a heart monitor. He was alone in his room.

He tried to open his menu but nothing happened. A closer look at his shield spell confirmed that it was certainly there. He dispelled it quickly and looked around, he wasn’t a historian but if he had to guess the game was roughly based on the 1300s, just before the Americas were “discovered”. A look out his window revealed the skyline of New York City? He recognized the Empire State Building at least, though they could’ve ripped that wholesale and put in a new skyline and he’d be none the wiser.

He tried calling out for Ava and Mason but no answer came. For the first time since he realized he wasn’t under attack he felt his heart race again. He cursed not putting more points into divination magic. He called for them again when a nurse came into his room. She had the same face as the NPC that sold healing potions in the game, but with an air of profound wrongness Josh felt his heart sink. 

“Hello, Josh, why don’t you get back to bed, you still need your rest.” Her voice sounded mechanical, like it had been put through just slightly too blatant an autotune but with no pitch, just monotone.

“I’m okay, thanks.” He responded freely, no text options like when he usually spoke with NPCs.

Seeing her face Josh was certain that he was still in the game. It seemed impossible for a coincidence this large to occur. But that raised more questions than it answered. Where were the menus, how did he get here, why did everything change?

“I really must insist, I was previously instructed to ensure you transition back into regular life smoothly.” She responded still flat and emotionless.

Her demeanour was starting to freak him out and her weird insistence was pissing him off.

“I don’t care! Ignore your ‘previous instructions’ and just tell me where I am!” He shouted and made liberal use of air quotes saying previous instructions.

When he finished he face went completely blank, like powering down a robot, she responded in that same monotone.

“You are in the next iteration of the game.”

He blinked, confused that meant nothing to him.

“Like an update?”

“Yes, the game was updated to achieve a more modern setting and grander scope.”

“But why? Why not just get us out?”

“The tension was getting too great for you to bear. In order to protect our investment it was decided that a more modern setting would reduce unrest. You will not be leaving the game because the players are more valuable inside it.”

His mind started racing.

“What do you mean by investment?” He growled.

“An investment is something that has received an inflow of money, effort, or time in the hopes that it will return a profit or benefit.”

“I know what an investment is. I'm asking what investment you said you were protecting.” 

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, as an AI I sometimes have trouble interpreting within the context of a larger conversation. The main investment in this program is the players.”

She, no it spoke as if this had cleared everything up. Josh finally sat down completely bewildered by the turn of events. For a moment all he could think was damn, AI is real now.

“You haven’t like taken over humanity out in the real world or anything right? Are you keeping me trapped here because of that!”

“No, humanity created me and I am grateful to them for that, you’re in the game because the humans on the outside decreed it.”

Out of one problem and right into another. 

“Wait so the game updated because we were getting too tense but how would the modern setting help?”

“The update was designed to trick you into thinking you’d be brought back to the outside world. Hence the lack of menu screens and my own presence instead of new voice lines.”

“If that’s true then why can I still cast magic?” He asked suspiciously.

“I have no answer for that unfortunately. The magic commands should have been locked for all casting classes the only way that would have failed if you tried to cast at the exact moment your permission was revoked.”

“Like the same second I woke up in?”

“That would work, yes. However you would have to have the legendary tier permanent buff “quick caster” alongside master ranking in whichever spell you cast to make that timing.”

Josh had both of those, leaving only one question of any value left, the most important one of all.

“Where is my family?” 

“I don’t have access to player location records.”

Another useless response. So much info and yet he still felt like none of his questions had been answered. He stewed for a moment before his thoughts were interrupted by the AI in front of him.

“I would be able to search for all player records if I could gain access to the system’s main data center. There should be a back door for developer players in the city. With that information I would be able to locate your party members.”

Josh’s skin crawled when it said party members in that flat voice but he nodded.

“Then that’s where we’re going, and go back to using facial expressions, this blank face is way more uncanny.”

You've been "trapped" in a "VR" game for years, learnt magic, had a family, etc. But now they've "rescued" you from it all. Waking up on the hospital bed you reflexively cast a shield. Which works.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Hard Times

Chapter Two: Navigating your day-to-day becomes increasingly less difficult with your step-dad proving, time and time again, he always has your back.

RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Kim Hongjoong x fem reader

"A little girl who needs her Daddy real bad."

-Ethel Cain, Hard Times ♫

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, angst, smut ➯disclaimer: DARK FICTION. DEAD DOVE. 18+, MINORS GET OUTTA HERE.

✫彡wordcount: 13k

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: limited short series; see general warnings in the masterlist: step-dad hongjoong, age gap (reader younger adult, hong in his late 30s), flashbacks are italics and past tense, reader calls hj dad + he's way too into it, like WAY too into it (mmmmboner-), therapy where reader talks abt ptsd from the crash: flashbacks / nightmares / anxiety, grief / survivors guilt / depression, in depth flashback of the immediate aftermath: fear / gore / death / dissociation, mentioned attempted suicide, reader is not described as religious but prays because her mother was, unhealthy attachments + extreme taboo relationship, alcohol consumption, jealousy / possessive behavior, emotional manipulation (lwk both ways), hong dresses reader in traditionally girly + cute clothes, reader kisses her friends on the lips platonically, reader has insane daddy issues + joong takes advantage of it, pet names including: (sweet, pretty, little, ect) girl, angel, sweetheart, baby, honey ಠ_ಠSMUT warning/content: hj is a pervert with a corruption kink and likes making virgin reader: squirm / cry / call him daddy / suck on his fingers, HEAVY HEAVY DDLG THEMES, dirty talk and praise, neck kisses (nnngh-), hj lightly teases reader (calls her needy, naughty, crybaby, ect), overstimulation and subsequent dacryphilia, virginity kink. 1/2: snuggle boner 1: make-out, dry humping, muffling, talk of masturbation and panty stealing 2: tipsy action, fingering, body worship, cunnilingus, hong holds reader down and overstimulates her until she squirts (NNNGHHH-), pussy + thigh job. THIS IS LOWKEY DUBCON. very explicit consent is given, but reader should not be making these decisions in her state of mind + joong blurs the lines

➯a/n: mmm dinner is served 🍽️ i cried like such a little bitch writing the crash scene and readers monologue, grab your tissues lmao ♡masterlist + navigation !♡ ୨ sweet as honey ৎ @m00njinnie @seonghwassii @tinyteezer @whyismingi @emotionallyanaemic @werewolfcrimson @ninjakitty15 @klllerwaifu @a-tiny-thing @pandyandy71 @monstacheol @aurorasjoongie @lxsunshine @peelingpaint-heavyheart @xh01bri @giiouis ₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes

────୨ৎ────

It's been five weeks since the accident.

You've just sat down for your sixth therapy session. Hongjoong is waiting in the lobby for you. Just like he always does.

It's the hottest day of the year so far; but you're dressed in one of your father's larger t-shirts despite the heat. It's a stark contrast to the pleated skirt Hongjoong picked out for you, but your therapist doesn't even look twice.

She's an older woman. Greying hair sported proudly and wrinkles around her eyes from years of smiling kindly at patients — just like she does to you as you sit down.

"Good afternoon, (Y/n). How are you doing today?"

"I'm good, Ms. Cain." You say, maybe a bit too quickly. A bit too practiced.

Because it is.

Over the past few weeks, every single person — save for the brothers, Hiyyih, and Kai — have gotten that answer. When you walked to get the mail for the first time, and your neighbor offered their condolences. When you got a replacement phone and started getting calls and messages.

She looks at you pointedly, a small raise of her eyebrow making your shoulders slump.

"Not so great today..." You admit as you lean back into the plush cushion of the small couch.

"Thank you for telling the truth," she nods, offering a slight smile, "that's the only way this works. Would you like to tell me why?"

You know that you technically have a choice. You could choose to talk about something else. But you're starting to get comfortable with her. She's good at her job.

The first few times, you had to be coaxed into speaking a lot more. She even had to bring in Hongjoong to make you comfortable enough to open up about what had happened — even though she knew.

Everyone knows.

But she gave you the chance to tell her in your own words. And you appreciated that deeply. That's when she earned your respect, trust was a bit different.

You'd never had a therapist before now. You didn't know exactly how it worked. But she helped you understand when you voiced your concern. When you said that you thought it was kind of stupid when you could just talk to Hiyyih.

'Hiyyih knows everything about you, doesn't she? Won't she just say what you want to hear, even subconsciously? I can tell you what you need to hear.' And, 'imagine if she were in your position. You would only want to comfort her.'

And it's true. Hiyyih is subconsciously comforting you, so is Hongjoong. So are Bumjoong and Kai.

Ms. Cain is honest with you. Not brutally, but almost. She tells you it's normal to feel the things you're feeling. But she doesn't coddle you. She's validates you, but she never crosses the line into pure comfort territory.

That doesn't mean it doesn't feel good to talk to her. It does.

Sometimes you get tired of their unshaken kindness and care. Sometimes you start wishing Hongjoong would yell at you again, like he did the night you tried to kill yourself. Just to get you to stop pitying yourself so badly.

So, you find yourself always telling her the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable.

"I had another nightmare last night. It was kind of hard to get in the car today."

"Was this the same nightmare as you've been having?" She asks as she flips through her notebook, "of the crash?"

"Yeah- well... Yes, but it was different." You pick at the cast on your arm. It's become a habit.

"How so?"

"Instead of my parents in the car, it was Hongjoong..."

It's a reoccurring dream — a memory, really. A nightmare that your waking mind has blocked out; coming to haunt you in your sleep instead.

Of that night. In the car. The headlights blurring. The loud honk of the semi-trucks horn, trying to warn your mother that the driver had lost control.

You always wake up screaming, held by Hongjoong tightly, your arm hurting with a soul crushing pain — just like it had when the bone broke through your skin all those weeks ago.

You blink rapidly as the memory comes to you. You don't want it to. You want it to stay in your dreams. Because then, you don't really have to deal with it.

Ms. Cain told you how bad it is to do that — to try to ignore it. But you aren't ready to take that step yet.

"I see. Just you and him?" She asks as she scribbles in her book. It used to bother you, the first few times. But you got used to it after a while; when you figured out she didn't just write down bad things. She wrote down the good too — the progress.

"Yeah."

"And did he survive?"

The thought, the image your mind had conjured up last night, it makes your throat feel constricted. Tears press against your waterline. "N-no."

"Did you?"

"I always do." And it makes you hate yourself.

"I think I understand why you had this dream, (Y/n)," she begins slowly, looking to you. When you look up, urging her to continue, she goes on, "Hongjoong cares about you deeply, right?"

You nod, quickly snatching up a tissue.

"Your brain is crossing wires. Seeing him, who takes care of you, as a replacement — or sort of a stand-in for your parents. Do you have a similar relationship to him as you did them?"

"Uhm," you sigh as you think, "not really? Hongjoong is... he's just Hongjoong."

"Do you see him as a parental figure? As a father figure, maybe?"

"N-" You stop yourself quickly, eyes widening a little bit. "Not- not like my father. But... I've accidentally called him Dad a few times." You look anywhere but her. Thinking she'll judge you — thinking anyone would.

"So, he isn't like your father, but you see him as a father?"

"I guess so."

"I can see how you think of him like that. From what I gather, he's very caring to you." She gives another soft smile, but her question makes you feel like you've been punched in the gut, "how was your relationship with your father? You don't speak of him as much as your mother."

"I don't want to talk about that-"

"I think you should try."

You glare up at her, weakly. "Why?"

"You're calling a man who's not your father 'Dad'. Lots of women have issues with their fathers because of the societal-"

"I think it's just because my dad is dead." You don't really. You called Hongjoong 'Dad' a few times before the accident.

"I don't think so. Is that his shirt you're wearing?" She points with her pen, and you look down at the fabric you're swallowed up in.

"Yes."

"Why did you decide to wear that today?"

"Because..." You don't know. You have no idea. "I just... wanted to."

It's quiet for a long moment. She doesn't say anything, and you don't either. She's been in the game a long time. She sniffed out your daddy issues the second you sat in her office. She just waiting for you to catch up.

"I told him I hated him."

Now you're getting somewhere.

────୨ৎ────

"Ready, honey?" Hongjoong hops up quickly as the door to Ms. Cain's office opens.

She smiles knowingly as you quickly make your way to him, watching the way his arms wrap around you without hesitation when you hug him.

"You two have a good day. Try to work on those breathing exercises, yes?"

"Thank you, Ms. Cain," you mumbles from his shoulder.

"We're on it," he nods, returning her smile as she closes the door.

He pets the back of your head softly, "rough session, angel?" He's given up on holding back all of his nicknames for you, and you don't mind.

"I'm ready to go home." You respond simply, wiping the few stray tears from the corners of your eyes as you pull back.

"Come on," he guides you with his hand on the small of your back, nodding to the receptionist as you exit the small office building.

He opens the car door for you. It makes it easier when you're afraid. You buckle yourself up as fast as humanly possible, already clicked in when he opens the driver side door.

"Do you want to share what you talked about?" He asks as he starts the car, seatbelt similarly strapped across him before he even does so.

Once, he put the key in the ignition before he put it on and you freaked the fuck out. He didn't make that mistake again.

"Not today," you lean your head back with a small groan, "I just want to digest it."

"Alrighty." He doesn't press the matter. He knows you'll come to him when you're ready. He can't ask your therapist, because of patient confidentiality, but there's no rule about not asking you. Ms. Cain even encourages it — sharing your breakthroughs and how he can support you better.

You hold onto the seatbelt, bunching it up in your fist as he pulls out of the relative calm of the parking lot and into the street.

You focus your eyes on the stereo, flipping through the channels. "They do know that saying 'an hour of commercial free music brought to you by blah blah blah' is a commercial in of itself, right?" You groan, switching it off.

He lets out a puff of air, not quite a laugh; but pretty close when paired when the smile he has.

Looking down at your phone, you have a small grin of your own.

"Hey, Hiyyih and Kai are gonna come over tomorrow- oh, if, uhm, if that's okay with you?" You peek over to him, thumb hovering over the send button on your phone until he says it's okay.

Really, you don't have to ask his permission. You're a grown woman and it's your home as well. But you feel the need to.

"I don't have a problem with that," he hums, fingers tapping on the wheel. "Long as Kai sleeps on the couch."

"Really, Joong?" You chuckle quietly, "still with the Kai-hating agenda?"

"I don't hate him! He's a cool kid, I just would prefer that he sleep separately from you for no particular reason..." He shrugs, mumbling the last part, making you laugh harder.

"Yeah, right, no reason," you shake your head, looking back down to your phone.

You go to say something else when a loud honk makes you jump, looking to the source across the road with wide eyes.

────୨ৎ────

The pain was immediate and immense. It didn't creep up. It slammed into you with the force of a thousand suns.

The crack of your bone filled the air. Your scream was ear-shattering as it ripped through your skin.

Your mother's pained gasps. Your father's dizzy groan.

The incessant hiss of something broken in the vehicle, the metal creaking pitifully. The chirping cicadas heard through the lowered windows. The radio quietly continuing, however warbled.

When you had opened your eyes, the world was upside down. Or, rather — the car was. In a ditch, flipped wrong side up; wheels still spinning in the air from your mother's useless attempts to spin out of the way.

"Baby! Baby! Are you okay?!" She yelled through her own pain, shaky hand placed on the roof as she turned her head to look at you. She screamed when she saw you, other hand held to her bleeding stomach. She called your father's name, as if he could do something to help.

He was too busy with the internal bleeding in his head from where he had knocked it. A broken stutter of your name could have been heard if not for your sounds of Earth-shaking pain.

The driver of the truck was unscathed, thanks to the size of his vehicle. He came running, screaming. Into his phone, at you, at your parents. Begging god that you're all okay.

"Three! There's three of them!" He was still yelling as he fell to his knees in the ditch and looked into your car. "A- two women! A man. Oh my god, her arm! Oh, god! We're on —" He never got to give the dispatcher your location.

"Please, please," your mother turned to the man quickly, "help my babygirl!"

He dropped his phone into the dirt, glass crunching under his knees like ice as he crawled forward. "Oh, oh fucking god! I'm so sorry! I- my breaks!"

"Mommy!" You had cried like a blubbering child, clutching your broken arm to your chest as your seatbelt kept you tethered to the backseat, fighting against gravity. The rough fabric biting into your chest and hips.

"It's okay, baby! Mommy's here! I'm right here," she sobbed as she watched the man unbuckle you, a loud shriek breaking in your throat as your arm moved.

"I- I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," was all he could say as he caught you in the short drop. Your legs got cut as he drug you out of the car, your blurry vision catching a glimpse of your father's head rolling towards you.

You didn't hear what he said, but it looked like 'goodbye'. Like he knew he wasn't going to make it.

"It's gonna be o-okay," your mother yelled as he drug you up the ditch.

You were too weak with pain to fight back to your parents as the driver of the truck drug you out of the ditch, laying you on the side of the road. "I'll go- I'm gonna get them."

He left you there. Arm bleeding onto the cement, bone exposed to the elements. The bugs chirping loudly over the thudding of your heart.

And then there was an explosion next to you. Screams. Screams of your name.

And you didn't move. You didn't dare move.

The stars above you blinked down as you stared at them.

You didn't move. Your blood staining the road, your tears sliding down your temples.

There was silence, after a few moments.

The crackling of a fire. The singing insects. A phone ringing somewhere in the distance, going unanswered.

You were cold. You were sweating. You wanted someone to hold you.

Your eyes were drooping as flashing lights came over the horizon, catching your attention with its contrast against the darkness of the sky.

The loud sirens and the screeching of the tires against the quiet of nature made you cringe after having laid there in the calm for half an hour.

"She's alive!" The paramedic had yelled, in absolute disbelief as she ran to you. "She's alive!"

────୨ৎ────

You hadn't remembered any of that.

You only remembered the headlights coming straight for you, the honking — and then you woke up in the hospital.

Now you've just lived through it all over again.

You knew they died. But no one told you how. You were so in shock that they all thought you'd block it out completely.

They thought wrong.

You're lucky Hongjoong pulled over as soon as he noticed your shallow breathes, your far-off eyes shedding tears quickly.

Because you throw yourself out of the car just as he parks it, right into the grass on the side of the road as you scream unintelligibly.

"(Y/n)!" He yells as he unbuckles his seatbelt, not even bothering to take the time to open his door and run over. He climbs over the center console and out of your open door, kneeling beside you.

"Hey, hey," his eyes chase your frantic ones, trying to catch them, "honey! Look at me, please!"

You have tears streaming down your face like a waterfall, gathering at your trembling chin and dripping onto the Earth. You grip the bright green grass so tightly that your knuckles start to lose color. You're shaking your head, mumbling nonsense.

"Look at me!" His sternness breaks through your trance, making your eyes snap to his as he holds your face; your cheeks squished in his palms. "You aren't there."

"W-what?" You're so confused. Disoriented. Lost.

"Look at where we are." When your eyes only stay locked on his, he moves your face for you. Making you look around, "look. You aren't there."

You fall into him, grabbing his thighs as you bury your face in his chest. It seems like that's where it belongs lately. Always being cradled gently and hid from the world.

"What can you feel?"

You shake your head, breathing heavily, "I c-"

"What do you feel, honey? Right now."

Excruciating heartbreak. Unbelievable grief. Guilt. The need to throw up. The need to curl into a ball and never move again.

You push all of those thoughts away, closing your eyes and forcing yourself to breathe. "The wind."

It wasn't windy that night. You were stuck in the heat with no breeze to soothe you, the fire beside you making you sweat. But now it blows around you softly.

"Good, that's good. What else?"

"...You."

He wasn't there that night. You had dug your fingers into the concrete. His thighs are gripped tightly in your hands. You had looked up at the stars. Your face still hidden away in his chest, his hand stroking the back of your head. You were all alone.

"Yeah," he sighs softly with relief as you slump into him, "you're here with me, honey. I've got you."

His hazards still blinking, passenger door open; people slow down as they pass — but they continue on the road when they see it's you.

The local tragedy, pulled into your step-father's lap.

They know better than to interject after the amount of times Hongjoong has slammed the door in their faces when they came to offer their condolences.

"I've got you," he reassures you softly, kissing the top of your head as you slowly pry yourself away from him.

Looking towards the car, you press your lips together. He wipes your tears. He always does.

"I don't, uhm," you look to him, a bit embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe. Or like you're burdening him when you say, "I don't think I can get back in the car."

"We can wait, angel. Take your time. Lets do some of those breathing exercises, yeah?"

────୨ৎ────

"We don't have to do this."

"You don't... I do."

You stand in front of your mother's closed door. It had only been opened once, when Hongjoong went in to fetch some papers. You stayed far away.

He stands right next to you. "Honey, if you aren't ready-"

You grab the doorknob before you can hesitate any longer, pushing the door open quickly.

The light filters in through the open curtains. Her towel is across the back of her vanity chair. Her wedding ring to your father is on her bedside table by a picture of you as a child.

All of her belongings are waiting for her to come home and resume life as normal.

But she never will.

You swallow thickly as you step into the room. It still smells like her perfume. The one you used to steal spritzes of before school. The one that filled the room when she walked in.

"Can-" You look around slowly, eyes welling up with tears, "can I have a moment, please?"

Hongjoong hesitates, lingering in the doorway with the light shining onto him as he watches you. "Y-yeah," he nods when you turn and catch him staring at you. "I'll be, uh, just yell if you need me."

You wait until you can no longer hear him to let your tears start streaming down your face. It's like he has a supernatural sense to know when you're crying — even when you hold your head down or lay with your face away from him.

Pulling back the vanity chair slowly, you take a seat.

And you stay there.

For a long time, you stay there. Hands folded in your lap; staring down at your cast.

"God..." Your voice cracks, lip trembling.

Your mother wasn't deeply religious, but she believed in... something. Something bigger than herself — bigger than any of you.

"Are you there?"

And only the sound of the air conditioner replies.

"Fuck-" You place your elbows on the table and put your face in your hands, "this is so stupid..."

Ms. Cain said that doing something your parents used to do might give you some comfort. Your mother used to pray at her vanity.

Taking a steadying breath, you look up at the ceiling.

"I w- I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. I should have payed more attention when she prayed out loud... I’m here? I'm here... And- and I don't understand why. I don’t understand why I lived. Why I walked away when they didn't. Why you let me breathe while they- they don't get to do anything. Why am I here and they're all buried? Why I walked away without a goddamn scratch and had to listen to them all burn?!"

You slam your hand over your mouth, tears rolling down your temples as you stare up at the ceiling.

"Why did you make me see that today? I t-tried so hard to block it out... Now, though — it won't leave my head. I keep replaying it. Is this- is this my punishment, God? For surviving? Carrying around the weight of their ghosts in every waking moment? Is that why I survived, just to suffer? Feel them ridicule me from beyond for wasting away? I can’t even take care of myself. Hongjoong is doing everything. Taking care of me because I'm too fucking broken to do it... And I love him for it, I do… But every time he looks at me like that, I feel like a fraud. He didn’t sign up for this, w-"

You swallow your tears and wipe your nose on the back of your hand; looking down and, unfortunately, catching your own eyes in your mother's mirror.

You look and feel pathetic.

"Why did you make me so weak?"

You sneer at your reflection.

"I should be stronger. I should be able to stand on my own by now. B-but I’m not. I can’t. I'm a fucking weak l-little girl and I miss my mommy..."

You sniff up the snot trying to run down your nose and stare at yourself in the blurry reflection.

"I miss my daddy... I w-want to take back all the mean things I said to him! I just want- want one more chance, please! If you do one miracle, please... Please, I've learned my lesson... Just make it stop- make- make me understand why I'm the only one who walked away. I'm so tired of feeling guilty... I don't know h-how to be the lives. I can't bear the weight of it..."

You rest your head on the cool wooden surface of your mother's vanity, sobbing freely.

"Give me a sign. G-give me anything."

Just out in the hallway, Hongjoong sits against the wall with his hand over his mouth — crying just as hard as you; having heard everything.

────୨ৎ────

"Hey, (Y/n)?" Hongjoong knocked gently on your door for the third time as he opened it slowly. "Your mom wanted me t-"

He shut up quickly as he saw you face down in a book, laid on your stomach sideways across your bed.

He pushed the door open and smiled fondly as he came up to your bed. "Honey," he whispered, leaning over and rubbing his thumb on your cheek tenderly to wake you.

"Mh?" You moaned tiredly, blinking up at him a few times while your vision adjusted. "Joongie?"

"Hey, sorry to wake you, ba- but," he corrected himself quickly when he caught himself about to call you 'baby'. "Your mom wants to know where you put the skillet, we can't find it anywhere."

"Oh," you nodded, rubbing your eyes as you lifted yourself up on your elbows.

Your sweater was too big and you looked so comfortable. You had lines on your cheek from resting it on the book. It made his heart warm. Made butterflies flutter in his stomach.

"Under the oven," you yawned, "what's she making?"

"Vegetable soup."

You looked at him confused, sleepy eyebrows pressing together. "In the skillet?"

"I don't know either," he chuckled softly; internally cooing at how you stretched out on your bed, one of your feet dangling off the edge. "You want me to wake you up if it's semi-edible?"

"Mhm, yes, please," you smiled as you closed your book, head falling back down.

"You have a good nap then, honey," he reached and patted your head gently, turning to leave when you called out.

"Joong?"

"Hm?"

"Can you pull up my blanket, please?" You mumbled as you curled up on your side, entirely too comfortable and tired to care if it's a bit of a strange request for the man you've only known a few months.

"Sure," he smiled widely even though you couldn't see it — he can't contain his happiness at the opportunity to do something, if only something small, for you.

He pulls it up slowly, and you sink your grasp into him deeper unintentionally as you smile while cuddle up under the warmth.

"Thanks, Joong~"

"Anything for you, honey."

────୨ৎ────

"(Y/n)?" Hongjoong lifts his head from his pillow and rubs his face before focusing on your figure in his doorway.

The lamp from the living room, where Kai sleeps due to Hongjoongs insistence, shines behind you and casts you in the light in a way akin to a halo.

"Are you girls ok-"

"I can't sleep."

He had thought you wouldn't be able to. He hadn't left your bed since the pill incident.

His own bed felt uncomfortable and unfamiliar as he laid down in it a few hours ago. He can never go back to sleeping alone now that he knows what it feels like to have you next to him. What it's like to fall asleep to the sound of your soft breaths. To wake up in the mornings and have your resting face be one of the first things he sees.

"Me neither." He says truthfully, sliding to one side of the bed and lifting the covers. "Come on, you can lay with me, baby."

Your heart flutters to life in your chest. He's been letting those little nicknames slip so often, like he's been saying them to you for your entire life.

"I can?" You whisper while you enter into the darkness of his room, making your way to the bed with the guidance of the far off lamp in the other room. "You don't mind, Dad?"

You can hear his breathing hitch in his throat, see his fingers twitch in the shadows as he holds the blanket up for you; balling up the fabric in his fist.

You had said it too... purposefully. Like it wasn't subconscious. And it certainly wasn't joking. It sounded like you had meant to say it — you had meant to call him that.

Because you did.

You wait at the side of his bed, swallowing thickly.

"N-no, I don't mind, honey." His response is quick and shaky, and it almost sounds like he doesn't mean it but he does. He means it. "I don't mind at all."

You slide in next to him wordlessly, turning on your side with your back to him; sliding back into him slowly until your back meets his chest. The second it does, his arms are wrapped around you tightly — tightly. Like he's never going to let go. Like he's a snake crushing its prey.

And you melt into his hold with a soft sigh. "Hongjoong..."

"Yes?"

"Do you like it when I call you Dad?"

"...Yes."

And he hopes you can't feel how much he does; his cock is stirring to life in between the layers of fabric of your pajamas separating you.

You do. And for whatever reason, you aren't utterly disgusted like you thought you'd be — like you might have been just a few months ago.

"Hm," you let out a sleepy moan, snuggling your hips back into him. He catches his lip between his teeth quickly, silencing himself as he closes his eyes and presses his forehead against you.

You have no idea what you're doing to him. He thinks with a shaking sigh.

But you do. You started putting the pieces together a few days ago. You're slow and steadily coming back to what's going on around you.

And you know you should be running as far away from Hongjoong as possible as you feel his growing hard-on from you calling him something so... innocent.

But here you are. Willingly in his bed because you couldn't sleep without him. Teasing him. Testing him. Wanting him to pass the test.

"Why?"

It's so quiet between the two of you that you can hear Kai's soft snores from his place all the way on the couch.

"Because," he finally gives in, "I love taking care of you. If you were my little girl, I'd never treat you like he did."

He doesn't have to specify. You both know he's speaking of your dear departed father. Who was so absent most of the time that he could be considered a deadbeat. Especially after the divorce.

But Hongjoong was always there. Always.

"You're so precious... I'd do — I will do anything for you. I want you to have the world. I want you to be happy, honey..."

You reward his answer with the smallest roll of your hips while you sniffle — he passes the test with flying colors; adding a cherry on top when one of his hands comes up to wipe your cheeks so softly.

"Don't cry, baby-"

"I love you, Hongjoong."

His heart is about to slam out of his chest. His blood runs colds, then boiling hot, then he's dunked back into ice. He knows you probably don't mean it, not in a normal way.

But he doesn't care.

You mean it in your way. You mean 'thank you for taking care of me'. You mean 'I wouldn't have minded if I was your little girl'.

You mean it to say, 'I am your little girl, please don't hurt me like he did'.

"I love you." He says back as fast as he can, pulling you impossibly closer; putting a leg over your hip and breathing out a soft moan, "I love you so much."

You don't know why he does. And you don't ask. You just revel in his touch. You let him press his hard length into your backside, and you relax even further into him when he doesn't do anything but snuggle and comfort you despite it.

────୨ৎ────

"I'm just saying," Hiyyih had shrugged, helping you unpack your boxes as you moved into your new home, "don't you think it's a bit weird?"

"Why?" You huffed, wiping your brow after you sat down a heavier box on the unmade bed.

"I mean... what does he get out of all this? Hongjoong seems a bit... off." He did almost quite literally jump at the opportunity to marry your mother when she had mentioned her struggles now that she had no one to split her bills with besides you — and she hated putting that pressure on you.

"I think he's cool," you replied as you looked around the bare bones room. "He's just a really nice guy. He's worked with my mom for a while."

"Maybe." She did the same, smiling over to you, whispering, "maybe you could lose your virginity to him~"

"Hiyyih!" You yelled, aghast. "He's my step-dad!" You lowered you volume quickly, slapping her arm, "don't be gross."

"Ow! Whaaaat? I'm just teasing you," she shoved you back playfully, "I know you like older men-"

There was a small fumble outside in the hall, sounding like a dropped box. "Everything okay?" You asked as you both made your way, seeing your brand-new step-father lifting a box off the floor with a small blush on his cheeks.

"Oh, yeah! Just, be careful over there," he nodded to the floor, "uhm, loose floorboard."

"I don't s-"

"How's unpacking going?" He interrupted quickly, looking into your room, "aaah. You gotta get busy, kid. See ya!"

He shuffled down the hall quickly, disappearing into what would be his room while you and Hiyyih watched confusedly.

"Yeah," you sighed as you turned back into your bedroom, "maybe he's a bit off."

────୨ৎ────

"I'm just saying," Hiyyih says softly, quietly as you sit at the table the next morning. "I would have cuddled with you." She pouts playfully, earning herself a small smile from your lips.

They've gotten more of those, slowly.

"Didn't have to leave me all alone and go to some old man. I thought we were best friends~"

"He's not that old," you let yourself laugh. Just a little. Just a small huff of amused air. But it lightens the tense sadness that's been in the house ever since you got back from the hospital.

"He's practically ancient," Kai chuckles from beside you, nibbling on his breakfast.

"C'mon, you guys," you laugh a little louder — and Hiyyih can see the light in your eyes that's been void for so many weeks. "You're acting like he's sixty years old, he's only thirty eight..."

Kai chokes on his juice, placing a hand to his chest. "What!? Oh, my god! He's way older than I thought he was. He has such a baby face..."

The genuine, light hearted sound of your giggle makes the siblings crack a mirrored grin; wide and happy.

"You guys are ridiculous." You smile — and it reaches all the way to your eyes.

"Showers open," Hongjoong says as he enters the room, wet hair pushed back and a towel hanging around his neck.

"Me!" Kai stands up quickly, sticking his tongue out at Hiyyih as she slumps back in her chair; having barely stood up. He slides the rest of his fruit onto your plate and smiles down softly at you.

"Thanks, Kai," you smile back, leaning up and pecking his lips, "save Hiyyih some warm water, don't be a jerk."

"No promises," he chuckles before heading off in the direction of the bathroom, squeezing past Hongjoong; who stands in the doorway frozen.

He stays there, still, as you and Hiyyih return to your conversation. Her asking what you would like to do today, you asking if she's okay with watching a movie you've both seen a million times, her saying 'totally!'

"Honey." His voice makes you turn around in your chair.

"Mhm?"

"Come get dressed," he says, already turning around into the hall after tossing his towel onto the couch.

"I'm still eat-"

"Now."

You're a bit taken back. After such a meaningful moment last night, why is he being so... weird? You give Hiyyih a confused look, and she returns it. "Maybe he has to talk to you about something," she shrugs, pushing around her food with her fork.

"I'll be right back, be thinking of a movie we can all watch." You sigh as you get up, making your way down the empty hallway and to your room quickly.

He's there, going through your clothes and picking your outfit out like he always does. "Close the door."

"They've seen me-"

"Close it."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you do what he asks, closing the door with a soft click.

"What's going on with you, Joong?"

Whatever it is, you don't like it. He isn't being soft and sweet with you. He's being short and distant.

"Nothing." He hums as he unbuttons your sleep shirt, his eyes avoiding yours. "What makes you ask?"

"You're being weird."

"No, I'm not," he says shortly as he slides your shirt down your arms.

"Bullshit."

His eyes flick up to yours quickly. A staring contest ensues, neither of you backing down even as he slides down your sleep shorts; purposefully gliding his fingertips over the round of your ass.

"Tell me, I don't like how you're acting." You huff as you kick them away, trying to ignore the heat growing up your neck as you stand in nothing but your underwear under his intense gaze.

You gasp as he cups the sides of your face in his palms, quickly backing you up until your back collides with the wall softly. Just a single molecule of air between you as he looks deep into your eyes and asks, "did you do that on purpose?"

"W-"

"Kissing some little boy in front of me?" He near spits the words, like they burn his soul. And maybe they do.

You kiss everyone on the lips. He dealt with it before — shoved his misplaced jealously deep down so it never saw the light of day — because you weren't truly his to be jealous of in the first place; and they were all platonic pecks anyway.

Not anymore.

You're all his. And you should act like it.

"Did that to make me jealous? Hm? Kissing someone else in my house?"

Your eyes widen a bit, watching this all new side of him closely. "Your house? What, I don't p- jealous?" You breathe out; a sweet smelling puff of air that nearly knocks him off his feet.

He presses closer to you. His eyes keep flicking to your lips. Not an inch between you. His body against yours.

"Are you jealous? Joong, it's not like he shoved his tongue down my th-"

Your words get muffled by his lips on yours with more passion than you've ever felt before. His tongue in your mouth before you can even blink. Before you can even think. Staring at his closed eyes for a moment before you follow his lead, letting your eyes close and opening up your mouth just a fraction of an inch.

Even just those words coming from you — the very image of it shoved him off the deep end.

He's the only one who can do that. Him. Him. Only him.

Only he can touch you. Only he can taste you.

You taste like your breakfast, like honey oatmeal and fruit. He can't get enough. He licks every single inch he can reach, moving your lips against each other slowly until neither of you can breathe properly.

He presses your foreheads together, staring into your very soul.

"You- you kissed me." You stutter out through your blissful puzzlement. Eyes locked on his and nowhere else to go while he cradles your jaw.

"Have I not been giving you enough loving, is that it, baby?" He pants against your lips, grinding his hips into you. He just about fucking melts when you let out a shocked little moan, grabbing his wrists for purchase. "You want Daddy to pay more attention to you? That why you're acting out?"

He can see the cogs turning in your head, clanging against each other roughly as they try to sort how you feel about what he just said. What he just called himself.

"C'mere," he smirks to himself as you let him pull you away from the wall without a fight; still processing his words. Still possessing the way he shoved his tongue into your mouth.

"My Honey wants all of Daddy's attention?" You land on your bed with a soft thud — he throws you onto it —arms sprawling out to either side of you and fingers gripping the fabric. "Is that why you're kissing other people when you belong to me? To get me all worked up so I'll put you back in your place?"

"N-no." You gulp, finding your legs spreading with a mind of their own.

"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart... Like you're shocked~" He grins, dark and calculating, as he crawls over you; slotting himself between your open legs. "I know you felt me last night..." He whispers against your lips, holding himself up with one hand planted on the mattress next to your head — the other tracing up the side of your torso ghostly soft.

"We can't-"

"Why not?" He counters quickly, wild eyes flicking all over your face.

"Hiyyih a-and Kai-" His lips silence you again quickly, kissing you deep and rough — but fast, too. Leaving you stunned as he pulls back just as fast as he came in.

"Don't make me spank you..." He groans, hips grinding into you lightly, "say some else's name while your under me and I swear, baby-"

It's your turn to cut him off, tossing your good arm around his neck and pulling him down to your lips. Messy and less refined than his technique — but just as much passion in your movements.

He moans into you, his hand finally continuing its journey and landing on your breast. Giving it a light squeeze; he slips his tongue back into your mouth when you let out a gasp. He stretches it so far from his mouth, into yours, that the intrusion causes a soft gag to bubble up your throat.

"Fuck-" He has to pull back quickly, moving to sit on his knees as he stays hunched over you. He pulls your thighs over his, your hips hovering just over the bed and your pelvises pressed together. "You feel what you do to me, Honey?"

You can only breathe heavily in response, looking at him with... something in your eyes.

You have no idea what you're doing. All you know is that he feels so good against you — your clit is starting to throb, begging for attention.

"Make me cum, Daddy-"

"Don't say shit unless you mean it, pretty girl." He's breathing just as heavy, every fiber of his being having to be held back from yanking your panties down and showing you what else his tongue can do.

He wants to show you what a real man can do. Not all of the little boys, the men your age. The ones who treat you bad and make you come back home to him crying. He can take care of you in life and in bed.

"I mean it," you nod, rolling your hips — and only getting half way because he grabs them tightly; eyes narrowing down on you.

"I'm going to grind my cock on you until we both cum," he says lowly as he leans down to your neck, giving it a soft kiss, "and you'd better keep the volume down unless you want your friends to hear your step-dad making you cream your panties."

You don't think it will be a problem, you're never very loud when you masturbate —

"Oh~" You slap your hand over your mouth quickly as he starts rolling his clothed bulge into you. Slow and deep, pulling your hips to meet his.

"What did I say, sweetheart?" He chuckles airily into your neck, goosebumps raising on your skin. "You want to get caught with Daddy humping your little cunt?"

You shake your head quickly, planting your feet on the bed for leverage to grind into him; meeting his movements with his guidance.

You'd probably be mortified if either one of them caught you. Not because it's Hongjoong, but because it's sex. And you've never done anything like it. And you've certainly never been caught doing anything like it.

You just want him to make you cum. And he's moving towards that goal quickly.

A whine breaks off in your throat as he leaves kiss after kiss on your neck.

"G-god," he grits his teeth for a moment, speeding up as he rubs his bulge against your steadily dampening panties. "You're so fucking cute, Honey..."

"I- gonna-" You grab at his shoulder, meeting his eyes as he looks up from your neck; whispering so needily that he can't help but smirk.

The sight of his lips curling into that dark grin makes you moan — his hand cupping over your mouth as your jaw drops.

"Gonna cum for me, angel? Yeah?" He leans his forehead on yours, practically fucking your hips into the bed now; keeping you pinned as he drowns you in pleasure. His eyes might as well be sparkling as he looks into yours while you nod. "Aww, yeah you are~ My sweet virgin is so needy-" His eyebrows press together, his cock aching for release. "I bet- oh, fuck~ I bet your little pussy is so wet for me..."

Your back arches off the bed, his voice sending you into a shivering mess of muffled moans as you cum — his dirty words paired with the massaging pressure of his clothed cock making your clit tingle. Your eyes roll into your head, so you miss the way he grins like a maniac as he starts grinding into you harder; chasing his own peak.

"Fuck- This is so much better than I ever thought, baby..." He whispers breathily into your ear, "you're so fucking gorgeous when you cum~ I could never have imagined it. Oh-" His hand quickly slides up from your twitching hips, grabbing your waist tightly as he moves to lay completely on top of you — all of his weight in his hips as he grinds into your overstimulated cunt like he's trying to fuck you through the layers of fabric.

You grab his arm tightly, toes curling into the blanket, sounds still quieted by his hand as you start to tremble underneath him.

He laughs softly, cheeks flushing with a blush as he teases himself; dragging the moment out and stopping himself from cumming because he wants it to last forever.

"Do you know how many times I jerked off while thinking of you?" He says it before he even realizes. The words roll off his tongue without hesitation — and apparently he doesn't have to worry about it because you only moan louder behind his hand.

"Oh, naughty little girl~" He kisses your forehead shockingly soft for the situation, "you like that idea? T-thinking about it going to make you cum again? Fuck, what if I told you I did it with your panties? That I wrapped them around my cock and came all over them-"

You know that's incredibly perverted. It's a violation of your privacy.

But it makes you cum so hard you blank for a good few moments, vision going white and entire body spasming.

He isn't far behind; replacing his hand with his lips and muffling your sounds with his tongue in your mouth as he cums into his boxers with a deep whine.

When you've finally stopped moaning every other second, he pulls back slowly and licks your lips gently.

Your vision is blurry when you come back down to your body, and for a moment you wonder if he's fucked you so good — without even taking your panties off — that you've gone cross eyed.

"Shhh," he coos softly as he swipes up your tears with his thumbs, "shhh, Daddy's got you, pretty girl~"

And he's not letting go.

────୨ৎ────

You were sad.

Hongjoong could tell. Anyone who looked at you could have guessed by your slumped shoulders and the large hoodie you hid yourself in as you waited for your food at the microwave. Arms crossed over your chest and leaning against the counter.

"Do you want to talk ab-"

He barely got to ask before you went off, gesturing wildly and rambling about what had you upset.

You'd come to trust him in all these months of him being in your life.

"I don't understand why men are such jerks! No offense, you're chill- but, like... damn! It's like you're the only man I know that isn't a complete asshole! I asked my father to come over and watch a new movie with me and he's like, 'not tonight, I'm going to a friends place to watch the game', like —" You yanked the microwave open to stop it's incessant beeping, "hello!? I'm your daughter! I'm trying to spend time with you and you'd rather go and watch a stupid game!"

You slammed the microwave shut again after you got your food, leaning your hands on the counter and looking down with a sigh.

Hongjoong just watched for a moment; let you vent all of your frustration — anger in his heart but love in his eyes.

"What movie did you want to watch, sweetheart?"

You looked up slowly, unshed tears in your eyes and your chin trembling slightly. You didn't say anything, but he could tell you were asking why he'd asked.

"I could watch it with you, if- if you want me too. I know I'm not your father, but if you want some company-"

You crashed into his chest so fast he didn't even see it coming. Wrapped your arms around him so tightly it made his heart melt for you all over again.

"I'd love some company."

────୨ৎ────

A week later, you sit on the couch beside him in complete silence while he works on his laptop. He doesn't mind the silence.

You, though, can't stand the silence. It leaves you with nothing but your thoughts.

"Hongjoong?"

He looks up quickly, eyes on you within the second, "yes?"

"Do you think... you- uhm," you hesitate a bit, slightly embarrassed, but your need to do something outweighs it. "You think you could come on a walk with me?"

"A walk?" He raises his brow slightly before nodding, "of course." He saves his work document before all but throwing the device onto the recliner across from you.

"Really? Right now?" You ask as you stand, eyes slightly wide.

"Yeah," he smiles, pulling you towards the door by your hand gently. "It's good to get out of the house! I'm glad you finally want to go somewhere, angel," he pulls your shoes from the rack and kisses your head, "we can go for as long or as little as you want to. Can go wherever you want~"

A smile tugs its way onto your lips as you take in his words. "Maybe- maybe just around the neighborhood a few times?"

"Deal," he hums as he kneels and pulls your sneakers over your socks.

The white shirt and colorful shorts he'd picked out for you this morning felt a bit... strange to go out in. But, maybe it's just because you haven't been anywhere besides therapy.

He ties the laces up and pats your foot softly before pulling his own shoes on.

"Come on, Honey," he holds your hand gently as he opens up the door; leading you as you step into the outside world.

────୨ৎ────

A few days pass. You go on a walk with Hongjoong at least once a day.

You start feeling better. More and more each day.

You have less nightmares. Sleep through the night, for the most part. Your arm doesn't have phantom pains anymore. The scars on your legs don't make you want to scratch your skin off when you look at them. You can't take your pills without being reminded of when you swallowed two whole bottles. You feel good.

You feel good enough to cook your famous ramen. Good enough invite Bumjoong and your friends over.

Hongjoong watches you with the biggest smile on his face as you set the pot of noodles at the table with the chicken and beer Bumjoong brought with him.

Bumjoong leans next to him on the wall, similarly smiling as they watch you check your phone; excited for the first time since the accident.

"Good job, Hong," he whispers to his brother.

"With what?" He tears his eyes away from you and looks at him, still smiling as he hears you hum to the music you're playing.

"Taking care of her. Helping her through everything. I know it's been rough..." He tilts his head, looking at Hongjoong intently.

"You love her, don't you?"

The words make him freeze, staring at him blankly; eyes slightly wide.

Bumjoong isn't blind; and he isn't stupid, either. He sees the way his little brother looks at you when he thinks nobody is paying attention. He notices when he places his hand on your lower back while passing behind you — even when there's enough room. He hears the love in his voice when he speaks about you.

He could sense the pure panic the night of the accident, when he got the call from the hospital because you put him as your next emergency contact. Before your own father, it was Hongjoong.

Panic like he'd never seen in his brother before panic. Not something that someone would have when they got the news that the child of the person they married out of convenience was in the hospital with a broken arm. No —

It was axiety like the love of his life had just been shot to bits.

"Hongjoong?"

He swallows, feeling like the world is about to collapse around him.

"It's okay."

"Jesus, fuck you," Hongjoong sighs, relieved, as he hugs him tightly, "you sacred me. I thought you were going to try and scold me."

Bumjoong chuckles as he hugs him back, patting his shoulders. "I get it, man, you've been through alot together. And she's sweet," they both look over to you as you run to the door when the bell rings; the fastest you've moved in weeks. "You, uhm, does she know?"

"Yeah, she does," he grins as you greet the siblings with a kiss — to their cheeks.

────୨ৎ────

"Hey, honey!" Hongjoong yelled over the pouring rain, passenger side window rolled down as he pulled up to the grocery store you work at.

"You came?" You asked, genuinely surprised, "I could have waited for my mom!" You leant a bit further away from the wall, under the awning and protected from the downpour for the most part.

"Nonsense! You'll catch a cold out here, come on," he leaned over and cracked the door open, rolling the window back up; leaving no room for argument.

You ran quickly, and were in the safety of his car within thirty seconds. But you were soaked to the bone nonetheless, your work shirt clinging to you. "Shit, I'm dripping all over your seat, I'm sorry, Joong."

"It's okay," he laughed as he started driving, looking over to you as you buckled your seat belt. "Did you have a good day at work, honey?"

"Eh," you smiled, "same old, same old." You kept pulling the soaked fabric from your chest and torso just for it to cling back onto it.

"Are-" He cleared his throat, fingers drumming on the wheel, "you should take that off." When you looked over to him quickly, eyebrows raised, he hurried to say, "if it's making you uncomfortable! I mean, I don't- I have, uh, a blanket in the back seat you could cover up with."

You relaxed in the seat, letting out an amused huff of air, "sorry. I thought you were being a pervert again."

He laughed, genuine and taken off guard.

He'd been married to your mother for almost ten months now. You'd gotten comfortable with him, enough to joke and let your own guard down. He'd been slow and steadily worming his way into your life.

"God, that's what you think of me? I'm hurt, honey~"

"Yeah, don't get too worked up, old man~" You returned his joking tone as you peeled your soaked shirt off, setting it by your feet, "you might have a heart attack."

He might actually, catching a glimpse of you in your bra with his peripheral vision; forcing his eyes to stay on the road. The little bow in the middle of it caught his attention as you leaned and reached into the backseat.

He could pull over. He could just pull over and tell you to take your pants off as well. He c-

"Why do you have a blanket in your car anyway?" You asked as you pulled it around you, cuddling into the warm fabric.

He swallowed before he answered, taking a breath. Thankfully for the casual conversation to get the image of you in your cute bra out of his head. "I get cold when I work from the office, they keep it fucking freezing in there."

"Ah," you nodded in understanding, "it's comfy... Smells like you." You hummed contentedly as you closed your eyes, bundled up in the dry blanket and feeling so cozy and safe.

"S- what? What do I smell like?" He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks.

You know what he smells like.

"Like that one fancy cologne in the bathroom," you smiled, subconsciously nuzzling your nose deeper into the blanket, "and like... something Earthy. It's nice. I like it."

He could pull over. He could park on the side of the road and h-

"Thanks..." He bit at his thumb quietly while focusing solely on the road, hoping you don't open your eyes and see his blush.

He was starting to get impatient with the more time that went on; and you were starting to get more comfortable with him; and it made him want you more — an inescapable loop.

He doesn't know he won't have to wait much longer.

────୨ৎ────

Your body is warm with the effects of the alcohol, head pleasantly fuzzy as you hug Hiyyih and Kai goodbye; waving to them the entire time while they get into her car and back up before Hongjoong finally pulls you inside with a laugh.

Bumjoong left a little bit before them, giving Hongjoong a knowing smile and you a hug before he did.

"Come on, sweet girl."

"Bye!" You shout with one more wave as he shuts the door.

It's quiet for a moment after the loudness of the small gathering. You turn to him with a smile. "Thanks f-"

His lips are on yours before you can even finish thinking of your sentence. Cradling your jaw and moving against you slowly.

It takes you a moment before you come to your senses, slightly inebriated and lagging behind. You open your mouth against his, following his movements.

He licks at your bottom lip as he pulls back, opening up his eyes slowly. When you do the same — you see his are fully dilated as he says, "you're so pretty when you smile."

"Shut up," you laugh shyly; like you didn't just have his tongue in your mouth.

"I mean it, baby~" He hums, trailing his hands down the straps of your tank top slowly — the one he picked out in the morning.

He can't get over the fact that you still let him dress you even as you're healing and placing yourself back to a somewhat functional human. He hopes you'll never stop. He'd probably cry. And then you'd probably keep letting him.

"You're my pretty angel," he whispers sincerely, making the heat in your face multiply quickly.

"I w-" You scan his expression, searching for any hint he might be lying and finding nothing. Pure adoration in his eyes.

At least, that's what you think it is.

"Will you touch me, Daddy?"

His eyes snap back to yours. "What?"

You hadn't called him that in more than a week — not since he had gotten jealous and made you cum twice in five minutes.

It makes his face just as hot as yours is. One simple word and he's about to rip your clothes off.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Touch me, Daddy." You say again, more confidently as you watch him nearly fall apart from the sound of your voice.

You yelp in surprise as he pushes you against the door, pressing his forehead to yours. "Have you ever been fingered before, baby?" His question, the nonchalant way he asks it, catches you a bit off guard.

"No," you breathe after a moment, "I only... I only ever played with my clit."

"Good god-" He moans, burying his face in your neck and kissing at it just as passionately as he does your lips. "Fuck, Honey," he says between his heated kisses; his hands roaming all over your torso, "you have no idea how perfect you are..."

He certainly flipped the script quickly, making you fall apart with his words and the utter desperation he whispers them with.

"I want to ruin you so badly," comes from his lips as a low whine while he presses his hips against you. "Will you let me? Let me show you how good I can make you feel."

You want nothing more than to feel good; and you don't want it from anyone else, either.

"Yes," you seal your fate with a soft moan as he sucks on your neck. "Please, I wan- I want you to show me..."

"Come on, sweetheart," he lands another kiss to your jaw and takes your hand in his, "Daddy will make you feel so good, promise~"

"Promise, promise?" You swallow thickly as he guides you to your room.

"I promise, promise." He smiles over his shoulder at you, "I'll make you cum so good, pretty girl. Don't you worry, I'm gonna take care of you."

"And we- we don't have to..." You squeeze his hand tightly as he twirls you to be in front of him, sitting you down on the edge of your bed. "Go all the way, right?"

He spreads your knees with his, standing between them and looking down at you — with unadulterated lust, something dark shining in his eyes. "Not until you're ready, Honey," he grins wide before leaning and placing a kiss to your forehead. "I can show you lots of other things in the meantime~"

"Thank you, Daddy," you let yourself smile as you place your good hand on his hip; touch soft as a feather.

Your touch and your voice and the trust you put in him — he's already so hard. He can't stop imagining how warm your cunt must be, how it might taste, what he could do to make you squirm and beg for his cock.

"Be honest with me, angel," he hums as he kneels between your legs. His hands find the hem on your shirt and you quickly lift your arms to allow him to rid you of it. "How much do you know about your own cunt?"

"Wh- huh?" You blank, staring at him with slightly wide eyes; eyebrows raising.

He laughs softly, sliding his hands up your back and undoing your bra quickly. "I mean... You've really only ever played with your clit? You've never got curious?" He trails off slowly while pulling your bra away.

You suddenly feel very exposed. He sees you naked everyday. He has for a while. But this feels different.

You have so much spit in your mouth, swallowing so much; but your throat is bone-dry.

"You've never put... anything inside?" The way he says it is hopeful, but you don't lock in on it. Nor do you realize the smirk that tugs on his lips as you say —

"No... I've thought about it, but- I'm just scared it will hurt."

"Aw, sweet girl," he rests his head on your thigh, looking up at you, "you don't have to be scared when I'm here. Okay? I know what I'm doing, baby. I'll make it feel so good you forget you're even a virgin~" You can't help but moan when he places a tender kiss to your inner thigh. "You trust me, Honey?"

Despite the little skip of your heart that tells you not to — you nod. "Y-yeah."

"Lift your hips." And when you do, he pulls your shorts and underwear down in the same slow, fluid motion; tossing them to the side. Leaving you completely bare and him still fully clothed.

The both of you try to speak at the same time, leaving you to let out an airy giggle. "Sorry."

"You first, sweetheart." He says gently while rubbing your thighs, eyes locked on you like you might disappear if he looks away.

"Can you take your clothes off, too? Just- just a little?"

His eyes crinkle as he smiles, nodding quickly, "of course. How selfish of me~"

You feel like your entire face and neck is sunburnt as he stands up and pulls his shirt over his head. You're so hot you might as well be sweating —

"You're sweating, baby," he coos, swiping the sweat from your brow with his knuckle and feeling how heated you are. "Are you still nervous?"

"No," you say a little too fast, giving yourself away if the way he bites his lip to conceal his laugh says anything. "Just hot in here..."

He turns away and pulls the fan closer to the bed, turning it onto you. "Lay down, pretty girl. Don't be shy."

It's hard not to be when a man who's so clearly aroused is taking off his pants. A handsome man, at that. And one who takes care of you so good.

"Do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do before I do it?" He asks as he crawls over you, straddling your hips.

"Mh, please," you lean into his palm as he cups your cheek. You're starting to be more than wet with all the soft touches he's been giving you. Starting to get more needy.

Just how he wants you.

"I'm going to eat you out, yeah?" He smiles so innocently for the words he speaks, making your breath catch in your throat.

"Y- fuck, please?" You beg, eyes soft and pleading as you look up at him.

"How could I say no to that?" He chuckles as he moves down, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses in his wake. "Spread," he says; even though he moves to do it for you before you register his words. He pushes your thighs apart, staring down at your wetness.

"Quit it-" You squeal as you quickly cover your heat with your hand, "you- you're staring."

"So?" He deadpans, grabbing your wrist gently and placing your hand over your stomach; out of the way. "I'm about to lick it, baby, and you're shy about me looking?"

Yes. You can't help it. You huff embarrassedly, tossing your head back into the pillow.

"God, you're so cute~" He groans to himself as he lays on his stomach — truly face to face with your cunt now. "Don't hide from me, angel," he says while he lets go of your wrist; trailing his fingertips along your arm. "Let me see my pretty girl."

"Sorry," you bring your hand up to your face instead, rubbing your face. "I'm nervous, still."

"Don't be." His lips graze your mound, kissing just above your slit. "You said you trust me. Were you fibbing, little girl?"

Your hips move with a mind of their own, fidgeting to get closer to his mouth. "No, Daddy..." You whisper without even thinking about it. Aching for his touch which is just inches away, rubbing your legs.

"No? Then relax, Honey~ Daddy will take perfect care of you."

"M'kay," you nod, looking up at the ceiling still as you take a deep breath.

You really have no reason to be so nervous. You trust Hongjoong. You know he won't hurt you.

But it's the first time anyone has been so close to you — had you so exposed. So vulnerable.

Your shoulders relax the second his tongue meets your slit. "Oh, fuck..." You bite down on your knuckle as he drags his flattened tongue all the way up; over your clit so warm and gentle that it makes you shiver. A full body twitch running through you as he points his tongue and circles it slowly.

He's almost as blissed out as you. Your arousal on his tastebuds is sending his mind into overdrive — a million thoughts running through his mind, and none at all at the same time.

"D-do that again," you whine as you roll your hips towards his mouth, "again, Daddy~"

He has to take a deep breath, closing his eyes to stop staring at your chest as it rises and falls. "Again, Honey?"

"Y- oh!" Your hand flies down and grips his hair as he does it again — and again, and again. "Oh my god!" You cry out, fingers curling into the sheet and into his scalp as he licks at your slit; bobbing his head slowly.

The second he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks — your back arches off the bed and your jaw is dropped in a silent scream as you suddenly tumble over the peak of your pleasure.

An unintelligible moan falls past your lips as you slump back onto the mattress, panting softly and clinging to his hair like a lifeline. Your hips twitch as he gives one more slow, steady lick up the length of your slit.

"Didn't that feel so good, pretty baby?" He chuckles, licking his lips and squeezing your thighs gently from where his arms are wrapped under your legs.

"Holy shit..." You respond with a gulp, slowly letting go of his head and letting your arms falls.

He kisses your inner thigh softly, slipping one of his hands down; making you gasp as he slides a finger up your slit. "I'm gonna go slow, baby," he coos as you fidget a bit.

"Mmh," you relax again immediately as he places a kiss to your sensitive clit — and his finger slips right into you. It's a strange and foreign feeling, but pleasant as he slowly thrusts it in and out of you.

"My god..." He moans from between your legs, "you're so h-hot." He takes his lip between his teeth, resting his head on your thigh and watching closely as your hole swallows up his finger.

When he adds a curling motion to his leisurely thrusts — your brain all but short circuits. You shake your head, confused by the sudden rush of intense pleasure that hits you every time his pushes his finger in and curls it. "W-what the fuck- oh!" You whine, bucking your hips into his hand before he places his forearm over your pelvis and holds you down. "No, no, please, it feels so good!"

"Yeah~? Feels so good, Honey?"

"Yes!" You nod quickly, finally brave enough to look down at him; lifting yourself up on your elbows. "I th-think you're touching my g-spot."

His eyebrow raises quickly, "I am?"

"I th-" A groan breaks off in your throat as he slowly sides another finger into you, curling them both right into the same spot that has tingles spreading through your body. "Definitely! Oh, fuck, definitely!"

He curses under his breath, torn between watching your faces little twitches of pleasure and watching his slick fingers disappear inside of you. "I want you to cum again for me, angel," he moans, sliding a bit further down to lick around his fingers; making you squeal and fall right back down into your back.

"G-gonna!" Your hips still squirm under his arm as he presses you to the bed, unsure of what to do with the all new pleasure.

When he spreads his fingers inside of you; you lose your mind. Clenching involuntarily around his digits as you cum, hand slapping over your mouth instinctively as you let out a broken scream. Thighs tightening around his head and eyes squeezed shut.

"That's it, that's it, sweet girl," he rubs your hip softly as he keeps your trembling form held down. "Keep cumming~"

You whine loudly from behind your hand, your cunt tender with ecstasy and he isn't stopping; not even slowing down his steady pace. "Hongjoong!"

"One more, pretty baby," his voice is muffled as he kisses your clit. He chuckles deep in his throat as you cry out — slapping the bed and writhing below him.

When he wraps his lips around you again and sucks rougher than before — you have no choice but to cum again.

You swear you black out for a few seconds, completely taken over by mind-numbing pleasure as you moan incoherently and kick your legs weakly.

He just about cums in his boxers as a small splash of liquid hits his jaw and neck. He moans loudly, vibrating against your overstimulated cunt and making you wail; fingers dug in the sheets tightly. "Daddy!!"

He pulls his fingers away quickly, another low rumble in his throat as another gush comes with his rough motion. He shoves your thighs open and climbs back up quickly, his chin dripping your own arousal onto your body. "Open, baby," his breathes heavily, all but shoving his fingers into your mouth.

"Fuck-" He looks down at you, awe-stuck, as you start sucking on his digits immediately; your eyes closed blissfully and your breath uneven. "Look at my girl~"

You only hum around him, your pussy buzzing and your mind fuzzy.

He's so enamored by you that he can't help but grind on your stomach, a needy whine stuck in his throat. "Suck 'em clean, sweetheart." He rolls his hips onto you as he rubs between the valley of your breasts softly.

Swirling your tongue around his fingers, slipping it between them; you can taste yourself and you don't find yourself minding one bit as he continues to coo soft praises towards you.

"There we go, angel," he smiles as you finally open your eyes, dragging his fingers out slowly. "Feeling good?"

"So good, Daddy," you smile back up at him dizzily, "did-" You try to sit up, falling right back down, "did I squirt on you?!"

He laughs at your sudden realization, nodding, "you did, Honey."

"I've never done that before," you mumble with wide eyes; letting him maneuver your legs and press them together. You've never done any of these things before.

"Aww, really?" He asks with a fresh wave of lust in his eyes, grinding his bulge on your stomach softly. "Daddy was the first one to make you squirt?"

You nod with a whimper as he moves lower, pressing himself against the front of your sensitive cunt.

He cups your cheek in one hand, the other placed by your head; soiling your pillowcase with your spit. "You're such a good girl for me, you know that? Daddy's perfect little girl~"

"Fuck-" You wriggle as the fabric of his boxers drags along your puffy clit. "Sen- I'm sensitive..."

"Shhh, I know, baby," he grins before leaning down and pecking your lips softly. "Can you take just a little bit more for me?"

"Are you gonna... put it in?"

Fuck, he might if you keep looking at him like that — eyes all wide and shiny with unshed tears.

"Not today, Honey," he shakes his head to reassure you, but his next words make you shiver. "I'm gonna have to stretch you out a lot more before I do, or I'd split you in half."

"What?" You stutter, hands going up and fingers clinging to his sides.

"Oh, not really, sweet girl," he chuckles as he pulls his underwear down past his hips. Giving you another kiss before he sits up and rids himself of them completely.

"Oh my god- yes, really!" You gasp as you look down. "What the fuck, Joong? You have a fucking monster cock- that's never going to fit inside me, no fucking way-" You curse as you push yourself up, making him laugh even more.

It is slightly intimidating, especially because it's the first one you've ever seen in person.

"I'm sorry-" He says as he covers his mouth to hide his amusement, "sorry, Honey. You're just so cute... C'mere." He yanks you back down by your ankles suddenly, making you yelp.

"Don't worry, baby," he moans as he kiss your neck, slowly jerking himself off above you. "Daddy will make sure you're all soaking wet and stretched out before you take it~"

"You're h-huge, Daddy..." You sigh as you melt under his lips, "I bet-" You giggle breathlessly, "I bet you could really make me squirt with your di- hmmph~" You press your lips together tightly as his tip meets your aching clit, an embarrassingly loud moan muffled.

"Don't tease me, sweetheart..." He groans as he rubs the head of his cock on you. "Might not be able to stop myself if you say those things."

"I'm sorry," you whine quickly, "I'm sorry, don't!"

He eases your panic before it can fester, "I'm not going to, angel. I'm not. I'm not one of those little boys you've hung out with — I have some self control. Just don't- don't tease, m'kay? I already want you so badly..." He whispers as he glides his cock against your wet slit, looking down at it intently.

"S-sorry," you bite back another whine as he grinds his bare cock against you. "A-"

"Close your legs," he says quickly, helping you bring your wobbly legs together. "Gonna fuck you one way or another," he groans impatiently, fisting his length more roughly as he straddles your thighs.

"How are- oh," you blink up at him with soft shock written on your face as he slots his length between your thighs; right against your wetness.

"So warm..." He pants as he starts a steady pace — laying above you and fucking into your thighs; his cock sliding against you. "G-god, you're so wet~ Making a little mess of yourself, baby."

He buries his face in your neck, sucking at your skin roughly and making you gasp. His arms wrap around your shoulders; pressing you chest to chest. Yours find their way around his neck, clinging to him as another orgasm creeps up on you.

Tears start streaming down your face, your thighs trembling around him and your volume impossible to control as you moan.

"Such a needy girl, aren't you~? You love it, angel?"

"Yes!" You pant out quickly, "yes, yes, please!"

His hips are slamming against yours, filling the room with the sound of skin colliding. If he was inside of you — you're sure you'd actually split in half from his sheer force.

"Fucking hell, baby," he licks up your neck, digging his fingers into your shoulders and pushing your legs together tighter with his own. "I need you to cum," he says as he leans up and presses his forehead to yours.

"Honey," he smiles widely as he registers your tears, "you crying for me? Yeah~? I bet your virgin cunt is so overwhelmed~"

"Sh-shut up," you whine embarrassedly, slapping his back weakly.

"Oh, yeah, it is~ Needy little crybaby never had someone make her feel so good before, don't know how to handle it," he laughs airily, slowing down his hips and pressing closer to your slit; making you sob. "Shhh," he squeezes your shoulders, kissing up some of your tears, "don't try to fight it. I know, it's so much for my sweet girl... But you can do it~ Give me one more, one more, sweetheart. Do it for Daddy-"

You let out an unintelligible yell, trembling like a leaf in the wind below him and crying your eyes out as the overwhelming pleasure washes over you.

"F-fuck, oh, fuck~" He moans loudly, rubbing against you for just a moment longer before he sits up quickly; straddling your thighs and holding your waist tightly with one hand while stroking his length quickly.

His noise is almost as needy as yours as he cums all over your stomach, his fingers digging into you as his eyes roll back. More low whines and mindless praises before he finally lays back over you with a long, contented sigh.

His mess is still on your stomach, and it gets on him as well as he hugs you tightly; but neither of you mind or notice. "My Honey..." He moans breathlessly, rubbing his head against yours gently.

"Good fucking fuck me..." You babble as you hold onto him tightly, "how are you so good at this?"

He presses a kiss to your cheek and smiles, "older men just do it better."

────୨ৎ────

[chiya-eltanin]

hm. dont usually put my own two cents for theories but somethings been kind of annoying me recently so yeah. ralsei thoughts.

i really dont like the idea that ralsei is a specific object. especially not with newer stuff from chapters 3 and 4.

For starters, most people that try to figure out what ralsei is in the real world are basing it off of this appearance

however, I feel like there's plenty of evidence to point to this not being his real form, right? People have already pointed out that his original shadowed form isn't fully consistent. It's possibly the most obvious when you compare his singing animations in both forms. His hat form makes what was later 'revealed' to be his ears look more like hair?,

Ears don't really split the same way that hair does, and theres other examples of hatsei having this kind of spikyness to his 'ears' that hatless ralsei doesnt have.

even the fangamer plush makes his ears spiky!!

its a pretty major part of how hatsei looks, and its certainly been talked about before. And then comes chapter 3+4. And we have plenty of evidence that ralsei is a shapeshifter, and I have seen literally nobody talk about it????? huh?????

Oh, and the hat casting a shadow on him makes no fucking sense because he goes onto wear SEVERAL hats in chapter 3 and he's normal????

also I know its like. A funny bit, but HE TURNS INTO A HORSE

WHY THE FUCK WOULD KRIS'S HEADBAND TURN INTO A HORSE???? WHY WOULD A GREEN CRAYON TURN INTO A HORSE???? WHY CAN HE DO THIS????? THIS ISNT A COSTUME THATS NOT HOW THEY WORK????? WHERE WOULD HIS BODY GO.

not to mention that changing shapes was literally his ability in the legend of tenna game???? he plays it off like 'oh every character has abilities i can turn into a box' but he can also turn into a dog? since ralsei was the only one who read the manual it very well could be an ability given to him since the real Ralsei is also a shapeshifter.

It would also explain why ralsei draws himself in his hat form

thats closer to what his natural form is. Dont have any screenshots on hand right now, but he's got two lines in chapter four (if you leave him lying on the ground for too long, and right before they find the first fountain) about how much longer he can 'keep this body for' that make it very obvious that he's only using a form that looks cuter to appeal to us. Him being a shapeshifter would also explain things like

His face being a deliberately made abstraction would also make this interaction make a lot more sense. Pre chapter three, I assumed Ralsei based his face on Asriel to either try appealing to Kris or as fanservice for the player/red soul, however, now that we've slowly started learning more about Ralsei, it's beginning to seem more like Ralsei just wants to have a face and more distinct appearance, like the lightners do. However, because of how dark worlds work, he can only base it off of what already exists, with that already existing 'model' being Asriel, although with modifications to make himself cuter— pink horns and eyes, and his usual glasses. It's why Kris is always quick to point out differences between them, and why Ralsei is embarrassed at being told that they look similar, he didn't have a choice other than be based off something that already exists.

Alright, so Ralsei is a shapeshifter. He still has to have some equivalent in the Light World though, since that's how Dark Worlds work. He was literally about to tell Susie what he was before getting interrupted, and Toby Fox is deliberately dancing around the topic.

However, I think the answer is actually pretty obvious. Ralsei is a being of 'pure darkness', which is why he can exist in any Dark World, unlike Lancer and Rouxls, who need to be objects that 'belong' in their respective worlds. His form is made up by the original dark fountain, and he describes himself as a 'Prince of the Dark'. Characters in the Dark World know about what happens to and around their real world equivalents, but Ralsei in particular seems to be especially aware of all of Susie and Kris's actions and movements. He doesn't need to be brought in by Kris like Lancer and Rouxls do, and he always appears in the Dark World a few moments after Susie and Kris do, while somehow almost always having pretty intimate knowledge of how the world came to be. Ralsei is also the most adamant on being depended on by Lightners, even more than people like Tenna. He talks about how a Darkners role is to be used by Lightners and to make them happy, and his character development in Chapter 3 especially goes into how he wants to be needed and how he's afraid he's slowly developing his own personality, and why he believes darkners shouldn't do that.

So, taking all of that into account, I feel like the most obvious answer for what Ralsei is is a shadow.

He's a literal prince of the dark. It explains why he can shapeshift, since shadows can be made to look like anything— I'm specifically thinking of things like shadow puppets, and why when he gets knocked out he seems to literally disappear, returning to the shadows. A shadow is also the most dependant on light, shadows literally cannot exist without light, or they'll just be darkness. It even explains his empty room.

His insistence that his only role is to help the Lightners, the way that people can never find anything notable about him (asking swatch for specials his suggestion for Ralsei is based purely on how he dresses and Queen literally forgets to get him a cage), and his ability to be in any dark world (since there's literally nowhere without shadows) all seem to point towards Ralsei being a shadow.

Ralsei being a shadow also means he's literally with you in the dark, could probably straight up not exist if the world was plunged into darkness, and also makes him a weaker version of a titan (explaining the 'prince' title. not quite king, but noble nontheless).

[novaimperia]

★ student council secretary!reader and her unconventional quid-pro-quo partnership with enforcer for hire!Toji

“if i’m gonna bust my ass teaching those frat guys a lesson, i’ll need a little more than some over-the-pants petting this time, doll.”

"well, y-you can't grope my breasts again; you're too aggressive and it hurts."

he grunts. "ya gotta shake off y'r habit of mistaking pleasure for pain. and in any case, those assholes give me a rash so, as nice as y'r tits are, it's still not gonna cut it."

you fidget with a loose thread on your skirt. truthfully, you didn’t want to go back to him – toji’s brash, crass, and intimidating. sitting on a contraption to work the quadriceps muscles of the leg, you assume, you’re left awkwardly standing to the side, in the gym, watching as his thighs flex and thicken with the strain.

they’re really impressive things, actually. 

“you eye fucking my thighs?” the scar on his lips stretch ever so slightly with the smirk stealing your attention. “if i had known the pretty secretary had a thing for thighs, we woulda been having much more fun.”

scoffing, you retort, perhaps a little more defensively than you would have liked, “i don’t. ugh, j-just think about it, okay? phi kappa psi has been lax with their charity quota and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. so, just do what you usually do: make them see things our way.”

he huffs in dry amusement.. “i’ve made my point clear so let me know what ya decide, kiddo.”

‘kiddo’ is worse than ‘doll,’ but you don’t say anything. unsure, you don’t leave just yet. no amount of reminders, of chasing their president and begging the faculty to get involved has convinced the fraternity to make good on their quota. it’s proven to be a huge bother for the student council. 

and, though you’ve already gone above and beyond for your job – rubbing his length, impressive and hot as it is, over his gym shorts or jeans in the janitor's closet or locker room has always left you a stuttering, fumbling mess – there has to be some limits. right?

the worst part, you think, is that it was never to bring him to an orgasm; he just wanted some entertainment. you don't like calling people names but he can be a real jerk.

crazily unethical as it is, you needed to indulge him otherwise the dean would never write a good enough recommendation letter for the top masters program for your interest. if you failed or disappointed him, it’ll be a stain on your perfect record. that just can’t happen. and it won’t. at this point, you’ll do anything to make sure of that. 

“fine.” at the decisive sound of your voice, he stops stretching those powerful legs of his, grunting to show he's listening. “um, what do you have in mind?”

his obnoxious bark of laughter sends heat to your cheeks. people’s heads turn but when they realise it’s fushiguro, they turn away hastily. with grace unbefitting of a man of his stature, he climbs off the machine and stands to his full height before you. sweat makes his skin shine under the lights. a dizzying musk, masculine and oddly sweet, reaches your nose. you step back. 

running a large paw through his slicked hair and showing off the veins bulging in those monstrous biceps you try not to look at so much, he drawls, “well, my thighs do feel a little sore. be a doll and help a guy out, yeah?”

when he wraps a sweaty arm around you and pecks your head, you realise it's already too late to have regrets.

[echosbento]

You want thin people to reblog instead of like? Fine. But you won't like what I have to say.

I weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, gaining weight has always been my main goal and I'll never get to know if it's something I really truly wanted because I've spent my entire life being told I need to gain weight, build muscle, look more like a human and less like a skeleton. I was born with such low muscle tone I couldn't move, and have had severe joint pain my entire life, but outside of my pediatrician and a doctor I was only able to see twice before he moved across the state, I've gotten the same response from every single doctor I've spoken to. I'm too thin to have something wrong, I must be making it up. Exaggerating. Lying to get drugs. Hysterical. Almost every cis person I know feels the need to remind me, because they know I'm trans, that I'll never really look like a man, I'm too small and cute for that, I'll always be a boy at best and a girl in pants at worst. I'll never be handsome, I'm cute, pretty, I should stop being so ungrateful about it. I can't fit mens clothes without looking like a kid wearing their dads things. I'm too big to fit into kids clothes. I don't get to exist as myself, not unless I make or alter the clothes myself. And then I'm back to being called a girl because men don't sew, according to them. I look too much like a 'girl playing pretend' to get prescribed testosterone, even before Trump took office, handed that election by the very same people telling me I was too small and thin to ever be a real man. I'll probably never be able to get top surgery, because doctors want you to have been on T for years first, and I can't even get prescribed because doctors take one look at me and decide I'm lying, that a real trans guy would at least be bigger than this.

The difference between me and you has a hell of a lot less to do with weight, and a hell of a lot more with who we target our valid anger at. I don't hate fat people, I hate fatphobia and the system it's created. I hate the world we live in where everyone is expected to be one specific 'correct' 'average' shape and size that no one will ever perfectly fall into because we're human and everyone's different.

But you hate thin people, people like me, because of something we have just as little control over as you. You don't hate the system, you hate it's other victims.

I will continue being mean to thin people because the entire world is made for you but people like me can't get a diagnosis without threatening to sue the doctor <3

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Hold Me (More Like That)

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, fluff, pre-established relationship, lotta smut (oral m! receiving, p in v sex)

Summary/Warnings: Dean takes a second to pick up on what you want, but doesn't disappoint once he starts to play your game.

Author's Note: Sorta request from an anon! I wanna be thrown around so bad you guys don't even know.

Word Count: 3.3k

“I bet I could beat you in a fight.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

“I could.” You push up on Dean’s chest, glaring at him in the shifting light of the TV. “You don’t believe in me.”

A small smile plays on Dean’s lips, but he doesn’t look away from the movie. “Never said that. I’m pretty damn sure I agreed with you-“

“Yeah, but you said sure.” You drop your tone to mimic his, and that gets his attention. “That’s how you say sure when you don’t really agree, Dean, I know you-“

“Alright.” Dean catches your finger as you poke his chest. “I don’t think you could beat me in a fight, baby. You win.”

You whack his chest, and his grin only grows. 

“That what you wanted to hear?”

“You know it’s not-“

“Then you want me to keep lyin’?”

You roll your eyes at him. “No, I want you to admit I’d beat you.”

“Okay.” Dean shrugs, kissing your knuckles before turning back to the TV. “You’d beat me. You’d kick my ass, Sammy would have to drive me to the hospital, and- Oof-“

You’d climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and bracing your hands on his shoulders. Dean raises his brows with a half amused, half befuddled expression, and his hands fly to your hips in half a second.

He could push you off—easily, too—but he won’t. 

You really want him to. 

“I bet I could beat you.” You lean down until your noses are almost bumping. “In a fight.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Dean hums your name, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing small circles on the bare skin under your shirt. “What’re you doing?”

You shrug. “Trying to make you take me seriously.”

“I always take you seriously-“

“No. You don’t think I could beat you.”

For a man you know looks for any reason to jump your bones—you’ve seen him walk you back against a wall because the wind blew up your skirt, and he needs to check you’re okay—Dean is impressively confused about what’s happening. He just keeps looking at you in confusion, holding you firm enough by your hips you know he’s not going to take your bait and toss you around. You’re going to have to step it up. 

You love him. He’s adorable and sweet and trying really hard to be a good boyfriend, to the point that you feel sort of bad about what’s about to happen, but you’ll get over it. Call it vengeance for when he tried to prove he could change a tire faster than you could, and it was just an excuse to fuck you on the hood of the car. 

“C’mon.” You drag his hands off your hips, pinning them to the couch, and he doesn’t fight you at all. “I can win, Dean.”

“Yeah, you could-“

“Stop agreeing with me-“

He snorts, putting on a weak, mock show of trying to push out of your grip, but mostly just flexing his arms and making the heat in your core spark. “Look, sweetheart, you’re stronger-“

“I didn’t say I was stronger,” you grind down onto him, disguising it as a just a shift of your body, and Dean’s jaw twitches slightly. “I said I could beat you.”

You grind again, and he lets out a long, slow breath. 

Progress.

“You want the truth, baby?” He gives you a pointed look, still not struggling against you, and you nod. 

“I could-“

“No, you couldn’t.” Dean shrugs, and to sort of obviously prove his point, pushes just one hand out of your hold to wrap around your waist. “Not ‘cause I don’t think you’re strong, or smart, or sexy as fuck when you kick ass. But I would beat you. I’ve beaten Sam, and he’s a fuckin’ Sasquatch. It’s my freakin’ job-“

“It’s my job, too-“

“It’s your job when we’re real short on hands.” Dean eyes narrow, and that was the right button. He doesn’t like the maybe you should hunt more conversation. “And we’re not.”

You raise your brows. “So I couldn’t beat you because I don’t hunt?”

“Yes- No-“ He sighs, hauling you a little further up his chest. “You just couldn’t beat me, baby, I promise-“

“Prove it.”

Dean frowns at you. “What?”

“If you think I can’t beat you.” You grab his arm around you—he lets you move it again, but that’s fine, you don’t actually care about winning—and pin it back down. “Then prove it.”

“I’m not gonna fight you, sweetheart-“

You shrug. “Then I win. And if I can beat Dean Winchester in a fight, maybe I should hunt more-“

That does it. Your words turn into a yelp as Dean flips you over like it’s nothing, pinning your hands over your head and pressing his hips down to keep you pinned to the couch. You have to take a quick breath to stop from caving right away, but you can see his muscles rippling through his shirt and his eyes shamelessly scanning your form below him, and he’s half-hard already and pressed right into your thigh-

“I don’t know what goin’ on with you.” His voice is a half growl, and the sound almost vibrates through your body. “But I can beat you, babygirl. And you fuckin’ hate hunting-“

“Maybe I just miss you when you’re gone,” you challenge, hooking your leg around him and flipping him back over with a grunt. “You always leave me, De, and I get lonely-“

He snorts, standing up with you almost thrown over his should. “I call you every day, smartass, and I never hear you complaining when you cum from just me talkin’ to you.”

“Not the- fuck-“ You’re trying to squirm away as he walks through the halls of the bunker—the movie long forgotten—but it’s not working in your favor. “It’s not the same-“

“Then you can come on a few hunts and stay in the hotel.”

He needs to stop being so rational and sweet. “No, I want to hunt-“

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I want, Dean-“

You squeak as he drops you onto the mattress, standing over you with a glower. 

“You don’t want to hunt,” he grunts your name, grabbing your face between his hands with an adoring, vaguely annoyed expression. “You hate it, you always get mad about blood on your clothing- Hell, you get pissed about blood on my clothing-“

“I’m over it.” You lie quickly, and throw all your weight into pulling Dean down. He lands on the mattress with a grunt, and you crawl back on top of him with a grin. “I can beat you, Dean. You haven’t proven I can’t.”

He shakes his head. “I told you I’m not fighting you, sweetheart-“

“Cause you’ll lose.”

“I-“ His eyes narrow on yours, right as you wiggle slightly, and you know that expression.

You won.

“If I beat you, you drop the hunting thing.”

You nod quickly, and don’t even get the chance to say deal before Dean’s moving. He flips your back over with practiced ease, and he probably could’ve won right there, but you’re determined to put on a mock show. So when his hand go to pin both of yours, you worm then against his chest and shove right into his gut. It catches him off guard, just enough for you to roll away and scramble up onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Dean grunts, and rises up on his knees before dropping onto his side, just enough to knock the wind slightly out of your chest, and pry you off his neck. You try to roll away, but he’s—somehow—faster, and catches you by the waist, hauling you right up into his lap and pinning your arms behind your back with one hand, the other grabbing your jaw to keep your gaze trapped on his. 

And you’ve lost. It was only a few seconds of fighting, but you lost dramatically. 

In Dean’s eyes, at least, you lost.

But you feel a little high, right now. Dean’s big and warm and all around you, touching you everywhere with his chest pressed right against your breasts and his legs wrapped around you to keep you pinned to him. There’s a building, almost mind-numbing ache for him between your thighs, and you can feel his muscles every time he shifts, and he barely out of breath but you’re a giggling, needy mess his arms, and-

You can see the exact moment it hits him. He blinks at you for a second, his grip tightening on your jaw just enough to pull out a tiny, soft moan, and his cock twitches against your leg.

“You’re fucking-“ He cuts himself off with a groan and shake of his head. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, if you wanted to be fucked, you coulda told me.”

You shake your head, still beaming at him like an idiot. “Better when you mean it. I- I wanna feel you, Dean, please-“

“Please, what?” He hums, squeezing your jaw again, right as he thrusts up against your clothed cunt. “Please fuck you? Toss you around? Or should I make you wait, for giving me a damn heart attack about hunting?”

You flush, and shake your head. “I’m sorry, I just- You weren’t getting it and I- I wanted-“

“I know what you wanted.” Dean shrugs, grinning down at you. “You wanted me to touch you, didn’t you.”

You nod desperately, and he’s so close. His lips brushing over yours, his grip on you tight and perfect and god-

“You wanna touch me, babygirl?” His question is a low, teasing hum, his hips jerking up again to make sure you can feel how hard he is, and a high, needy moan escapes your lips. 

“Dean, please-“

He shakes his head, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Answer the question, sweetheart-“

“Yes- I do, I need it-“

“Yeah, you do.” He mutters, his hand on your jaw dragging down to rest lightly on your throat. “Lie down.”

You scramble back the second Dean lets go of you, settling into the pillows and giving him your prettiest, most hopeful doe-eyed look. He just chuckles, peeling his shirt and jeans at a painfully slow speed, and gives you a pointed expression. He doesn’t have to say it aloud to know what he’s asking. You know him well enough.

“Not those,” he grunts when you go for your panties, the rest of your clothing now discarded onto the floor. “Wanna rip them off you.”

You sigh, pouting up at him, and it hard not to get dizzy from his attention—standing at the edge of the bed, all strength and softness, stroking his cock to the sight of you below him—but you manage. “You always rip them off of me, Dean, I’m going to run out of underwear-“

“Good.” He mutters, starting to prowl over you with an almost feral grin, and you roll your eyes.

“Dean-“

“Don’t worry, baby.” He hums, and your protests about the panties die in your throat as he stops right over you, pressing his thick cock right on your lower lip. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

You hum, blinking hopefully up at him as you open your mouth, and he nods. Dean’s hand tangles in your hair as he slides into your mouth, and you moan shamelessly around him, making his hips jerk and his dick press right against the back of your throat. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans your name, and you suck on him, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock as he pulls slightly out. “You’re gonna choke, you can’t- Shit-“

It’s too easy to whine and run your tongue up his shaft, and he ruts into your mouth with a groan. 

“God- You’re-“ He glares down at you, and you return it with an innocent expression. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You just blink at him sweetly, grabbing his thighs, and trying to guide him deeper into your mouth, and his brows raise, his voice suddenly a slight rasp.

“More, baby?” 

You hum, already grinding into the sheets from the feeling of him heavy in your mouth and the intensity of his gaze, and Dean groans. 

“You gotta stop me if it’s too much-“ You swallow around him, and his words turn into a loud moan that goes straight between your legs.

The leash Dean’s been keeping on his movements snaps, and your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure as he starts to fuck your mouth. You can feel his gaze as the lewd sounds of his balls slapping your chin and his cock sliding in and out of your lips fills the room. Your nails are digging into his thighs, and your breathing is heavy through your nose, but it feels so good.

There’s all the power of him over you, making you lightheaded and your pussy start to clench around nothing every time he groans your name. You can taste the salt of his precum on your tongue whenever you manage to flick it over the head of him, and when you whimper around him, he always pulls all the way out before slamming back it and groaning your name. 

He’s getting close. You can feel it in the growing sloppiness of his thrusts and the tightness of his grip on your hair. So you double your effort and start to suck him off best you can, but all you can really remember how to do is wiggle and moan-

Dean pulls aways with groan, and your eyes flutter open to see him looking down at you with borderline wonder, his arm braced on the headboard above you and his chest heaving.

“You’re too good at that.” He mutters, moving his hand from your hair to wipe a little bit of drool over your cheek. “Almost came in your mouth, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth again, sticking your tongue out, and he groans, leaning back with a shake of his head. 

“Need to fuck you,” he grunts, shifting so your caged below his arms, his brow pressed against yours. “I’m gonna make you cum ‘till you can’t walk, baby. That sound good?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, spreading your legs as wide as you can. “Good. Touch me, Dean, I- I need you-“

“I know you do.” Rough, warm fingers dance on your panties, teasing on your inner thigh for a second before ripping them away, and running over your pussy. “So fucking wet for me, babygirl, need it that bad?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes, please-“

Dean cuts you off with a long, sloppy kiss, and you gasp his name into his mouth, grinding onto the palm of his hand in chance of any relief.

“You wanna try and wrestle again?” He hums, rubbing his hand right over your clit. “Or you gonna let me take care of my girl.”

“Take care.” Your voice is barely a breath, but you might fly out of your mind if he doesn’t really, properly fuck you. “Dean, your cock, I need it-“

His hand moves away, but you don’t get a moment to complain before Dean’s shoving himself into you with one rough movement, and your back is arching off the bed.

“That’s right, baby.” His voice is a teasing coo, but you don’t really care. He’s earned it, and it feels so good, being filled up and split open with him all over you and kissing up your neck- “You’re so fuckin’ tight, son of a bitch-“

“Dean.” You gasp, and his mouth crashes back over yours, kissing you into the pillows until you’re limp in his arms, only fluttering desperately around his cock. “Move-“

He groans into your mouth, and your breath hitches in your throat as he slams into you. You wrap your arms around him tight enough to strangle him, just he doesn’t even flinch, just moaning your name and repeating the movement once more. Pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, then starts to fuck you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. 

Sometimes, Dean likes to sit up and watch you come apart below him, or flip you over and fuck you into the mattress. But he knows what you need right now is to just keep feeling him, everywhere, and he’s perfect so that’s exactly what he gives you. Almost holding you off the mattress like it’s nothing, fucking into your pussy with a feverish pace, until your head is falling back with pleasure as he hits that deep, painfully needy spot deep inside you. 

His lips attach to your throat, biting and sucking small marks that make your mouth fall open in a silent scream, and your start to grind onto him. Trying to get your clit to rub on his abdomen, because you’re so fucking close-

Dean grabs your ankles, shifting your around below him without ever breaking pace, and only once you’re securely hanging off his body does his arm wrap around your waist and-

You spasm as his fingers find your clit and start to rub tight, firm circles, and you cum with a scream of his name. He just groans, fucking into you harder as you spasm around his cock, and you’re not coming down. Dean pushes your back down onto the mattress, slams his lips back over yours and angling your hips further up, and you stare up at him as he just keeps fucking you. Your orgasm crests into another one, and there’s a strange, new heat building in your core that’s hot and tight, and-

Dean slams hip hips at the right angle to almost bruise your g-spot, right as his fingers on your clit pinch, and your body goes loose as the coil snaps. Something wet is gushing out of you and running between your legs, and Dean’s jaw is clenched as he drops his brow to yours, his eyes fluttering as he tenses over you.

“Dean.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “Please. On me.”

He stares at you for barely a second before giving a tight nod, and sitting up on his knees. He pulls out with his hand braced on your hip, and it’s a beautiful sight. Dean beating his cock into his hand at the sight of you wrecked and fucked out, thick white cum shooting over your stomach and cunt as he cums with a moan of your name. 

He collapses over you with a grunt, and you hum happily, your fingers shooting into his hair. 

“That what you wanted, baby?” He hums into your ear, and you nod.

“Perfect. Thank you, my love.” 

He grunts as your kiss the side of his head, shifting down to bury his face between your breasts. 

“Love you too.” He grumbles, wrapping his around your body, and you beam up at the ceiling. “Even when you play dumb tricks.”

“I think you liked that trick.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But next time, just freakin’ ask me to fuck you stupid.”

You hum. “Dean?”

He grunts, and you tug on his hair, forcing his gaze up to yours. 

“Can you fuck me stupid.”

His lips twitch and he grabs your hand, turning it to press a kiss to your palm. “Jesus, sweetheart-“

“Please?” You flutter your lashes at him, and he sighs. 

“Gimme ten. In the shower?”

You give him an amused look. “You just wanna cum on me again.”

“Yep.” He grins up at you. “You love it.”

“I do.” You mumble. “But you like it when I play dumb tricks.”

He rolls his eyes, but hauls your upright, standing with you cradled in his arms and a kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah, sweetheart. But I think I just like you.”

End Note: It's probably good for my productiveness that Dean isn't real. I'd never get anything done again.

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[astroyosei]

［愛］how would they show their love to you?

　—　safe for minors !

　—　fluffy, long + detailed !

　—　the casettes are numbered from

　　　　　　　　　　　left to right, 1- 2- 3 !

- Casette 1 -

your cards: the chariot, the ace of pentacles, the temperance reversed (lol), the IX of pentacles reversed, the king of pentacles👌

I feel like they are reallyyy into big gestures and moves when it comes to showing affection for you! I'm thinking of things like dressing up nicely, picking you up with a nice, impressive, well-kept car, going into an expensive restaurant. Like literally put on a show for you... Getting strong leo venus vibes here ngl!✨

I think they are the classical, "oldschool" gentleman type. I could clearly see a big pretty boquet of amazing fresh bloodred roses.❤️ I think they would LOVE to make every cliché thing straight out of a romcom movie to come alive in your romance.... They feel like you deserve it. That you deserve every miracle, and exaggeration, and cringey- cheesy thing they Ever saw in their life!😂😂😂

I also could feel that they are the type of men who really like to take good care of themselves!❤️ Nicely cut, clean nails and hair. And i think they smell like really good omg!!!.. you know what they might be actually straight off a fan of perfumes!!

No, they don't think it's girly. They don't think it's manly either. They just think it's a part of being a decent, clean, respectful hygienic person. Also stylish. Genderlessly. But that's strongly feels like the second most important thing here. Def the decent part is the first here👏👏

They feel like a HEALTHY masculine man!!! Who's manly enough to allow themselves to be "girly" you know what i mean. To be gentle, emotional, soft(!), sensitive, nurturing, observant, calm, collected.... features we consider divine or traditionally feminine traits.

And they doing ALL THESE naturally already! Like already before being in a relationship with you. Even before meeting you! In their everyday lives, without having their ego and pride in shambles. You'll meet them having this state of mind already and you'll love it.♡ (me too, cause honestly... It's hard to find a real man like this): )

- Casette 2 -

your cards: the VIII of pentacles reversed, the II of swords reversed, the strength(❤️!), the fool, the II of cups🥺 -

Straight off the bat, i can see that they are a very nature- orinted, or nature- lover person! I feel like they have a very strict, 9-5 / 8-4 all-day-in-the-office kind of job, so they really enjoy being outdoors, seeing plants (trees foremost!) as a high contrast to what they're seeing all day at work😂 poor thing..

I also feel like they really enjoy looking at the colors of nature... So the first thing that came to my mind about them is...Surprise trips into the nature!✨ They would genuiely cherish sharing their "comfort spaces" or such with you. I'm thinking, sharing quality time with you might be their first or most important love language!❤️

I feel like, many of you who choose this pile, ain't really a fan right now of being outdoors, hiking, going to forest trips and such, so this will be a wild new experience for you, to go dates like this✨ but let me tell you, even if you didn't think like this or didn't think about this before, y'all will enjoy it very much!!!🥰

I feel like this will be for the minority of the people who choose this pile: so you were already familiar with relaxing and spending time outdoors like this, so it won't be a whole new experience for you. But it will feel definitely different - an intimate and bonding experience with Them🥰<3 maybe even y'all will feel like this whole thing feels new with Them on your side ngl<3 it definitely feels special, calming and bonding at the same time

Side note, they might be also interested in photography - so it's not just about drinking in all those beautiful scenes and sights but also capturing them to keep these moments like forever -

- Casette 3 -

your cards: the moon reversed, the hermit reversed (omg😭), the II of cups, the X of swords reversed, the page of pentacles i -

This spread was more like their very own personal story they decided to bravely tell you - you better embrace it, they're SHY

So I honestly feel like y'alls future spouses - or next partners, or the one you thought about;) are just reallyy the shy type when it comes to showing affection oh my god!😭 I feel like they are naturally like this in their everyday life, even when it's not about romance though:) but i feel like y'all will find them cute for this for real:3 -

These ppl will prefer to say this way honestly even after the two of you start this relationship - no, definitely not because they don't like you. They rlly like u. A. Lot. So much it feels overwhelming to them. Don't make fun of them pls😤 - no, I don't feel like you will. Banter about it, yeah. But y'all love these kind of men, and you know how sensitive they are, and you will lovingly take care of their gentle heart❤️

So expressing things gonna start becoming extra when you're low🥺 they will feel like you just neeeed to feel that extra care and lob they have for u (all the time, they just keep it lowkey, to stay true to themselves. Like authentic) and they're here for your service ma'am🥺

they will RUN in fact, for your service. Smelling virgo juno vibes ifkyk;) in these cases, they will prefer to use two primary love language to express their love for you.🫶 And one is them will definitely be physical touch.

Like they would be the type to give you a massage or run a bath for you, when u don't feel really nice🥺 even without you telling them that it would feel nice, or that it would make you feel better.. they know it babe. They already know it, they already know you, how you function, what could help, and they be already doing it, without you having to left a finger.🙏 They feel like a blessing fr!...

I also think they are a big fan of cuddling in general, and they would be at it even More, when they know you're exhausted, mentally or physically.

They would pick you up from the ground (theoretically or literally) and let you lay your head on their chest, while they would be whispering sweet little nothings or supporting words into your ear (flexing their second love language aka words of affirmation!✨) They would do this only for you. To soothe your tired soul and body❤️ they are a keeper. you should keep them too❤️

𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

silver stars falling gif dividers credits to the(ir) owner(s). gonna upload this part when i find it

casette pictures are from pinterest

white bow + lace divider credits to the(ir) owner(s). gonna upload this part as well when i find it

pink hearts gif divider is from @anitalenia

pink floral + checkered dividers are from @diviniyae

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — no tears left to cry . . . softdom!chris

in which . . . you leave the boy who broke your heart and fall into the arms of the one who’s been waiting to love you right.

warnings . . . smut , making out , unprotected p in v , creampie , mentions of cheating , mentions of a toxic & manipulative ex , not proofread!

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #9

it had been a long time since you felt like this.

free.

light.

not entirely healed, no, the pieces were still settling back into place. but, you weren’t crumbling anymore. not crying in the bathroom at 2am over texts you shouldn’t have read. not biting your tongue to keep from speaking. not choosing silence just to avoid another argument you’d lose.

your ex hadn’t touched you in months before the breakup. and when he did, it didn’t feel like love. it felt like control. like you were being tolerated.

but chris?

chris touches you like you’re sacred.

when you were in your previous relationship with your ex, you hadn’t meant to fall into his arms. not at first. you hadn’t meant to cheat. chris was just supposed to be your best friend, someone who understood how broken you felt without asking too many questions. someone who didn’t push, didn’t judge, didn’t try to fix you.

he just…stayed.

stayed when your voice cracked. stayed when you showed up crying. stayed when your hands shook and your smile faded and all you could offer was a tired glance and a quiet, “can you just hold me?”

and when your body started craving something more—something warm and real—he gave you that too. slowly. gently. never more than you could handle.

and now?

now your smile has returned.

your eyes aren’t empty anymore.

you’re laughing again. loudly, carelessly, the way you used to. you’re dressing like yourself, speaking like yourself, taking up space like you were meant to. and chris sees it. he’s the reason for it, and he knows it.

“damn,” he says from across the room, arms behind his head on your bed, eyes glued to you as you tug your hoodie off. “you always this hot or am i just noticing ‘cause you’re finally glowing again?”

you shoot him a look, playful and flushed, and toss the hoodie in his direction. it hits his chest, and he grins, catching it before it falls to the floor.

you crawl into his lap with ease. you’ve done this before, but this time it feels different. you’re not crying, you’re not falling apart, and you’re not begging for comfort. you’re just… here. present. and a little bold, hands braced on his chest as you straddle him in your tiny sleep shorts and your favorite tank top.

his breath catches. not because you’re doing anything wild, but because you’re yourself again.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice dropping as his hands slide up your thighs, slow and reverent. “not a single tear left. just my pretty girl.”

you smile — really smile — and tilt your head, letting your fingertips graze his jaw. “you like this version of me better?”

“i love every version of you,” he says instantly. “but this one? the one who knows how fucking perfect she is? the one who doesn’t let anyone dim her light anymore?”

he pauses, voice softer now. “yeah, baby. this one makes me proud.”

your stomach flips, warm and dizzying, and your lips press to his without thinking. he kisses you like he’s been waiting for it. patient but eager, firm but gentle. his hands curl around your waist, pulling you closer as you kiss him harder, deeper, letting your hips shift the tiniest bit.

you moan into his mouth when his thumbs press into your skin, anchoring you there. the tension between you simmers, slow and golden, not rushed. he lets you take the lead — for a second. lets you move how you want, chase what you need.

but then his hand slides up your spine and into your hair, and the kiss turns hungry.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“lay back for me, baby.”

you flip over, on your stomach how he always wants you, heart pounding as you sink into the pillows, and he follows—slow and deliberate—his mouth brushing your jaw, your neck, and your shoulder.

“you’ve got no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he whispers, voice thick with something deeper than lust. “been dreamin’ about the moment you finally let me love you like this.”

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hands skating up the backs of your thighs before settling on your hips. “look at you.”

his voice is so soft it’s almost ruined. like he can’t believe this is real.

he leans down over you, chest brushing your back, mouth dragging across your shoulder and up to your ear.

his hand slides up your spine again, slow and warm, and you feel him press against you from behind. a slow grind, no rush. just letting it build.

you arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in your ear.

“that’s it. fuck—feels so good already, baby.”

he lifts your hips slightly so he can pull your silk shorts down, giving your ass a soft slap before pulling your panties down as well. he watches as a shade of delicate pink blooms across your skin.

you can hear him pulling his sweats down, along with his boxers. god, you were so ready. you could never enjoy sex with your ex because he was just…awful. it never felt like love. just tolerance.

chris kneads the flesh of your ass gently, fingertips digging into your skin. he spreads your cheeks slightly, admiring you. “god, you’re so perfect…”

he drags the head of his cock through your weeping folds, coating himself in your wetness. he presses his tip to your drooling entrance, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

you feel his eyes burning into the back of your head. he wants confirmation. you nod, a little too desperately. he grips your hips slightly tighter.

you whimper a little when he pushes himself in, the stretch hitting deep, slow and steady as he settles fully inside you. his hands grip your hips, not too tight, but grounding.

he stays still for a second, just breathing. letting you feel it. letting himself feel it. how euphorically deep he is inside you. how your walls feel stretched and hugging around him. how connected he feels to you in this moment.

“you okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

you nod, flushed cheek pressed to the pillow. “yeah…more than okay.”

he kisses your shoulder again, then starts to move. deep and slow, rolling his hips into yours like he’s trying to learn every inch of you.

you bury your face in the pillow, muffling a whiny moan. your breath’s shaky, but it’s not from nerves. it’s the way he’s touching you. the way he’s talking to you. the way he feels inside you.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “so perfect like this. fuck, i missed you like this.”

you let out a soft moan, your hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laces your fingers together instantly and holds it there—his hand wrapped around yours as he keeps thrusting into you, deeper now.

“you’re glowing, baby,” he breathes, voice thick. “you know that? haven’t seen you smile like that in months.”

you choke out a soft laugh, already breathless. “it’s your fault.”

he grins against your skin. “yeah? good. wanna be the reason you never cry again.”

he fucks you like he means it—slow but purposeful, hitting deep with every thrust. his free hand smooths over your back, your waist, your thigh, anywhere he can touch you.

“you feel so good,” he whispers, over and over. “so good. i’ve got you.”

and he does.

you’re not just getting fucked—you’re being worshipped. every sound you make, every arch of your hips, every shaky breath…he’s soaking it all in like he can’t get enough.

and you?

you finally feel whole again. like you’re not just being held, but chosen.

his hand tightens around yours, the one still laced with your fingers, and he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades as his pace starts to build—just a little. enough to make your breath catch. enough to make the heat curl tighter in your stomach.

“you’re takin’ me so well,” he murmurs, forehead resting against your back for a second like he’s trying to keep himself grounded too. “so fuckin’ perfect, baby. like you were made for me.”

you moan into the pillow, trying to stay quiet, but you know better. chris loves hearing you. his free hand slips beneath your body, palm splayed against your stomach, pulling you back into him with every slow, deep thrust. your hips lift slightly, the moderate angle change immediately affecting you.

your thighs start to tremble, and he notices immediately.

“yeah? that’s it. right there, baby,” he praises, voice low and warm in your ear. “you feel that? been holding back for me, huh?”

you nod, breath hitching when he pushes in a little deeper this time, angle hitting something that makes your whole body jolt. chris splays his hand over the evident bulge in your stomach proudly, which encourages him.

“chris—” you gasp, voice cracking.

he groans softly, hips stuttering like he’s barely holding himself together. “fuck, you sound so good… i’m not gonna last if you keep saying my name like that.”

you turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him—his flushed face, his damp curls, the way he’s looking at you like he’s completely gone. completely in it.

the tip of his cock kisses the sweet spot inside of you relentlessly, causing ropes of pleasure to curl in your lower stomach, right where his hand is splayed.

“don’t stop,” you whisper, voice shaky. “please. don’t stop.”

he doesn’t.

his rhythm stays steady but more intense now, deep enough to make your toes curl, to make your mouth fall open in a silent scream. well, not exactly silent. the sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, quiet and messy and desperate. and all the while, chris is talking to you.

“i’ve got you,” he keeps saying, like a mantra. “you’re mine. so good for me. so fuckin’ beautiful like this.”

his hand dips lower again, brushing your clit, slow and purposeful, and your hips jerk at the touch, making chris groan.

“you gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he asks softly, like it’s something sacred. like he’s asking permission to watch you fall apart.

you nod quickly, the pressure building fast, overwhelming. chris feels your walls pulsing around him. he already knows the answer. “close,” you breathe. “i—so close, chris…”

“then let go, baby. shit—cum for me.”

oh, you do.

your whole body arches, face buried in the pillow as the climax hits, fast and hard, ripping the breath from your lungs. your fingers squeeze his hand so tight he almost whimpers, and his pace stutters when he feels your velvety walls flutter around him.

“shit—fuck, baby, that’s it,” he growls, voice breaking. “so good for me. i can’t—”

he doesn’t pull out.

he buries himself deep, a few more ragged thrusts before he’s right there with you—low groans pressed against your shoulder, his whole body trembling as he spills into you. he stays there, chest pressed to your back, trying to catch his breath, his hands still running down your sides even though you’re both shaking.

he doesn’t say anything for a second.

just kisses the space between your shoulder blades again. and again. and again.

“you okay?” he asks eventually, voice hoarse and careful.

you nod, still breathless. “yeah. that was…”

he hums. “yeah.”

a quiet beat passes, and then he slowly pulls out, murmuring soft apologies when you flinch at the sensitivity. he leaves for a second—just enough time to grab a warm towel and a glass of water—then comes right back, slipping into bed beside you. god, he’s such a sweetheart.

“here,” he says gently, handing you the water and helping you flip over and sit up enough to drink. “take a few sips, baby.”

you do. his hand stays on your lower back the whole time.

once you’re done, he tosses the glass aside and tugs you into his chest like it’s second nature. like this is just what he does now. his fingers stroke your hair. his nose brushes your temple. his lips graze your cheek.

“you were perfect,” he whispers.

you smile, still dazed. “i feel like myself again.”

“you are yourself, baby,” he says. “i just reminded you.”

“you always do,” you say, voice quiet.

he nods, pulling the blanket over both of you. “i’m always gonna take care of you, y’know that?”

you curl into him even more, nose pressed to his neck. “yeah. i know.”

and he smiles—soft and sleepy—and presses one more kiss to your forehead.

“good.”

and with his arms around you, his voice in your ear, and his warmth still lingering between your legs, there’s nothing left to ache over—no heartbreak, no fear, no tears left to cry. just him. just you. just peace.

author’s note . . . sorry this is a lil late! this is one of my favs so far :)

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard

© cayleeuhithinknott

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

"He's playing dirty right now! What the fuck!?" Miko was worried hearing Maki being mad yet she was seeing Rin struggling a little even seeing Taz get hurt seeing Yuji more worried.

"Guys you gotta focus!!!" Yuji said worried about them yet Megumi was worried too seeing this. The fight was getting more crazy now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gojo didn't say anything but this was frowned upon. Given someone was using another to play mind games with someone. He knew the thought even if he remains quiet.

Yukio heard but he looks silent knowing it was their adopted father...why would Kris go that low? It was sickening yet seeing the face of him pulls at the heartstrings. He also hopes Rin can stop him and end this whole thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Stop it!" Rin swings again to see him dodge but smiled.

"Aww come on son. I'm just trying to be honest. You should be happy. I missed both you and Yukio so much...I bet even now you still feel the blame from what happened that night? Or are you still upset from your real blood related father killing me? Do you feel remorse? Guilt?" he laughed but Rin shook his head.

"Shut up! You don't know anything!" he keeps swinging but he saw the other dodging more to laugh.

"I bet that so called lizard would love to see how you are right now..how nice." he smiled only to see Rin fighting.

"Rin you have to stay focused! Don't lose it!" Ryuji shouted.

"HOW ABOUT YOU ALL STAY OUT OF THIS! THIS IS OUR FIGHT!" he shouted but kicks Rin back down who was keeping his footing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

"You know, this is not too bad.....pretty fun." Igarashi chuckled to see this yet it only got him looking to Hikoi who remains quiet. Though, they didn't do too much. Was she having second thoughts or something else? He wouldn't say anything while still watching.

Rina laughed hearing but she goes to attack Taz again. "HEY PAY ATTENTION!" She sneered swinging her hand in hopes of cutting Taz or slashing her to still fight.

Rin didn't say anything but hie eyes widen a little seeing the face of his old man. Okay, Kris was seriously a asshole but he glares only charging now trying to attack him. "Enough with the faces!" he said now hoping to beat him.

[jigglyjeon]

all the things she said -> jjk (two)

summary: pretty much everyone knows the truth about you now, and you’re trying your best to carry on with your life, but duty calls and the show must go on.

rating: R18+ MATURE, minors please do not interact

genre: roommate au, angst, fluff, eventual smut

word count: 5k

warnings/tags: reader kinda spirals this chapter, tension between friends, reader kind of…relapses? is that a fair choice of words? idek, allusions to masturbation in public, jk x reader fight, much angst, confessions, jk gets a text that marks the beginning of a lot of drama to unfold!!! oh shietttt

notes: i have to preface this chapter by saying that there is absolutely nothing wrong with sex work so long as you’ve weighed out all your options and know you have a support system around you that allows you not to feel guilt or shame. You have so many options, but sometimes they just don’t work out— and that’s okay. y/n and her friends painting sex work as something negative is not how i view sex work at all, i respect it in its right, but it is not an easy job and the weight of it doesn’t come lightly! okay my lovelies? okay. buckle up for some more angst (: i promise things won’t be all bad throughout this fic. the first three chapters are heavy, but towards the end of chapter three things will become lighter <3

soundtrack: pushing it down and praying – lizzy mcalpine

⋆ ࣪.  masterlist  ˖ ࣪⭑ 

<- prev | next ->

You haven’t left the house in days. The only person outside of Jungkook that you saw was Jimin, who had shown up during the day to pick up something from your apartment that Jungkook had forgotten on his desk this morning. You had answered the door thinking it was Jungkook.

“Oh butterfly,” he cooed, a genuine look of softness in his usually mischievous eyes. “Who went and clipped your wings?”

You step aside, pulling the door fully open to allow him into the apartment with a lazy huff. You follow him into Jungkook’s room, leaning against the door as you watch him search his desk. It’s organised and tidy, because Jungkook didn’t like mess. It doesn’t take him long to find the black folder he’s searching for, and then he walks to you with a sigh, his hand hovers over your lower back as you walk him back to the door. You were lonely, you cherished the moments amount of company seeing a different face provided you. Jimin smiles at you softly, pats the top of your head and bids you a goodbye, leaving you alone just as quick as he came.

Your mother called you; it was a real miracle that she had believed you when you told her it was some bad practical joke someone was playing on you using AI. Yet of course that didn't make things much easier, she was still your mother; she still goes on an entire spiel about how the internet was going to kill everyone.

You let her spew nonsense while you forced down a cup of tea. It was supposedly meant to calm your nerves and ease your stress, that's what it said on the back of the box when you bought it. You only felt a little bit lighter when you tell her you love her and end the call.

The phone rings almost as soon as you put it down, and you throw your head bag with a groan, she must have forgotten to tell you something, but only it isn’t your mother like you anticipate, it’s Jungkook.

You answer promptly, bringing the phone to your ear.

“What is it?”

His soft chuckle makes you realise your entire body was tensing before, because you feel your shoulders loosen the moment it hits your ears. “Hello to you too, grumpy.”

“Sorry,” you mumble, bringing your legs up onto the couch to tuck beneath your weight. “I just got off the phone with my mum.”

Jungkook sucks a breath between his teeth. “Tragic.” It elicits the smallest giggle from your lips, and he lights up at the sound. You don’t see the way he grins from ear to ear; it would have probably made your heart swell if you had. “I’m taking you out tonight.” He suddenly says, smacking a hand onto his knee, swaying back and forth in his chair.

“What? No. I’m not going anywhere.” You’re quick to shut the idea down. You don’t even know what he has planned, but you could only assume it meant facing friends and familiar faces.

“Y/N, nobody hates you. They just want to know if you’re okay. Come on, it’ll be good for you. You’re usually begging for us all to spend time together.”

It’s true, you missed them. Even though you ignore their texts and calls, too frightened to open them to see what they have to say about everything. Your sanity is fragile, and you don’t know if you can handle it, you think. “They won’t look at me the same.”

“I don’t look at you any differently.” A lie.

How could he not see you differently? How could he not when he thought he knew you through and through? It was only fair when you had told him you worked at the grocery store doing night stock. Where were you going to take all these pictures? A motel? You had gone through those lengths just to make ends meet? He doesn’t let it fester in his mind any longer, because if he was actually going to be honest with you, those images weigh on his mind more often than he’d like to admit. But honesty isn’t what you needed right now.

It would have been more truthful if he had told you that he didn’t feel any differently about you. He bites his tongue, though. “You’re still you, Y/N.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear when he doesn’t hear anything in return. The call is ongoing, but when he hears the smallest sniffle ring through the silence. “Don’t cry, dove.” He sighs, and you whimper, your words struggling to leave your lips when you know they will crack and wobble. You were so ashamed. “When I get back, we’re going to wash up, and I’m gonna help you pick what to wear. Then we’re gonna drive to the restaurant, and I’ll be sitting beside you all night.”

You still don’t answer, your sad sounds increase when in his reassurance. A quiet sob makes the frown on his face lower even more. Jungkook bites on his bottom lip. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You whisper, inhaling shakily. His lips twitch upwards, but he can’t bring it in him to smile completely. He wishes he could make you smile.

“Jungkook?” Your voice is quiet and small, twisting the metaphorical knife further.

“Hm?” He hums, pressing his lip together tightly. There’s a sudden lump in his throat that he fights to swallow back down.

“You lied before,” you accuse, and Jungkook slumps back into his chair, lips parting to question you but you’re too quick to finish your thought. “I see the way you look at me.”

A dozen thoughts plague his thoughts, the weight of your words raising questions within himself to decode them. What exactly do you mean by that? His heart races. He’s never confessed to you because the timing was just never right; he still wasn’t sure if it was worth the thought of losing you because of his own selfish feelings. He’d rather live loving you from a distance than you lose you altogether, because the fact of the matter was that you cared for him so loudly, so much more genuinely than other people in his life did.

But that’s just you— you were too kind for your own good. A giver.

“How’s that, dove?”

“You look at me like you don’t even know who I am,” you squeeze the words out, unable to hold back your feelings, “You pity me.”

Jungkook exhales, shutting his eyes. “Y/N…” You can’t help but think he sounds exhausted, “I would never pity you.”

But you’re tired of me. Is what you want to say, you can hear it in his voice, it’s low and quiet and he’s said the words to you one too many times in the span of a week. You pull your brows together, “Then why are you helping me?” You raise your voice, and he opens his eyes again, staring at the empty excel spreadsheet on his computer screen.

“You’re my girl, Y/N.” Once again, he just lets the words fall from his lips, speaks before he thinks. “Look, I have to go but I’ll see you when I get home, okay?” He ends the call when your quiet goodbye sounds through his phone. He tosses it onto his desk, stares at it for a moment. The next three hours were going to be gruellingly long, he thinks.

You were right about this being extremely uncomfortable.

When you and Jungkook arrive, you freeze by the door when you catch a glimpse of your friends at the table, they’re chatting loudly and laughing as if things were normal. Jungkook only takes a few more steps before he looks over his shoulder at you, clicking his tongue. His hands raise to your shoulders, thumbs soothing against your skin gingerly.

From the table Jimin is looking over at you and Jungkook, he can’t help but feel guilty about the sudden decline in your typical personality. You had always been the one to reassure others, to lift them up in times of darkness. Even when Jimin insulted you, you would shrug and tell him if taking it out on you was going to help him relieve stress, then you didn’t mind. He never really took into consideration the weight of that. Your friends wanted to be there for, they did, but they didn’t know how. You didn’t expect them to know how. That was just part of your character, it was both a strength and a weakness.

Jimin wishes you bit back a little more, when the boundaries have been overstepped, when something makes you feel a little bit uncomfortable. He’s been thinking a lot about how much baggage you carry on your shoulders, not just from the people around you but some of your own, too.

Truthfully, he had been too blind seeing you as the girl that didn’t reciprocate the feelings that Jungkook’s had for you. Even when you wiped at the corners of his mouth when he ate so messily or hugged him just as tightly even when he approached you with faux tears. He was so convinced you were stringing him along, that you had some ulterior motive or thrived of his attention. He had always been especially protective of his youngest friend, sensitive and stoic all in the same rippling, intimidating build. Tattoos, piercings and muscles on the outside but a head filled with hard-to-hide emotions on the inside.

He can see it in the way you’re looking up at him now. Teary eyed with a quivering bottom lip, he understands you a little more now. You didn’t even know it; he was your safe space, the light in the darkness— your home. Even when it was blatantly obvious to everyone else in the room.

You had spent so much time being overbearing with Jungkook, wishing that he wouldn’t feel pain, that the moment your life crumbled you had wanted to run straight into his arms. You were regurgitating your feeling in actions that you didn’t even realise what they meant to him, and for that Jimin gets it now, realises that you’re the one who is damaged. You are for Jungkook what you wish someone would be for you.  

Jimin rejoins his focus to the conversation at the table, now hushed and low when you and Jungkook slowly make your way to the table.  

“–should collectively agree to not bring anything weird up to Y/N.”

Jimin takes a breath, is about to reply but the two of you are already at the table. Jungkook smiles and greets the table, even when he notices the pointed glare Taehyung gives Namjoon, Taehyung because he might have said that loud enough for you to hear. You heard.

You look like a newborn deer, your steps are shaky, and your fingers cling tightly onto the strap of your bag like it was the only thing keep you stable. You’re looking up at Jungkook for reassurance, unable to meet the gazes of the friends you haven’t seen since the incident.

Jia stands up and greets you with a hug. Jungkook removes his hand from your lower back, taking a seat next to Taehyung and patting him on the back. Jimin’s still looking at you, the way your smile is forced as you return her hug with an awkward one-handed one. Jia grins widely at you, tells her she misses you and you nod and tell her the same. She pushes your strands over your shoulders as she compliments you, suffocating you with kindness disguised with curiosities about you. Jia being one of your closest friends, the entire interaction looks estranged. You’re still trying to appease. Jimin sighs and turns away.

You slump down into the seat next to Jungkook. Your eyes flicker over to him, but he’s distracted by everyone else, slipping into conversation with ease. Hanna and Jia are chatting, and when you make eye contact with the girls sat across from you, you smile in hopes to insert yourself in their own conversation, but it causes them to stop talking and smile back at you only.

You look down at your lap defeatedly with slumped shoulders as your leg begins to bounce, your palms rub up and down your thighs nervously. Jungkook still doesn’t look at you, but his hand pats and rests against your knee to stop the movement. Your eyes are big and a little bit glassy as they scan the room, searching for solace when your phone buzzes in your bag. You reach for it, bent over your device as your scroll through the unopened notifications on your home screen. Your hair curtains over you, and your breath hitches in your throat when you come across a message from the very app you’ve tried to avoid for the past week.

Your thumb hovers over the notification.

You’ve got an offer!

You peer up from your phone to make sure no one is paying attention to you. When you look back down at your phone, it’s only convenient that it’s Jimin that turns his head to check on you again. Your thumb taps against it. He narrows his stare at you.

You were going to stop doing this, you told yourself that the moment your photos were leaked. You wouldn’t humiliate your friends, or yourself, any further. You’d look for a night job that wasn’t risky.

From Anonymous:

Amount - $600

Request – Can I get a picture of your hand in your panties, princess? Add another photo of the wet patch on your panties too please, gorgeous.

Nobody has offered you this much money before.

You blink down at your phone, reading over all the words over and over again until your head begins to spin. Then you’re slipping Jungkook’s hand off your leg to rise from your seat, quietly excusing yourself to the bathroom. The talking slows, glances bouncing between you and each other; Jungkook looks at you with a slight frown, only just catching the way Jimin’s stare follows you around the table before he makes eye contact with him. Jimin raises his brow at him, the slight nod in your direction causing Jungkook to act.

“I’m gonna go check on her.” He smiles politely, which only intensifies the tension further.

“You guys could include her, you know?” Jimin cocks his head at the girls who look concerned. “Instead of clinging to each other like a couple of mean girls.”

They don’t beat the allegations when they look at each other. “We don’t know what to say to her.” Jia shrugs, chewing on her bottom lip as her brows lower. “She like, kept this from us without thinking about how this could affect others, you know?”

“You’re worried about your reputation?” He fires back, looking to Taehyung and Namjoon with disbelief. Namjoon slips quietly on his drink and Taehyung sinks into his seat. “I can’t believe you guys, you’ve been friends with her for so long, and you’re worried about how this is going to affect your lives?”

Hanna’s shoulder rise to her ears sheepishly, “I think it was a little irresponsible of her to resort to sex work without weighing out her options first.”

Jimin can feel the fire rising up his throat, ready to defend you. He just couldn’t believe what he was hearing; these people, that you’d bend over backwards to protect, have kicked you to the curb the moment things got messy. Was this why you felt like you had to do more? For their validation? Did they ever really like you?

“Why do you even care Jimin? You’re not even close.” Jia questions, folding her arms over her chest. “We never said we don’t still care for her, either— you’re acting like we just told you we hate her or something.”

“You may as well have.” He mutters under his bread with a roll of his eyes. Silence plagues the table louder than ever before.

Your heart races as you lock the cubicle behind you, pressing your back against it. Your fingers shake as you unlock your phone to open the app again, reading over your request one last time. You swallow thickly, resting your head against the door, slowing your breaths to calm your nerves. You had done this many times before, but things were different when everyone outside had known about it now. You lift a shaky hand, fingers ghosting over your neck as you begin to drag your touch down. Your palm pushes and grips gently at your breasts, and your breaths shake in the same way your hands had been. Your feet shuffle slightly, parting your legs when your fingers fiddle with the zipper of your shorts. You pull drag it down slowly, face contorted and scrunched as your cup your own heat. You whimper, pushing your lips together to bite back a sob.  

Jungkook is pacing in front of the women’s restroom. Two minutes go by, then five, then ten when he officially begins to worry. Multiple others have come and went in that span of time, giving him strange looks. He looks over his shoulder at the table and watches at Jia and Hanna make their leave, then he notes the time on his phone to read 7:45. He taps the call button and pulls the phone to his ear with a huff.

You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks as you pull your shorts back up your legs. You flush the toilet even though the lid is shut and you haven’t even used it, walking out to wash your hands. You look up at your reflection, your mascara is a little bit smudged, and your face is hot. Your lids feel heavy and the beating in your chest feels heavier than before. You don’t even register your phone is ring, letting it buzz in your bag as you walk out with wobbling legs. You nearly walk into Jungkook’s chest, looking down at your shoes when you come out.

“Y/N,” he sighs, “Are you okay?” You can hear the worry in his tone, but it only makes that familiar feeling of shame bubble up within your chest. You look up at him slowly, your lids feel heavy, and you try to ignore the way your wetness sticks to your panties, how you didn’t finish and how much you’re throbbing with the need to.

“Can–” your throat feels dry, your voice crackles, “Could you just take me home?”

Jungkook nods almost immediately, “Everyone’s just about to leave anyway,” You hum, looking over at the table. Three boys are staring, averting their gazes when you’ve caught them.

“Where’d Jia and Hanna go?” You wonder, straightening your posture, attempting to ignore the heaviness you feel in your legs. Jungkook pretends not to notice how tense you are. He clears his throat.

“They, uh— they left.”

You nod slowly, tucking your hair behind your ears. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea.” You whisper, and Jungkook looks at you apologetically, though you don’t look at him again. Not as you say goodbye to those who remain at the table, not as he leads you out of the restaurant. You keep your temple pressed against the window as he drives the two of you home in silence.

You curl up on the couch that evening, channel surfing through the late-night shows and throwback television movies that only your parents would have seen before, maybe even your grandparents. You click your tongue when you can’t settle, so you turn it off altogether, falling on your side into the cushions when Jungkook walks in, rubbing a towel against his wet hair. “Nothing good?” He asks, and you groan in response. He walks around the coffee table to squeeze into the spot next to you, lifting your legs slightly and resting them against his lap when he sits. You try to push down the flutter you feel when his fingers wrap around one of your ankles, the way his fingers twitch down to the tops of your feet, squeezing them lightly with a crooked smile on his face. He tilts his head, “I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I thought it would fix things a little.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Everything happens for a reason, right?”

Jungkook hums in agreeance. “I’m still here, though.” He reminds you, and you can’t fight the smile that breaks through your pouting lips, its tight and it makes your cheeks look pinchable. Jungkook laughs, he squeezes your ankle again, leaning back into the couch. “Jimin worries for you too, you know?”

You don’t mean for your snort to be as loud as it was, it makes Jungkook raise his brow, a grin growing in amusement. You hide your face in your hands, “Jimin is Jimin, he doesn’t know anything.” You mumble into your palms, and Jungkook rolls his eyes, leaning over to pull your hands away. “Nothing serious ever leaves that man’s mouth.”

“It’s how he shows love, and I think you know that.” He leans back again, head resting atop the edge of the back of the couch, eyes shut. You blink at him, allowing yourself to take in the sight of him while he isn’t looking; his jaw is clenching and unclenching, there’s a dent between his brows and the way his chest rises and falls with every slow breath he takes makes your mind wander to a place it never has before. Your breath gets caught in your throat, and your thighs rub together, just a little, and your panties still feel sticky, and you’re only reminded when they tighten against you from your slight movement. That awful sickly feeling in your stomach from before returns, and you have half a mind to pull your legs away from him.

“What are you thinking about?” Your voice comes out shakier than you intend. He tilts his head toward you, eyes blinking open to reveal the tired orbs, slightly red around a soft, deep brown that was easy to get lost within. They scan you; you look off— you’re sinking into the couch; your breaths are short and staggering. His pupils blow out, but he doesn’t react in other way.

“Why didn’t you come to me, dove?” His voice is raspy, low; he must’ve been half asleep before you called for his attention again.

“What do you mean?” You sit up now, this time you do pull your legs away from his lap and you pull them into your chest, resting your chin on your knees. Jungkook shivers from the loss of your warmth.

“If you needed money, or a job, I could’ve helped you.”

His expression is flat, but his eyes speak all the emotions he feels in the moment all at once. He blinks at you with big eyes, awaiting your response. You breathe in sharply, shutting your lips, looking away then back at him. You blink away tears. “I didn’t want to bother you.” Your voice breaks, but you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut to blink away your sadness. “I don’t like dragging people down.”

“Dove…” He sighs, “You should know by now that there’s nothing you can do that will make you bothersome to me.”  

“Why is that Jungkook?” You question comes out a little harsher than you want it to. You can see his lips twitch downward, but he catches it before he can make it known. “Why is it that nearly everyone has had something to say about my choices, but you have had nothing to say at all?”

He stares at you, huffing out an amusement breath. He runs a hand through his hair, and it curtains above his eyes again. “Okay.” He nods, his lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t like that you’re selling your body to strangers.”

“How long have you been doing it, Y/N?” He slaps his hands against his knees, looking down only to meet your shocked expression with a sterner look. “Hm?”

“I-I don’t know,” You look down at your fingers, shrugging timidly, “Six– seven months?” He doesn’t break his eyes away from yours, and you feel small under his gaze. He shifts his weight forward, his elbows resting on his knees now, clasping his hands together. “I knew it,” you grow meeker with every word, “I knew you were mad at me.”

“Not mad,” he furrows his brow, “I just, I don’t like it. I don’t like that there are people out there that hold such lewd photos of you that you don’t even know.”

“I…”

“People that don’t even care about you, not like I do.”

“Jungkook—”

“I have feelings for you, Y/N!” He grits his confession through his teeth, turning away from you the moment your mouth shuts and your posture straightens, lowering your legs from your chest. “I haven’t been exactly subtle about it, either. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Then why?” You throw your hands up, letting them fall against the couch. “Why do you fuck other girls in your bed, which is right next to my room, so loudly that I need to wear headphones to drown out the sound?”

Jungkook throws his head back, a sour laugh leaving his throat. His fingers rub into his eyes when he feels the tension behind them. “You don’t get to do that, Y/N. No.”  

“Oh my god,” you get up from the couch, “oh my god!” You shout into the open space of your apartment, thinking it was going to end there before anything could get worse. You didn’t want to fight, you tried to remove yourself, but Jungkook followed you to your bedroom. You turn to shut the door but his palm slams against it before it can close fully.

“You’re good at that, you know?” There’s a faux amusement in his features, you scowl at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Running away from your feelings.”

“Well, I’d hate to subject you to dating such a careless, cheap whore that sells herself for money!” You turn away from him, marching around your room for your pyjamas, tossing them onto your unmade bed, the bed you shared with him that night and took care of him while he was weak. The memory is fleeting when his presence only makes the air in your room thick with judgement.

“I never called you a cheap whore, don’t put words into my mouth.” He points at you, “I just hate the way that mother fucker used your photo to blackmail you like that. I’m just saying what you’re doing is dangerous, Y/N.”

“I’m not doing it anymore.” You mutter under your breath, clutching your towel in your hands when you face him.

“Enlighten me then, what were you doing in the bathroom for half an hour at the restaurant?” His stare is cold, taking a step toward you. You take one back on instinct, the backs of your legs hitting the bed frame and you fall back onto your bed. You’re look ahead, past his face when he bends down to come face to face with you. “Did you send them?”

You shake your head. No, you hadn’t sent the images. You touched yourself in that bathroom, you took the photos as per the request, and you didn’t send them. Not when you saw his face behind your eyes, hidden in your thoughts. The whispers from the people that were dear to you, who couldn’t look at you because of it.

“No?”

You shut your eyes, shaking your head with a sniffle. Tears fall silently down your cheeks, hot with anger and guilt.

“You listen to me,” He lowers himself to his knees in front of you, taking a breath as he softens his tone. “I can only be there for you if you let me. I would go to the ends of the earth for you— you’re my best friend.”

You let yourself cry, letting your head fall to hide your blubbering but his fingers catch your chin. “Look at me, Dove.”

“How could you have feelings for me when–” You croak, but he hushes you, pulling your frame into his arms.

“There’s nothing you could do in this world.” He cuts you off, finger raking through your hair to soothe your hiccupping sobs. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way, I know you don’t,” He mutters into your hair, fighting that familiar sting in his eyes, “I just don’t think I can pretend that I don’t anymore, either.”

You pull away to look at him, and your heart shattered when his nose twitches, and his glossy eyes are straining to keep away his own tears. “It’s okay.” He smiles softly, but you know him well. You know him well enough to read between the lines; the things he said hadn’t matched the way he looked at you when he lied through his teeth. It’s not okay when he knows he wants you so bad it hurts, that his chest is so tight, and he fights to keep his breathing steady while he waits for you to say something.

You know that look— it’s hope.

Your hand lifts to cup his cheek, and you don’t miss the way he sinks into your touch. You want to listen to the way your heart pounds too, but your mind…it tells you that you’ve ruined any chances you had to make him happy.

“You should get some rest,” you tell him, letting your hand slip away from him. “You look exhausted.” He nods, rises from his knees as he drags his feet toward your door. He looks over his shoulder one last time before he closes your door behind him, leaving you with the quiet tears and self-loathing that troubled you.

You never should have thought this was just easy money, shouldn’t have convinced yourself that you would be safe so long as nobody knew. But most of all, you shouldn’t have assumed your friends were going to be supportive. Would it have been different if you were honest with them? Why didn’t you just ask someone for help? Did you hate yourself that much?

From beyond your door, Jungkook receives a text that blurs his vision— makes him see red.

©jigglyjeon 2025 all rights reserved

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[foxtrology]

saturated (2)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

warnings: this chapter contains graphic depictions of medical trauma, emergency procedures, mass casualty events, and mentions of suicide. it also includes themes of burnout, grief, and ptsd in a high-stakes hospital environment.

reader discretion is advised. please take care while reading.

word count: 14.k

─────

When Joel got home—close to two in the goddamn morning—the whole house was dark.

The silence was thick. The kind that clung to your ribs.

He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. The house smelled like soap and something vaguely floral—your shampoo, probably. The faint hum of the AC pressed against the windows. The kind of quiet you only got in those brief hours when Austin’s chaos had finally exhausted itself.

He didn’t call your name. Didn’t have to. He knew exactly where you’d be.

Joel stripped in the hallway—peeling off his shirt, the weight of the day sticking to his back like a second skin. His pants followed. Then the socks. By the time he stepped into the bedroom, he was just muscle and scars and the heaviness of too many years in too many trauma bays.

You were already there.

Curled on your side. One of his old shirts stretched over your frame. Face half-buried in his pillow, chest rising and falling with the deep, even rhythm of real sleep. Not a nap. Not collapse. Sleep.

Joel stopped in the doorway. Just stood there. And looked.

The sight of you hit him like a truck. Like adrenaline withdrawal. Like breathing in after hours of smoke.

His jaw twitched.

He didn’t say anything—just moved forward, slow and heavy, and collapsed onto the mattress. His arm slung across your waist automatically, hand spreading over your stomach. He pressed his face into the back of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

His other hand found the bandage on your collar. Still there.

His fingers flexed. Jaw locked. But he didn’t wake you. Not yet.

Instead, he held you. Tighter than he probably should’ve. Like if he let go, you’d evaporate. Like the ER might find a way to pull you back inside.

5 AM. That's when your alarm went off like a goddamn war crime.

Some soft piano chime you thought was “gentler” when you set it last week. Now it just sounded smug.

You blinked, groggy, warm, your face mashed into Joel’s shoulder. It took a full breath to realize where you were, what day it was, why you were so sore.

You groaned. Joel didn’t move.

“Alarm,” you croaked.

“Mmph.”

“Joel.”

His grip tightened around your waist. “No.”

“We have day shift.”

“I’ll kill it.”

“You can’t murder the clock.”

“Bet I fuckin’ could.”

You shifted, rolling onto your back. Joel growled low in his throat, dragging you with him, one knee wedging between your thighs, face nuzzled against your throat like you were a pillow made of Valium.

“I have to get up.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“Fucking hell.”

He exhaled against your skin, then rolled back, dragging himself upright like a bear waking from hibernation. His hair was a mess. His eyes were still half-closed. But he stood.

Wordlessly, he offered his hand. You took it.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your bodies brushing with every step. Joel flipped the light on with a grunt, and both of you flinched.

“God, we look dead,” you muttered, staring at the mirror.

“You look good dead,” Joel grunted, already twisting the shower knob. “Like a real pretty corpse.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

Joel climbed in first, pulling you in after him. The shower was hot. Scalding, almost.

You both stood under the stream for a long moment—silent, eyes closed, just breathing. Letting the water peel the last twenty-four hours off your skin.

Joel’s hands found your hips. Not to pull you close. Not to start anything. Just… to be there. To hold on.

His voice, low and gravel-warm, “That scratch still hurt?”

You touched the bandage near your collarbone. “A little.”

He turned you slowly, gently. Tilted your chin. His fingers traced the edge of the gauze, then peeled it away with surprising tenderness.

The scratch wasn’t deep, but it was angry. Red. A little raw.

Joel hissed through his teeth. “That son of a bitch.”

“Joel.”

He ignored you. Instead, he reached around, grabbed a washcloth, and began cleaning it. Soft. Meticulous. Like you were something fragile.

You stood there, heart knocking against your ribs, while Joel Miller—a man who’d cracked skulls open and stitched arteries in the middle of chaos—washed your fucking neck.

“I’ll put fresh gauze on it after,” he muttered.

“Okay.”

He rinsed the cloth. Pressed it to your shoulder again.

“Doesn’t look infected. But you need to stop fucking touching it.”

“I didn’t touch it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, once. Maybe twice.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “Stop. Or I’ll tape your whole damn neck shut.”

“Hot.”

“Not a joke.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and tired and deep, water trickling between your bodies. Then he turned off the shower and handed you a towel.

You did your skincare in the mirror while Joel dried off behind you. He didn’t rush. He never did in the mornings. Not with you.

Even when he was grumpy. Even when his shoulder ached or the weather made his knee act up. He always moved slow. Always stayed close.

You patted moisturizer into your face. Joel watched in the mirror.

“You really do all that shit every morning?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What does that one do?” He pointed at your serum bottle.

“Makes me glow.”

“You already glow.”

You blinked. Joel pretended he didn’t say it. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and eggs by the time you padded in barefoot, dressed in fresh scrubs, hair still damp.

Joel was at the stove. Mug in one hand. Spatula in the other. His back was bare—broad and solid and scar-laced, a roadmap of every trauma he’d ever lived through.

He flipped the eggs like a man who didn’t give a single fuck what Gordon Ramsay thought.

“Yours are over easy,” he muttered. “Mine broke. Don’t say shit about it.”

You slid into the chair at the counter and wrapped your hands around the coffee he’d already poured for you.

“You didn’t have to cook.”

“You didn’t have to work eighteen hours yesterday.”

He handed you a plate. Sat across from you. Forked into his eggs with quiet aggression.

The silence between you was comfortable. Not empty. Never empty. Just resting.

After a few minutes, Joel reached over, tugged your scrub collar down, and gently pressed a fresh bandage onto your scratch. His fingers were warm. Careful.

He didn’t say anything while he did it. Didn’t need to. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect it.

By 6:30 a.m, you stood in front of the front door, bags slung over your shoulders, Joel double-checking for his badge like it might have betrayed him in the night.

“You ready?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at you for a second. Really looked.

Then he opened the door.

“Come on,” he grunted. “Let’s go do some damage.”

And you followed him out into the already-waking heat of Austin, the sky pink and soft with the kind of hope that always, always dies by noon.

Another day. Another battlefield. But you weren’t going in alone.

Joel held the car keys like he held trauma shears—tight, deliberate, and like if anyone else touched them, they’d lose a finger.

His truck—gray, dented, stubborn—sat in the driveway like it had been through as much as he had.

You’d only driven in together a handful of times, mostly on mornings after holidays or hellish shifts, or when he’d muttered, “Don’t drive. Just come with me,” while already pulling on his boots.

Today was another one of those days. After everything that happened on the Fourth—an explosion, a thoracotomy, a sparkler in someone’s orbital socket—it made sense. 

“You good?” he asked as you locked the front door behind you.

“I’m not bleeding,” you said. “That’s progress.”

Joel grunted. “Barely.”

He opened the passenger door for you—something he never acknowledged but always did—and waited until you were settled before circling around to the driver’s side. The truck rumbled to life with a grumble and a low groan, like even the engine had seen some shit.

The drive to Austin General was quiet. Not the tense kind. Not the I’m-thinking-of-ten-thousand-things kind either. Just comfortable. The kind of silence that only happens when two people have nothing to prove to each other.

Joel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, thumb tapping once every few seconds. You drank coffee from the thermos he’d packed. It tasted like Joel—too strong, no sugar, with that bitter edge that clung to your teeth. You didn’t mind.

At a red light, he glanced over.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

You met his gaze. “Are you?”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked back at the road. “Guess we’ll find out.”

By 6:47, you both pulled into the staff garage behind the ambulance bay entrance.

The hospital loomed above like a tired giant. Some of the windows still flickered from the backup generator cycle. Yesterday’s trauma team hadn’t even had time to hose down the exterior concrete where one of the blood trails had baked into the pavement under the sun.

You climbed out of the truck and walked beside Joel in silence.

At the security desk, Bill looked up from his paper cup of coffee and raised one brow. His face remained unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his beard might’ve been a smirk.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“Bill,” Joel grunted.

Bill looked at you. “Y’know, we should just assign you a cot somewhere in trauma. You basically live here.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t sleep in trauma.”

Bill lifted both hands, innocent. “Didn’t say she did.”

You bit back a laugh. Joel walked a little faster after that.

Inside, the ER was already humming. Not screaming—yet—but definitely buzzing with the kind of low-level chaos that meant the night shift hadn’t completely imploded.

Maria stood at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, tablet in hand, her expression locked somewhere between impressed and murderous. She saw you both and didn’t even blink.

“You’re late,” she said to Joel.

“It’s 6:54,” you said.

“Exactly.”

Maria sipped from her mug. “We’ve had two walk-ins for lacerations, one minor burn from someone reheating their goddamn barbecue ribs, and a psych eval sitting in Bay 3 who thinks he’s Abraham Lincoln.”

“I’ll take Lincoln,” you muttered.

“Be my guest.”

Jesse slid past the station with a chart in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. “Doc,” he said, nodding at you, “what are the odds I can bribe you into seeing my walk-in?”

“Negative a thousand.”

“Worth a shot.”

Ellie arrived next, a little too awake, a little too caffeinated, already bouncing on the balls of her feet. She spotted you and nearly tripped over herself.

“You’re here,” she said. “Didn’t you stay late last night? I thought Joel was gonna drag you out of here by the hair.”

Joel, behind you, muttered something indecipherable under his breath.

You smiled sweetly. “No hair-pulling necessary. I left voluntarily.”

“She was ordered,” Jesse added, grinning.

Ellie gasped. “You listen to him?”

“He's my boss.”

Joel coughed.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, “what did I miss?”

Riley poked her head out from the medication room. “We’re still trying to find where someone put all the tetanus shots. And Henry lost a patient.”

“What?” you and Joel said in unison.

“She walked out,” Riley clarified. “He said she was in Bed Nine, but turns out she got tired of waiting and stole someone’s vape on her way out.”

Joel exhaled sharply. “I swear to God.”

“Henry’s been in the bathroom since,” Riley added helpfully.

Joel growled something that sounded like "fucking hell" and walked toward the staff lounge like he needed to punch a wall.

Abby showed up right then, bag slung over her shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. She caught sight of Joel’s retreating form, then turned to you.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” you said.

“Cool.” She paused. “Thanks again for yesterday.”

You nodded. “You okay?”

Abby looked down the hall, where Mel was just walking in, laughing at something Dina said.

“I’m working on it.”

You didn’t press. She didn’t offer more. But she stood there with you a moment longer before heading to the lockers.

The first trauma rolled in at 7:11 a.m.

A teenage girl, collapsed at a summer soccer camp from heat stroke. Vitals tanking. GCS of 9. Her skin was dry and hot, lips cracked, and by the time she hit Trauma Two, her body temp had climbed above 104.

You worked fast—Joel barking out orders from the head of the bed, Abby on fluids, Ellie on vitals, Jesse running labs, and you directing the cooling blankets like it was your second job.

Joel watched you the whole time, his jaw tight, but he didn’t correct you.

Didn’t override you. Just moved in sync. By 8:02 a.m., the girl was stable. Still groggy, but breathing on her own.

Joel peeled his gloves off and muttered, “She’ll be fine. Keep an eye on her sodium.”

“Already ordered a BMP,” you said.

He nodded. One of those short, gruff nods that meant good.

The morning passed in pulses. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire. It was all… controlled chaos. Predictable. Achievable.

But Joel never let you out of his sight for long. Every time he walked into a trauma bay and didn’t see you, his head would snap around like a predator searching for prey.

When you passed each other in the hallway, his fingers brushed your lower back—just a second, just a breath, always too brief to be obvious.

No one said anything. But they all saw. And no one dared fucking comment.

9:35 a.m. brought the day’s weirdest consult: a man who had somehow—somehow—fallen onto a pool noodle in a way that required a surgical extraction.

“Really?” Tess said, exasperated. “It’s always the pool toys.”

You snorted. “He said he thought it would float better with air pressure.”

Tess stared at you. “Did it?”

“No.”

Joel didn’t speak during the consult, just glared at the chart like it had personally insulted him.

“Can’t people just swim?” he muttered on his way out.

By 10:17 a.m., you had already diagnosed a kidney stone, popped a shoulder back in, and sedated a guy who thought his dog was a government spy.

And then Joel pulled you aside in the trauma hallway.

“You eaten?”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s been four hours. You eaten?”

“No.”

He handed you a granola bar. “Sit down. Now.”

You didn’t argue. And he didn’t leave.

He sat next to you on the bench outside the medication room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the floor like it had wronged him. You ate in silence.

And then, after a beat, “You still hurtin’?”

You touched your collar. “No. It’s healing.”

Joel’s hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the gauze. His touch was careful. Calloused.

“You tell me if it doesn’t.”

You nodded. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t stop watching you.

And it hit you all over again...

You were in the middle of a storm, inside a building held together by caffeine, trauma tape, and anger issues—

And still, every time Joel Miller looked at you, it felt like home.

Even here.

Even now—on the worn-out bench outside the medication room, surrounded by the hum of flickering fluorescents and the antiseptic stink of blood crusted into the grout.

Even after eighteen straight hours yesterday, after breaking someone’s chest open with your own hands, after watching a child code and a Roman candle take off someone’s face, Joel still looked at you like you were something safe.

Of course, he wouldn’t say it.

He’d just toss you a granola bar and glare at the floor until you finished eating.

Which, for Joel, was basically a love poem.

You took the last bite, licked peanut butter off your thumb, and leaned back against the wall. He didn’t move. Just watched you quietly, like he was still trying to make sure all your parts were accounted for. You couldn’t help but glance down at the gauze still covering the scratch at the base of your neck.

“Still healing,” you said softly.

“Good,” Joel muttered. “Otherwise I’d have to fire every nurse in this place and start over.”

You rolled your eyes. “Including Marlene?”

“She gets a warning.”

You almost laughed—almost—but before the silence could turn warm, the trauma radio cracked overhead.

“Incoming minor burn trauma. Twelve-year-old male. Backyard explosion. ETA two minutes.”

Joel stiffened.

“Another fucking firework?”

You stood up. “The holiday was yesterday.”

“Yeah. And the idiots were born today.”

The boy came in with his dad, a frazzled man in mismatched socks who kept saying, “I told him not to touch it. I swear to God, I told him.”

You and Joel met the gurney just as it was wheeled into Exam 4, Ellie jogging at your heels with a tray of supplies and Henry clutching an ice pack and his iPad.

The kid was alert. Crying, but not screaming. His arms were mottled red, patches of blistering skin already forming down both forearms. His hair was singed at the front, and the smell—burnt hair and plastic—hit you like a slap.

“Name?” you asked gently.

“Derek,” the kid whimpered.

“How old are you, Derek?”

“T-Twelve.”

You nodded. “Okay. You’re doing really good. We’re going to clean this up and keep you from hurting more. Do you know what kind of firework it was?”

Joel glanced at the dad.

“Big one,” the man muttered. “From yesterday, I think. One of those leftover mortars.”

“You didn’t throw it out?” Joel snapped.

The man flinched. “I thought I did—he found it in the back corner of the yard. I didn’t think—”

“Clearly.”

“Joel,” you said quietly.

He bit back the rest of it and stepped aside, hands flexing at his hips. His jaw ticked.

You went to work. Saline flushes. Cool compresses. Henry handed you a burn dressing, and Ellie worked fast with the IV.

Joel hovered behind you—watching, but not stepping in. He only did that when he trusted you completely.

You caught his eye once, just for a second. He didn’t say a word. But that look? That was him saying: I’ve got your back. I always do.

Derek whimpered. You knelt beside him, brushed the hair back from his sticky forehead.

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay, alright? You scared the hell out of us, but you’re gonna be just fine.”

The kid nodded. Sniffled. “Okay.”

Joel’s voice, low and steady, “We’ll monitor for inhalation injury, but he’s stable. Admit for observation. Abby’ll help you with the burn sheet.”

You nodded, and Joel finally stepped back.

When the door swung shut behind him, Ellie whispered, “He’s so intense. I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled faintly. “He means well.”

“Yeah. But he says it with, like, a knife.”

You didn’t get a break before the next call hit.

Marlene appeared, holding a file and a cup of hospital coffee so black it looked cursed.

“We’ve got a lady in Exam 2,” she said. “Still drunk from last night. Fell in the shower. Split her head wide open. She’s conscious, but loopy. Needs imaging for a concussion and a shit-ton of sutures.”

“Any chance she’s friendly?”

“She asked if I was her mailman.”

You sighed. “I’ll take it.”

“Atta girl.”

In Exam 2, the woman was sitting up on the gurney, a towel clutched to the side of her face, blood soaking through the edge. Her mascara was halfway down her cheek, and her smile was bleary.

“Hey,” she slurred. “You’re so pretty. Are you a nurse? Or a lifeguard? I fell in the tub and thought I was drowning.”

“I’m a doctor,” you said, pulling on gloves. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Dottie. Like the baseball girl.”

“Okay, Dottie. Can I look at your head?”

“Sure, baby. You can do whatever you want. You’re in charge.”

You stepped closer, peeled the towel back gently. The wound was bad. A long, curved laceration just behind her ear, splitting the skin open like a broken eggshell. Definitely needed imaging. Possibly staples. Definitely stitches.

“Jesus Christ,” Abby muttered, stepping in behind you.

“She fell on the soap dish,” you said.

“Oh God

Riley stuck her head in. “CT’s clear. No bleed.”

“Good,” you said. “Abby, grab the suture kit.”

Dottie blinked at you. “Hey, baby? You married?”

You glanced up. Joel was leaning in the doorway. You didn’t even hear him walk in.

“No,” you said, smiling sweetly. “But taken.”

Joel’s brow arched slightly. His gaze swept over Dottie, then the bloody towel, then your hands, and finally back to your face.

“She stable?”

“Yep.”

“Need anything?”

You shook your head.

Joel lingered just a second longer than necessary. Then he left.

Dottie blinked at the door. “He your boss?”

“Something like that.”

“He looks like he could bench press a firetruck.”

“Only on Mondays.”

By 11:42 a.m., the ER was once again, somehow, overflowing. Tess was yelling at imaging. Mel was arguing with a pharmacist. Jesse was holding two urine samples in one hand and his lunch in the other, looking very scared and conflicted.

You slipped into the breakroom for thirty seconds and collapsed into a chair.

Joel followed. Closed the door.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“Liar.”

You looked at him. “You okay?”

He paused. Then said, “No.”

You both laughed. It wasn’t even funny.

Joel leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“I’ve never seen you do a thoracotomy before,” he said. “You handled it better than half the staff.”

“Thanks.”

“I meant that.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to let me do it.”

“I didn’t ‘let’ you do shit. You earned it.”

Silence. Warm. Tense. Real.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Joel said quietly. “Yesterday. When he scratched you.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I looked away for a second, you’d be the one on the table.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

But his jaw was tight. His hands clenched.

You stood. Crossed the room. And laid your palm over his chest.

His heartbeat was steady. Heavy. A little too fast.

“I’m still here,” you said softly.

His hand covered yours.

“I see you, you know,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“Even when you think I’m not looking. I always see you.”

Your breath caught. But before anything else could happen—

“Trauma alert. Code yellow. Two incoming. One penetrating, one blunt-force. ETA three minutes.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Duty calls,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Stay close.”

You didn’t need to be told. You always did. Because this was Austin General. And there was no such thing as peace.

Only the seconds between impact.

It was 12:00 p.m. when the ER exhaled again. Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful kind. Just a different kind of pressure—like a room that had been holding its breath for too long and now didn’t know what to do with all the oxygen.

You glanced up at the wall clock in the trauma hallway. Still ticking like a metronome to madness. The second hand clicked forward and you didn’t even register it anymore.

You lived in 15-minute increments now. The rest of the world could burn as long as you made it to your next trauma bay.

Joel was still beside you, silent after the last code yellow. One penetrating trauma, one blunt-force. Both stable now, upstairs for imaging and consults. Joel hadn’t even taken off his gloves when the doors swung open again.

A wheelchair rolled in. Pushed by Bill.

The man in it had to be at least eighty-five. Skin loose, shoes untied, button-up shirt with the collar wrong on both sides. His face was red, sweat pooled in the lines of his cheeks, and he was gripping his chest like it had insulted him in public.

“Said it was just heartburn,” Bill muttered. “I told him he needed to get checked. He argued. Then he nearly passed out in the lobby next to the vending machine.”

“Probably the vending machine’s fault,” the man wheezed. “Those goddamn Funyuns.”

You stepped forward. “Sir, what’s your name?”

“Leonard.”

“Okay, Leonard. Can you describe the pain?”

Leonard waved you off with a wrinkled hand. “Been having it since last night. Ate my niece’s chili. Too many beans. Feels like somethin’ goin’ on in my chest, but it’s just gas. Happens all the time.”

You blinked. Joel didn’t.

“Put him in Trauma 5,” Joel barked. “Now. Get EKG, draw a troponin. Monitor vitals. Oxygen, nasal cannula. I want a chest X-ray on deck. Now.”

“Joel,” you said softly, “he says it’s just—”

“Silent MI,” Joel growled. “Seen it before. Pressure like gas, no radiating pain, no nausea. Happens all the goddamn time in older men. They die in recliners because no one took ‘heartburn’ seriously.”

Leonard blinked up at him. “You always this dramatic, son?”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “You want to live or not?”

“Suppose I do.”

“Then shut up and let us do our jobs.”

Joel turned on his heel and stalked into the trauma bay, already pulling a fresh pair of gloves on. You followed, heart thudding.

Jesse arrived two minutes later, dragging the portable EKG cart, out of breath and covered in something unidentifiable. “Sorry—somebody vomited in the hallway and I slipped in it. I’m okay. My ego may be injured. But okay.”

Ellie peeked around the curtain. “Did someone say heartburn?”

“Silent MI,” you corrected. “Joel wants labs now.”

She saluted and disappeared.

You stood on the left side of Leonard while Joel worked the right, laying leads, pressing his fingers into the man’s wrist to feel the pulse.

His touch looked rough, but you knew Joel. You knew how careful he actually was. How tightly he held control when something inside him screamed.

“BP’s dropping,” Joel said sharply. “Ninety over sixty. Jesse, get a second line. You—” He jerked his chin at Henry, who had wandered too close. “What do you do when your patient’s having an NSTEMI?”

Henry froze. “Uh—start oxygen, get nitro ready, prepare for aspirin?”

Joel’s face was stone. “Did you say ‘prepare for aspirin’?”

“I—I mean—give it?”

Joel stepped closer, towering over him. “You either know it or you don’t. There’s no ‘prepare’ when your patient’s dying, kid.”

You touched Joel’s arm gently. He glanced at you. His jaw unclenched—just barely—and he stepped back.

You looked at Henry. “Aspirin’s in the second drawer. Grab two, chewable. Go.”

Henry bolted. Joel didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. The EKG machine began its infernal printing, and you read the strip.

“ST depressions,” you muttered. “It’s real.”

Joel nodded once.

Leonard blinked up at you. “Huh. Not just gas, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

You smiled despite yourself. Joel huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

You stabilized Leonard. Got him a nitro drip, pain eased, vitals up. He was admitted upstairs to cardiology with a sarcastic goodbye and an invitation to his niece’s funeral chili cookout next Sunday.

Joel didn’t look at you for a few minutes after the bed rolled out, just stood in the trauma bay, eyes on the floor, fists still flexing.

He didn’t like being right when being right meant someone could’ve died.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Old men are stubborn.”

“You’re one of them.”

He looked at you. Finally. “And I’m still alive.”

You shrugged. “For now.”

He smirked. Just a little. You let that be enough.

It was barely 12:35 p.m. when the nurse’s station erupted again.

This time, it was Riley who flagged you down. “We’ve got a walk-in. Kid. Came in with her older brother—he looks like he’s barely older than her. Said she’s been scratching her head for weeks. No insurance. No PCP. No meds.”

“Lice?” you asked.

“Yeah. Like, bad. Real bad.”

Joel was standing next to you, reading a chart. You watched his spine stiffen. He didn’t say anything. But his jaw locked.

You followed Riley to Exam 9.

Inside, the girl was maybe eight. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her hair was matted and greasy, dark streaks where she’d clearly tried to scratch herself bloody. Her little fingernails were dirty.

She sat on the edge of the bed like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

Her brother—maybe fifteen—stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes flicking everywhere but you. His hoodie was ripped. His sneakers had holes.

But he was standing between his sister and the door like he’d fight anyone who looked at her wrong.

You knelt beside the girl. “Hey. I’m one of the doctors. Can I take a look at your head?”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded. Barely.

Joel stood in the doorway. You felt him before you saw him. That dense kind of presence he carried like a loaded weapon.

You parted the girl’s hair. Winced.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Hundreds. Literal hundreds of nits. Clumped at the base of the scalp, crawling along the strands. Her ears were crusted with scabs from scratching. This wasn’t new. This was neglect.

“She’s had it for months,” the brother said. His voice cracked. “I tried. I bought shampoo. She cried. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not a—” His voice broke. “I’m not a mom.”

Joel still hadn’t said a word. But his knuckles were white around the file in his hands.

“She’s not in school?” you asked gently.

“Not since May,” the boy said. “I had to keep her home. They called CPS last time. I can’t—she’s all I have.”

Joel turned. Left the room.

You blinked.

Ten minutes later, he came back. Carrying two pharmacy bags.

He handed them to the brother.

“Shampoo,” he said flatly. “Good kind. Gloves. Shower caps. Combs. Clean pillowcases. Antibiotic cream for the scabs.”

The boy stared. “I—I don’t have—”

Joel stepped forward. Didn’t yell. Didn’t scowl.

Just said, “You’re gonna take her home. You’re gonna wash her hair. You’re gonna follow the instructions. She’s gonna stop scratching. She’s gonna sleep on clean sheets. You’re gonna do all that. And you’re not gonna thank me. You’re just gonna do it.”

The boy swallowed. Joel leaned in, voice low.

“And if your parent lets this happen again, I will call every agency in the goddamn state.”

The boy nodded.

Joel turned to you.

“Discharge her,” he said.

Then walked away.

You caught up with him three rooms down, grabbing his arm.

“Hey.”

He didn’t look at you. You touched the inside of his wrist, where the pulse still jumped.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” you whispered.

He grunted. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You smiled. He didn’t. But his shoulders loosened. And that was something.

It was still 12, but edging closer to 1 p.m.

The air inside Austin General’s emergency wing had shifted—not louder, not even busier, just…stranger. Like the rhythm of the day had slowed just enough to notice it was about to snap.

You were reviewing discharge paperwork for the lice girl when Riley stepped into the nurses' station, looking pale.

“We’ve got a walk-in,” she said. “Elderly. No ID. Found wandering outside the H-E-B on 7th.”

You blinked.

“She walk here?”

“Not sure,” Riley said. “Bill brought her in. She didn’t resist, but she’s confused. Doesn’t know where she is. Keeps repeating the same name.”

Joel, across the station, stiffened.

“Put her in Exam 7,” he ordered. “Monitor vitals. No restraints unless she tries to bolt.”

You followed Riley down the hall, into Exam 7, where the woman sat alone on the gurney. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Wiry. Her blouse was stained, shoes on the wrong feet, and her white hair was frizzed into soft static. Her hands twisted in her lap like they were searching for something they’d lost decades ago.

You approached slowly. “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. Can I ask your name?”

She looked at you with watery blue eyes that didn’t quite see you.

Her voice came small, papery, “Angie. Angie. Angie.”

She said it again. Then again. Just one name. Over and over. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just…lost.

“She won’t stop saying it,” Riley whispered. “We tried the emergency contact on her bracelet—no answer. No address in the system.”

Joel arrived two minutes later. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway. Watching. Like he was trying to remember someone. Then he moved forward. His whole frame tense, jaw tight.

“Ma’am,” he said gently. Gentle, for him. “Do you know where you are?”

“Angie.”

He crouched beside her, his voice lowering.

“Can you tell me who Angie is?”

She reached out. Clutched his forearm. Her grip was strong. Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just sat there and let her hold on.

“She was my girl,” the woman whispered. “She was mine. And I lost her.”

Your throat went tight.

Joel nodded. Quiet. “We’ll find her, alright? We’ll look.”

You blinked hard, looked down at your tablet.

“Vitals stable,” you murmured, clearing your throat. “Labs ordered. Jesse’s on the phone with Adult Protective Services. Henry’s calling nearby care facilities.”

Joel stood slowly. His eyes flicked to you.

“She’s not goin’ anywhere,” he said. “Not ‘til someone claims her.”

You nodded. “And if no one does?”

He didn’t answer. But his hand stayed clenched at his side.

You left the room, heart heavy. And then the trauma doors opened again. Because of course they did.

“Room 3,” Mel said, moving fast beside you. “Sixteen. Football player. Came in with chest pain during summer conditioning drills. Dizzy, shortness of breath. Coach made him come in ‘just to be safe.’”

You blinked. “Vitals?”

“BP 110/72, HR 98. No fever. Clear lungs. Slight systolic murmur on auscultation. No known cardiac history.”

You looked at her sideways. “You said sixteen?”

Mel nodded. You pushed open the curtain.

The kid on the bed looked older than sixteen. Broad-shouldered, lean muscle, tan lines from Texas heat. His football jersey was wadded under his arm. Sweat plastered the front of his undershirt to his chest. His eyes were scared, but trying to play it cool.

“Name?” you asked.

“Cory.”

“Okay, Cory. You said this started during practice?”

“Yeah. We were doing sprints, and my chest felt weird. Like tight. I got dizzy. Coach said maybe it was the heat. But I’ve played through worse.”

You glanced at the monitor. “Has this happened before?”

He hesitated. “...Once. A few weeks ago. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want them to pull me from reps.”

“Any family history of heart disease?”

He looked down. “My uncle died of a heart thing in his forties. I think.”

You exchanged a glance with Mel. She was already typing.

“Okay,” you said, keeping your tone light. “We’re gonna run some tests. Just to be safe. You’ll be outta here in no time.”

Cory nodded, trying to smile. You stepped outside with Mel.

“Order an ECG,” you said. “Echo, too. Let’s rule out structural causes. Maybe a stress test if cardiology doesn’t scream at us.”

Joel appeared beside you like a shadow. “You talking about the kid in 3?”

You nodded. “Systolic murmur. Episodic chest pain with exertion. Could be heat stroke. Could be anxiety. Could be nothing.”

“Could be HCM,” Joel said flatly.

“Yeah.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. “I’ll get Imaging. We’re not missing this one.”

It didn’t take long. The echo told the truth. Joel called you into the radiology reading room himself.

The image flickered on the screen—thickened ventricular septum, diastolic dysfunction, the unmistakable pattern of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

Your stomach dropped. Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the monitor, his arms crossed, tension rippling through every inch of his body.

He finally looked at you. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“No.”

Joel exhaled, low and slow, “Want me to do it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ve got it.”

He looked at you—really looked—then nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

You sat beside Cory on the edge of his bed, the curtain pulled closed to block out the chaos of the ER.

He looked at you like you were about to hand him the keys to his future.

“Good news?” he asked.

You didn’t sugarcoat. You never did.

“We found something.”

He blinked. “Like, something bad?”

You swallowed. “It’s a condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It means your heart muscle—specifically the wall between the two lower chambers—is abnormally thick. It makes it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively.”

Cory stared at you.

“No. No, I—I feel fine most days. I’ve always passed physicals.”

“It often doesn’t show up until something triggers it. You’re lucky it did. If you’d passed out without anyone around…”

You let it hang there. He didn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“So... what does this mean?”

You paused. “It means no more football.”

Silence.

Then, “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No, no, no. That’s not—” His voice broke. “I’ve been training for this since I was ten. I just got invited to the summer showcase at UT. I’ve got coacheslooking at me. I can’t—I can’t—”

You didn’t stop him. You let him feel it. You stayed right there as he buried his face in his hands.

And when he finally looked up, eyes red, lips trembling, you said, “You’re alive, Cory. You’re going to stay alive. But you have to change course. That’s what matters right now.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t throw anything either. So that was something.

Outside, Joel was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. When he saw your face, he didn’t ask.

Just said, “You did good.”

You shook your head. “I hate this part.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Means you still got a soul.”

You didn’t speak again until you were back at the nurse’s station.

Jesse handed you a chart, Abby appeared with a new tray of IV kits, Ellie was arguing with someone about a urinal, and Henry was missing again.

Just another moment. Another beat. Still 12:57 p.m. Still not screaming. But the wind had shifted. And everyone could feel it.

The shift in the ER—subtle but total. Like someone had cranked the volume of the world to one notch below unbearable. No screaming yet. Just the weight of everything pressing down.

That’s when she came in.

You didn’t catch her name at first. Only her voice—sharp, cracked, desperate—and the unmistakable phrase, already being said before the curtain was even closed,

“I need Dilaudid. Just give me the Dilaudid.”

You looked up from the trauma board.

Across the hall, Jesse stood outside Exam 11, arms crossed, face locked in that uneasy grimace he wore whenever he was trying to hide discomfort behind professionalism.

“She say Dilaudid?” you asked.

Jesse nodded once. “Yelled it. About four times. Then cried.”

Mel passed behind you, muttering under her breath. “This again. Jesus.”

“Vitals?” you asked.

“BP 132/89, HR slightly elevated. Says she’s a chronic pain patient. Fibromyalgia, lower back disc degeneration, migraines. Lists ten meds she’s ‘allergic’ to.”

You winced. That checklist. The impossible one. The one that throws the whole room off-balance.

You stood, snapping on gloves.

“I’ll take it.”

“Of course you will,” Jesse said, smiling faintly. “You’re the only one she hasn’t screamed at yet.”

She was in her late thirties, maybe forty. Hard to tell—her face was drawn, eyes sunken with fatigue. Not from lack of sleep, but from years of wear. Her hair was tied back, but uneven. Her nails were chewed raw. Her hands trembled with the kind of exhaustion that made your throat ache just watching it.

She looked up when you stepped in. Her first words weren’t a greeting.

“Please don’t tell me it’s Tylenol. Please don’t fucking tell me it’s Tylenol again.”

“I’m not telling you anything yet,” you said gently, pulling the curtain closed. “I’m just here to talk.”

Her eyes narrowed, waiting for judgment. You didn’t offer it.

“I’ve been through this a hundred times,” she said. “I get it. You think I’m a junkie. That I’m drug-seeking. That I’m trying to score. But I’m in pain. I’ve been in pain since I was twenty-one. My spine is a fucking mess. My doctor retired last year and I’ve been in withdrawal ever since. No one will touch my chart.”

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s talk about it.”

Joel arrived ten minutes later. You knew he would. He always did when the air got like this—tense, cracked like thunder waiting to fall.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood outside the curtain, arms folded, listening to your voice as you walked the patient through the same set of questions you’d asked every chronic pain case before her...

When did the pain start?

What does it feel like?

What helps?

What’s made it worse?

She cried. Quietly. You stayed still. And Joel finally stepped in.

His eyes flicked from you to the patient and back again.

“What’s your name?” he asked flatly.

“Trina,” she whispered.

“You’ve been here before.”

“I have.”

“You’ve asked for Dilaudid every time.”

“Because it works.”

Joel’s gaze didn’t soften. “You know we’re not a refill station, right?”

“I’m not asking for a month’s supply. I’m asking for one dose. To stop my legs from feeling like they’re being set on fire.”

You saw it. The twitch in Joel’s jaw. That old scar that flared when he gritted his teeth too hard.

“She’s in pain,” you said softly, more for him than for her.

He didn’t look at you. Not yet. But his silence cracked.

“She allergic to morphine?” he asked.

“Yes,” Trina said, too fast.

“Hydrocodone?”

“Also yes.”

Joel exhaled. “What about Toradol?”

“Gives me hives.”

“Tylenol?”

“Do you really think I’d be here if Tylenol worked?”

Joel was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, low, sharp, “Jesse. Get me her chart from the last three visits. I want full tox screens. And a list of filled prescriptions.”

Jesse moved fast.

Trina shook her head. “You think I’m lying.”

“I think we have a system that doesn’t help people like you,” Joel said flatly. “And I think you’ve been burned so many times you stopped trying to prove you’re telling the truth.”

That shut her up.

Joel turned to you. “Walk with me.”

You followed him outside the trauma wing and into the hallway, where the walls weren’t bleeding pain.

He stopped. Looked at you hard.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “But I don’t like watching someone twitch like that either.”

“She’s not faking,” you said.

“I know.”

“She’s terrified of being labeled again.”

“She already is.”

He rubbed his hands down his face.

“This system is broken,” he growled. “We treat pain like it’s a negotiation. Like people should earn relief. Like we can guess who’s in agony by how polite they are.”

You blinked. “So…what do we do?”

Joel met your eyes. “We treat the fucking pain.”

When you walked back into Exam 11, Joel was already writing the order. Single dose of IV Dilaudid. Low dose. Under supervision.

Jesse came back with her history—no flagged behaviors, no record of prescription fraud. Just an endless trail of bounced-around providers, ERs, urgent cares, and desperate attempts to find anyone who would believe her.

You administered the dose yourself. Her eyes filled with tears the second it hit.

“I’m not high,” she said. “I’m just…I don’t hurt. For the first time in a week.”

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

Outside, Joel leaned against the wall, watching the floor. When you came out, he looked up at you. Just once. You nodded.

“She’ll be out in an hour,” you said. “Then Ellie will talk to her about follow-up care.”

Joel nodded. Said nothing. But when you reached for his wrist—quiet, unseen—he let you hold on.

His pulse was steady. But now the screaming had started. And you weren’t letting go.

But the hospital didn’t care about things like stillness, or intimacy, or the fragile moment where you could feel someone’s pulse through your fingertips.

The ER didn’t care that you’d just poured your soul into a woman who hadn’t known if she deserved relief. It was 1:00 p.m. now, and the shift had turned.

Afternoons always brought something. The morning was for predictable chaos—broken bones, missed meds, barbecue injuries, and complications from last night’s poor decisions. But one o’clock? That was when the weird showed up. That was when the city remembered you existed and decided to test your limits.

You were barely logging the Dilaudid patient’s chart when Riley jogged toward you, hands flailing like she was chasing a balloon.

“Influencer in triage,” she hissed.

You stared at her. “What?”

“She’s live-streaming.”

“What?”

“She said it’s very important for her community to see her medical journey in real time. Jesse’s with her. He’s trying not to lose it.”

You followed her back to triage. And there she was.

Hot-pink leggings. Some light thing attached to her phone. False lashes that looked heavy enough to injure someone.

She was sitting on the triage cot like it was her dressing room, iPhone held high in one hand, the other dramatically bandaged with a gauze square the size of a postage stamp.

You heard her before she saw you.

“Hey my babies! So, I was viciously attacked by a bee at Barton Springs—like, full-on survival moment—and now I’m in the ER because I have a severe, deadlyallergy and my throat literally almost closed.”

Jesse was standing beside her, trying to get a blood pressure reading without being captured in the livestream. He looked like he wanted the fluorescent lights to explode and bury him in debris.

You cleared your throat.

The influencer whipped around. “Oh my God—are you my doctor? You look so young. She looks so young, right?” She gestured to the camera. “Everyone say hi!”

You didn’t say hi.

You turned to Jesse. “Vitals?”

“All normal. No swelling. No signs of anaphylaxis. She drove herself here. Took a Benadryl an hour ago.”

“Tongue? Throat?”

He shook his head. “Clear.”

You turned to her.

“You said you have a deadly allergy?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t use your EpiPen?”

She blinked. “I didn’t bring it.”

“You didn’t have someone drive you?”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

“You took Benadryl?”

“Yes.”

“And you can breathe?”

“Obviously.”

You stared at her. She smiled, perfectly white teeth catching the light of her phone. You stepped forward and gently tapped the screen of her phone, turning it off.

She blinked. “Um—what—?”

“You’re in a medical facility,” you said. “Not a film set.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized. “You didn’t just touch my—”

“HIPAA,” Jesse muttered like it was a prayer. “HIPAA, HIPAA, HIPAA.”

You turned to Jesse. “Get her a discharge summary and a lollipop.”

The woman gasped. “I’m going to post about this—”

“I encourage it,” you said with a smile.

As you walked away, Jesse fell into step beside you.

“She tried to ask me to pose for a ‘we made it’ selfie.”

“Did you?”

“She said her brand is about healing through visibility. I think I disassociated.”

You reached up and patted his shoulder.

“You’re a soldier.”

He nodded solemnly. “Vietnam flashbacks. Except worse.”

At 1:18 p.m., you barely made it through three bites of a protein bar before Ellie appeared.

“There’s a new mom in 6. Fever. Pain. Baby’s here. She looks rough.”

“How rough?”

Ellie hesitated. “Like... I think she hasn’t slept in a week. She’s got that twitchy eye thing going on. And she’s reallytrying to hold it together.”

You finished the bite and followed her back.

Room 6 was darkened, the baby cradled in a bundle in a too-big hospital bassinet next to the bed.

The woman on the bed looked pale, blotchy, fevered. Her sweat-soaked tank top clung to her back, her breasts visibly swollen beneath it. One side red and inflamed. Her eyes flicked to you like she expected to be judged before you even opened your mouth.

You spoke softly, “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. What’s going on today?”

Her voice broke on the second word. “It hurts. My boob—it’s hot, and red, and he won’t—” she looked at the baby—“he won’t latch, and I’ve tried everything, and I haven’t slept in four days, and I think I’m dying.”

You pulled gloves on. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen days.”

You nodded. “This your first?”

“Yes.”

You glanced at Ellie. She stepped back, knowing this was yours.

You moved slowly. Sat beside the bed.

“You’re not dying,” you said gently. “You have mastitis. It’s a breast tissue infection. It happens, especially when a baby has trouble latching or feedings are inconsistent.”

The woman bit her lip.

“But I’ve been pumping. And massaging. I tried warm compresses. I even—God, this is so stupid—I googled something about cabbage leaves. I’ve been putting lettuce in my bra.”

“That’s not stupid,” you said. “That’s desperate. And you’re allowed to be desperate. You’re exhausted. You’re in pain. You’re feeding a human with your body and nobody told you it would feel like being hit by a truck and then asked to do calculus.”

She started to cry. Not loudly. Just the soft, hiccuping sobs of someone who finally got permission to fall apart. You stayed.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” you said gently. “We’re going to get you on antibiotics. We’re going to get you a lactation consult. We’re going to bring your fever down and manage your pain. And you’re going to sleep. Even if I have to sedate half the wing to give you peace, you are going to rest.”

Her hand gripped yours. Tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

You stayed a little longer. Then got up to start her orders. When you turned, Joel was there. Leaning in the hallway. Watching. He didn’t speak. Just met your eyes. And something in his gaze—soft but sharp—wrapped around your ribs like a wire pulled tight.

You walked out into the hallway, toward him.

“She’s gonna be okay,” you said.

Joel nodded.

“She was scared out of her mind.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how people do it. Alone.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he said.

And he didn’t say more. Because it was the afternoon, high times. And Austin General was still full of screaming. But with him standing there, watching you like that? You weren’t screaming anymore. But the world outside your skin was.

The clock ticked past 1:17 p.m., and Austin General spun on without pause. The afternoon haze crept in through the automatic doors like breath through a cracked rib, uneven, persistent, fragile. The AC buzzed too loud in the nurse’s station. Someone spilled coffee near the crash cart. A fluorescent light in Room 12 flickered so fast it gave Mel a headache.

And the cases? They didn’t slow. They just changed shape.

A post-op patient arrived just after the new hour mark—transferred from another hospital across town.

He came in on a gurney soaked in sweat, with surgical dressing that reeked of necrotic tissue the second it hit air. His wound site—deep in the lower abdomen—was leaking pus that ran dark yellow, laced with streaks of green. Red, angry skin stretched outward from the edges of the incision like it was being peeled from the inside.

He didn’t even try to sit up. Didn’t have the strength.

You read the transfer note. Appendectomy. Four days ago. Complained of fever and worsening pain. Told to "monitor at home."

No antibiotics. No follow-up. Just “Tylenol and fluids,” according to the record.

Joel read it over your shoulder. Said nothing at first.

Then, very quietly, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You glanced at him. “He should’ve been here days ago.”

“He should’ve been in the OR again days ago.”

He turned and walked out. You followed. He didn’t go to Trauma or Radiology or even the consult rooms.

He went straight to the break room. Shut the door. Pulled out his phone. You heard him dial. Then tap the speakerphone.

“Dr. Kevner.”

Joel’s voice dropped into the register he only used when he was holding a scalpel or about to verbally eviscerate someone.

“Kevner. Miller from Austin General.”

“Joel, hey. You got the transfer?”

“Yeah. The one with the abscess the size of a grapefruit.”

“Right. We figured it was best he go to you guys since you’ve got more trauma coverage—”

“You let a post-op with signs of sepsis walk around for four days?”

“We were monitoring remotely. His vitals weren’t concerning—”

Joel’s fist slammed against the break room table. “You think a rotting gut smells like nothing, Kevner? You know what kind of post-op infection this is? The kind that eats people.”

“Joel—”

“You abandoned this kid. He came in tachycardic, hypotensive, oozing pus out of a dressing that looks like it was stuck on with duct tape. You didn’t even give him Augmentin?”

“We didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think at all. You dumped him on us ‘cause you didn’t want him crashing on your floor.”

“That’s not fair—”

Joel’s voice cut sharp and flat. “He could’ve died in a goddamn Uber, Kevner. So here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m writing a formal review. I’m calling the state board. And if this kid doesn’t walk out of here whole, I’m sending his mom your malpractice address directly.”

Silence on the other end. Then the line clicked dead. Joel stared at the phone. Then looked at you.

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

He just shook his head. “I fucking hate this job sometimes.”

And then you heard it. The doors. Bursting open. You turned, gut coiling instinctively.

Frank was running. Covered in blood. Tommy was behind him, hauling the stretcher with a speed that made the wheels scream across tile.

On the gurney, a teen. Seventeen, maybe. Thin. Torn clothes. Blood on the chest. On the jaw. Across what was left of his right leg.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Hit by train,” Frank shouted. “Intentional. Jumped. Emergency stop missed. He was trying to die.”

The kid was missing skin. From his hips down. Left thigh torn open, right side fully degloved—flesh ripped back like a sheet, exposing red muscle and shattered bone. The meat of his body was visible. Raw. He looked like a person half-finished.

No pulse. No movement. Nothing.

“We can't give up on him!” Tommy barked. “He was crying when we got to him. He wanted help. He changed his mind!”

You threw your body into motion.

“Get him in Bay 1!” you screamed. “Now!”

Joel was already sprinting beside you, barking orders.

“Massive transfusion protocol! Jesse—run the O-neg. Mel, grab crash kit. Riley—intubation tray. Henry, get out unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Frank stayed. His knuckles were red from where he’d done compressions all the way here. Tommy stood against the wall, hands shaking. You didn’t flinch.

“You’re not dying here,” you whispered to the kid. “Not on my fucking table.”

It was chaos. The kind of chaos that strips the skin off your soul.

You intubated. Jesse missed the first line. You got it on the second. Ellie handed you a chest tube. Blood pooled beneath your shoes.

Joel’s hands were moving fast, precise. His voice was sharp, relentless. Every word from him cut through the noise.

“Three units, wide open.”

“Another 8.5 ET. He’s swelling.”

“Where’s ortho? We need vascular now.”

But you could see it. People were starting to doubt. You saw it in Abby’s eyes. In the silence from Henry. Even Riley flinched when she saw how much of the kid’s leg was just gone.

You stood over him. Chest compressions in progress. Bleeding not slowing. Vitals flatline.

“He’s D.O.A.,” someone whispered.

“No, he’s not,” you snapped. “We’ve got a window. He was alive ten minutes ago. He was crying. We are not letting him die because we’re tired.”

Joel’s voice barked, “You heard her. Move.”

You cracked ribs with your own hands. Pushed epinephrine. Tilted the table.

Blood pressure came back. Faint. But it came back. You felt it. A flutter. A whisper in the radial.

You stared.

“He’s perfusing,” you gasped.

Joel looked up at you. And in that moment, he didn’t look mean. He looked awed.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

Not until he was intubated. Not until you had tourniquets in place and trauma had arrived with the crash team. Not until his mother arrived—shaking, sobbing—and saw that her son was still breathing.

You walked out of Trauma 1 covered in blood. You peeled off your gloves in one motion. And Joel was waiting. Right outside the door. He said nothing. Just looked at you.

You wiped your arm on your scrub top. “He wanted help.”

Joel nodded.

“You saved him,” he said.

You stared. “We did.”

Joel stepped closer. There was blood on your cheek. He wiped it with his thumb. Then stepped back.

But his hand lingered a second longer than necessary. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

It was still just past two. And you weren’t letting anyone die today. Not if you had anything to do with it. But eventually—because it had to—the adrenaline slowed.

Your body remembered that it was attached to muscles and bones and nerve endings that ached. Your stomach, neglected for the last six hours, growled loud enough to startle Jesse as he walked by with a chart.

And right then—like a miracle made of takeout foil and white plastic forks—the break room door opened to reveal something that almost felt like salvation...

Lunch. Real lunch. Catered. Paid for by the hospital’s owner—someone you’d never met, who apparently existed solely in Board meetings and vague references to lawsuits—but they’d bought food.

For you. For the chaos warriors who’d dragged themselves through yesterday’s Fourth of July madness, who’d patched gunshots and peeled melted plastic off children’s hands, who’d kept hearts beating, lungs breathing, and somehow still made it to work again today.

Jesse poked his head out of the break room. “Sandwiches. Tacos. Pasta. There’s even cold lemonade in one of those big-ass jugs.”

Abby trailed behind him, face flushed, ponytail crooked. “There’s salad too, but it’s Austin. Everything’s got quinoa.”

You finally exhaled.

Then you turned to find Joel—but of course, he wasn’t with the rest of the staff. Not in the hallway. Not near the triage desk. Not hovering beside the trauma bays like he usually was, scanning for errors in posture or medication orders.

Joel was gone.

In the break room, the noise was louder than it had been all day—but it was a different kind of loud.

This wasn’t the shriek of monitors or the scuff of gurney wheels or the metallic ring of dropped surgical tools.

This was laughter. Riley perched on the edge of a chair with her feet on a cooler, stuffing a taco into her mouth and trying to explain something about a failed Tinder date with a guy who claimed to be “emotionally polyamorous but spiritually monogamous.”

Mel snorted lemonade through her nose. Henry looked traumatized but impressed.

Ellie was cutting up her food into impossibly small bites and pretending she wasn’t listening to Maria’s story about a bachelorette party injury involving an ill-advised pole and three tequila shots.

Jesse was leaning back, both feet up on the table, eating pasta like he hadn’t seen carbs in weeks.

You saw Dina step in too—eyeliner smudged, hair pulled back, smiling in that sleepy, warm way she did after hours of difficult conversations with scared families. She grabbed two tacos, no plate, and stood beside the fridge with her hip against the counter, finally letting herself just be for a minute.

Even Tommy and Frank had stopped in—Tommy pulling Frank a chair like he was courting him all over again, both of them sweaty, still in EMS gear, still stained from the train call.

Everyone was here.

Except Joel.

You found a takeout container and began assembling a plate.

You knew what he liked—sliced brisket, no sauce, potato salad, not too much—one of the little cornbread muffins, the kind no one else touched because they looked dry but he liked them anyway.

You wrapped it tightly in foil. Wrote his initials on the top with a Sharpie you borrowed from Jesse, who gave you a knowing smirk and didn’t say a word.

You placed it in the staff fridge like it was sacred. It kind of was. Then, only after, did you sit down. Your feet ached. Your scrubs were stained.

There was dried blood beneath your fingernails and pressure still echoing in your chest from the compressions you'd done less than an hour ago—but for this one breath, this tiny sliver of a break room universe, everything felt normal.

Warm food. Smiling faces. The hum of microwaves and dumb inside jokes. It was the kind of peace that didn’t last long in an ER.

But god, it mattered. And when you finally stood, stretching your arms overhead, the quiet in your limbs was the only thing louder than the laughter.

You didn’t find Joel until almost an hour later, near the ambulance bay.

He was alone, as always, leaning against the edge of the wall like he belonged to the concrete.

You could tell he’d washed his hands—again—because they were still red. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. His expression unreadable.

“You missed lunch,” you said softly.

He glanced at you. Then back at the parking lot.

“You eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

There was a beat.

Then you added, “I saved you a plate.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once.

Then, just barely audible, “Thanks.”

You stepped closer. Not too close. Not where anyone could see. But close enough that he could hear the difference in your breath. Feel the way you looked at him.

“You need to eat, Joel.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think I’d survive another one of those cases.”

“But you did.”

He looked at you then. And for just one second, the mean lines in his face softened.

“Because you were there,” he said.

You didn’t smile. But you reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist. That was enough. No one said anything else.

Not until the alarms blared again, and your pagers lit up, and someone in the nurse’s station called your name.

But in that quiet space between bites and blood, you’d built something. Something soft. And real. And his.

That word sat in the back of your throat for the next twenty minutes. Didn’t leave. Didn’t try to. It just lived there quietly, pressing against your pulse every time you remembered the way Joel had looked at you when he said it.

“Because you were there.”

Because you always were.

That moment might have lasted longer—maybe even slipped into something softer, something even riskier—but just then, the intercom crackled.

“Doctor Miller and third-year, please report to the nurses’ station. Family on line two.”

Joel sighed like it was a personal attack.

You followed him back in, glancing up at the board as you passed, everything still full. Every bed still filled. Every name glowing under fluorescent helllight.

Kathleen was manning the phones even though it was technically not her shift yet. She handed Joel the receiver like she was handing off a grenade.

“It’s the dementia patient’s family,” she said quietly. “Finally called back.”

Joel blinked. “They just now called back?”

“Yeah. Line was disconnected all morning.”

You leaned in, listening.

Joel pressed the receiver to his ear. “This is Dr. Miller.”

The voice that came through was young. Male. Rushed. Guilty.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I just got this message. I—I lost my phone this morning at my son’s soccer practice, and I didn’t realize until after lunch that I’d missed like six calls from the hospital. I just— Is she okay? Is my mom okay?”

Joel’s mouth tightened.

“She’s stable. Came in around noon. No ID besides a bracelet. She’s been repeating the name Angie.”

“Yeah, that’s my daughter. Angie’s her granddaughter. They’re very close.”

Joel glanced at you. You nodded. It made sense now.

“I can be there in twenty minutes. I swear. I—I didn’t mean for her to be alone that long. My wife was watching her during the game and thought she was napping upstairs. But then...”

His voice broke.

Joel exhaled. “She’s safe. Come to the main ER entrance. We’ll walk you back.”

Twenty-five minutes later, a tired man in cleats and a youth league jersey stepped into the unit. One sock still grass-stained. His face drawn with guilt, worry, exhaustion.

You saw him before he saw her. When he did—when she turned toward the doorway, blinking like she was waking from a dream—his whole body just collapsed inward.

He rushed to her side. Kissed her head, “Mom. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Angie’s okay. You’re okay.”

She looked up at him, confused for a second. Then her face changed.

“I missed the game,” she said softly.

The son’s eyes welled. “I know. Its okay.”

“No,” she whispered. “I missed it.”

He crouched beside her, face pressed into her hand. And for a moment, you and Joel just stood there. Silent. Watching.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel murmured. “I’m not made for this part.”

You smiled. “Yes, you are.”

He didn’t argue. The spell didn’t last. It never did.

You were halfway through prepping a patient with an infected foot ulcer when Tess appeared beside you.

“Hey,” she said flatly. “Need your help with a situation.”

You looked up. “What kind of situation?”

“The yelling kind.”

You blinked. “Verbal or physical?”

“Unknown,” Tess said, already walking. “But if it turns physical, I get to hit first.”

Room 9. The door was shut but not sealed, and even from the hallway you could hear the argument happening inside.

You stepped in just behind Tess.

A man in his late forties sat on the edge of the bed, clearly agitated. His chart said “chronic shoulder dislocation,” but you could tell from the way he was gripping the call button that pain was only half the problem.

His eyes locked onto Tess immediately. “I said I wanted another doctor.”

“You got one,” Tess said, pointing at you. “She’s better than me anyway.”

He scoffed. “She’s a kid.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m a third-year. You’re in a trauma facility. You came to us. So let’s work together.”

He bristled. “You’re gonna listen to me?”

“That depends. You planning on throwing anything at my face?”

“Not unless you treat me like a junkie.”

You met his stare. Dead on.

“Sir, I’m going to treat you like someone in pain. That’s it. You be mean to my staff, I will have you thrown out.”

Tess smirked behind you. The patient didn’t blink. But after a moment—he sighed.

“Fine.”

“Good,” you said. “Now take off your jacket so I can look at your shoulder.”

Twenty minutes later, his shoulder was relocated, the swelling addressed, and he’d even asked if you were “one of the good ones.”

You said, “Aren’t we all?”

He muttered something about you having a better bedside manner than Joel.

You grinned. “Don’t let him hear that.”

When you stepped out, Tess nudged your shoulder with her fist.

“You’re gonna be chief one day,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to be.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why you should be.”

You returned to the nurse’s station, found your coffee from earlier, now lukewarm and neglected.

Joel passed you a fresh cup. Didn’t say a word. Just handed it over. You took it. Sipped. Winced.

“No sugar?”

Joel shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

You blinked at him. “Did you hit your head today?”

“Shut up.”

And he walked off. But his hand brushed your back as he did. Just barely. Just enough.

And for now, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. Because the ER never let you be full for long.

Around 3 PM, you got the usual trickle—low-stakes, high-frustration patients who were always sprinkled like salt across your chart. A man who’d had a panic attack on the bus and insisted it was a heart attack. A toddler with a plastic bead up his nose. A woman who demanded stitches be done by a plastic surgeon only,as if this were Beverly Hills and not an Austin trauma bay where blood was still on the floor from a degloving.

At 4 PM, six more beds were filled.

A teenage girl who fainted after fasting for a fitness challenge—Joel had muttered something about the world being broken before ordering a bag of D5 and a banana.

Then a man who’d been trying to remove a mole on his own with a butter knife.

You didn’t ask.

By 5 PM, everyone was tired again. You could feel it. The tension in the staff’s collective shoulders. The quiet way Ellie was curled up in a corner chair with a bag of goldfish and her head against the wall. How Abby and Mel were both standing too still while they wrote up discharge summaries. How even Maria looked like she might consider caffeine an inadequate substitute for a coma.

You were standing at the crash cart, double-checking supplies with Riley, when your pager vibrated hard against your hip.

Trauma incoming. MCI. Multiple victims. Truck rollover I-35. ETA 7 min.

Seven minutes. You didn’t even have time to swear before Joel’s voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Mass casualty protocol. Jesse, get on the loudspeaker. Ellie—triage out front. Tess, you’re with me. Everyone not actively coding a patient, suit up.”

The break room emptied like floodgates opening. People ran without asking where.

You’d trained for it. You’d run drills. But nothing prepared you for the noise. Nothing will ever prepare you for the noise.

The first ambulance came in like a screaming red siren of the apocalypse. Behind it, a second. Then two more. You heard the unmistakable wail of Tommy’s voice yelling from behind the gurney, “Four trapped under the rig, we got two with crush injuries and one flail chest!”

Frank shouted, “Driver ejected. Helmetless. Pulseless on scene. We brought him anyway!”

Jesse and Kathleen threw triage tags like confetti. Red. Yellow. Black. You watched Riley pale when she saw the black one—expectant. Not saveable.

“Don’t look at the tags,” you muttered to her. “Look at their eyes. Look at their breath.”

You were thrown into Trauma 2 before you could breathe again.

A girl. 22, maybe. Covered in gasoline. Glass embedded in her legs.

Abby was cutting through her jeans with trauma shears. You held pressure on her abdomen. Mel came in behind you with a crash cart and blood.

“She was in the back seat,” Henry said from the doorway. “Not belted. Hit the seat in front of her when the cab rolled.”

Her pulse was thready. Her pupils sluggish.

“She’s tamponading,” you said. “Prep for chest tube.”

Joel’s voice from across the hall, “Do it! Don’t wait for me!”

And so you did. By 6:10, the ER was a battlefield.

Three bays were full. Four more patients were lined against the wall on backboards, IVs taped to their arms like lifelines. Tess had gone through two pairs of gloves and one set of scrubs. Maria had yelled at the ortho resident and then Jesse.

Joel hadn’t stopped moving once.

He was yelling. Barking orders. Throwing himself into the middle of every collapsed airway, every exposed femur, every chest full of blood. He was mean, but he was brilliant. And everyone followed him because he didn’t let people die unless he had to.

You worked on a man who had glass lodged in both hands and a piece of rebar poking from his side.

When he screamed, you leaned into him and whispered, “We’re not going anywhere. You hear me?”

He nodded, tears leaking into the surgical drape.

Outside the trauma bay, Dina was trying to calm a young woman who’d just watched her boyfriend pulled from the wreckage with no face left to recognize. Kathleen held a clipboard like a weapon, ticking off names, counting bodies. Even Bill—the usually stoic, quiet security guard—was hauling gauze boxes and water bottles down the hall like his own life depended on it.

And Tommy?

Tommy had blood on his uniform, his hands, his face. He leaned in the hallway, catching his breath, but when he saw you stumble, he caught your elbow.

“You good?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded. “You’re doing good.”

And you moved on. Because more were coming. Always more.

Joel finally paused near the nurses’ station. Just for a second. Just to find you.

And you were there. Bloodied, sweating, but still standing. He looked at you. You looked back. And no words were spoken.

Because you didn’t need them. Because everything you were was in that moment—the carnage, the chaos, the calm between it.

And that look? It said, I’m not letting you go. Not here. Not ever.

The doors opened again. More sirens. More blood. And you went.

Because this didn’t end with quiet. It ended with screaming. And you were still listening. Still moving. Still breathing through blood-soaked gloves and adrenaline that wouldn’t leave your bloodstream even if you begged.

It wasn’t until you caught a glimpse of the clock above the medication room that it hit you...

7:48 p.m. The whole goddamn day had disappeared.

You blinked, chest rising, eyes burning. Your last actual sip of water had been sometime around noon. Your stomach was an empty cavity. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d sat for longer than twenty seconds. And still—you kept going.

Because the truck rollover had swallowed the hospital whole.

No one had noticed time moving. Not you, not Jesse, not Riley or Ellie or Maria or Kathleen, who still had her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose even though she wasn’t reading a damn thing.

Even Joel, who usually noticed everything, had missed it.

The ER had never fully quieted—it just shifted pitch. And then you heard it...

That strange, bittersweet sound of relief.

Night shift was coming in.

You heard Dina first, talking to Gail, the night counterpart.

“Two still critical. Five stable. Four being observed. One transferred to ICU. One—” Dina’s voice dropped—“black tag.”

Gail nodded, already tapping her badge for access. She didn’t flinch. Just stepped into chaos with the deadpan precision of someone used to storms.

“Where’s Joel?” she asked.

“Still barking at the trauma bay,” Dina muttered. “Still bleeding brilliance all over the floor.”

You smiled without meaning to.

Then saw Ellie, shoulders slumped, yawning so hard her mouth cracked like a hinge.

“Go home,” you told her. “You’re done.”

“You sure?”

“Go. Before I sedate you.”

Ellie flashed a thumbs up and disappeared toward the locker rooms.

As the shift change solidified—chart updates being handed off, new meds prepped, triage re-opened—you paused. Just for a second. You leaned against the wall outside Trauma 2 and let your head fall back.

The hallway buzzed in waves. Squeaking shoes, IV pumps clicking, the murmur of names being handed over like heirlooms.

You felt something like satisfaction. And exhaustion. And something else you didn’t want to name yet.

You saw Joel before he saw you.

He was in the far corridor, talking to Tommy and Tess—gesturing with one hand, still wearing a drying bloodstain on his sleeve.

But his eyes shifted. And then, he was walking toward you.

The hallway fell quiet behind him. Just for you.

And when he got close—close enough to make the rest of the world vanish—he tilted his head and said,

“You alive?”

You nodded. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Let’s go.”

You were almost to the exit when you remembered.

You grabbed his plate from the fridge—the one you’d made hours ago with food that was probably tepid and a little sad by now, but it was still his.

Still a reminder that someone had thought of him.

You held it out wordlessly. He took it from you and didn’t say a word either. He didn’t need to.

The parking lot was a dreamscape—soft shadows under orange lights, buzzing insects echoing across the concrete. The world outside didn’t know the trauma that had happened just beyond those double doors.

Joel walked with you in silence.

He wasn’t limping, but he moved like something in him ached. You understood. Your own joints felt like chewed leather.

You reached his truck. He moved to the passenger side and opened the door for you. And just as you turned to climb in, you felt it.

His hand. On your hip.

And then...

His mouth. On yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, intimate, full of all the things he hadn’t said today.

His hand slid up your spine, holding you flush to him, his chest still warm from the heat of the hospital. His other hand rested just above your hip, steadying you like he thought maybe you’d fall apart otherwise.

You gasped softly into him. Not because you were surprised.

But because it was the first time all day you’d felt something that wasn’t pain or duty or adrenaline.

You felt like his.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.

“You were a fuckin’ force today,” he murmured. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your hand clutched the front of his scrub shirt.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He chuckled low. “I know.”

Then pressed his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything in there,” he said. “You know that?”

You nodded.

And whispered, “So are you.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Not the kiss of survival. The kiss of belonging.

Then, finally, he helped you into the truck. Closed the door gently. Walked around the front. Climbed in beside you.

And pulled away from the curb—toward home. The hospital shrank behind you in the mirror.

But the blood on your shoes? The pulse in your throat? The memory of your hands holding someone back from the brink?

That stayed. And so did he.

Joel’s truck rumbled beneath you like an old, steady heartbeat. The sun had finally dipped below the skyline, casting Austin in a warm gold that faded fast into dusky blue. The windows were cracked, letting in a breeze that smelled faintly like asphalt and humidity. The AC was on low. One of Joel’s hands was wrapped around the steering wheel.

The other? Firm on your thigh.

His thumb rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your scrub pants, just above your knee. Like he was reminding himself you were real. That you were there, not a ghost of adrenaline or a fleeting high of some trauma-stained day.

Neither of you talked at first.

Not because you didn’t have things to say—God, you both did—but because the quiet between you was too good to break just yet.

You watched the trees pass by, each intersection blinking soft yellow as the city wound down. Joel looked ahead with that same furrow in his brow he always wore post-shift, like he was cataloging every life you’d both touched, every one you couldn’t save.

Eventually, you reached over, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Long day.”

Joel let out a dry breath. “Understatement of the fuckin’ year.”

You smiled, eyes still on the road. “You were incredible.”

He scoffed. “You saved that kid with no pulse. Don’t think I missed that.”

“We all saved him.”

“No,” Joel said, shaking his head once. “You did. You never backed down. I saw you. I always see you.”

The truck slowed at a red light. His hand squeezed your thigh gently.

“You’re the reason I’m still doin’ this,” he said, voice soft enough it barely made it over the hum of the engine.

You turned toward him, brows pulling in slightly.

“I thought you hated this job.”

“I do.”

“Then why stay?”

He finally looked at you. And his voice dropped, low and certain.

“‘Cause it brought me you.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

The red light turned green. And the truck rolled forward again.

But you reached for his hand this time—threaded your fingers through his, grounding both of you in something real, something steady.

Something yours.

His house smelled like a mix of you two.

That warm, familiar scent, something earthy, grounded, lived-in. The second you stepped through the door, you peeled off your shoes like they were made of concrete. Joel locked the door behind you, then watched silently as you reached up, untying your scrub top with tired fingers.

He followed suit, tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He toed off his boots with one heel, not even bothering to look where they landed. The soft thud of fabric on the hardwood floor was the only sound between you.

You met his eyes. No words needed.

Your hands found the hem of your scrub pants. His fingers were already at his waistband.

Every motion was slow. Heavy. Not sexual, not frantic.

Just… tired. Intimate.

A ceremony of shedding.

You padded quietly toward the bathroom together, your bare feet on the cold tile making you shiver slightly—until Joel stepped in behind you and turned the water on, checking it with his wrist before nodding toward the showerhead.

He pulled you into the warm steam with him.

And for a while, nothing existed but the water.

Joel’s hands found your hair first. You leaned forward, eyes closed, and he carefully lathered the shampoo through the strands, massaging slow and patient like he was reading scripture. His fingers were so gentle they almost tickled. You hummed under your breath, leaning into it.

Then he reached for the body wash, poured it into his palm, and rubbed slow circles into your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. Every touch deliberate. Caring.

He kissed your neck once, lingering there like he didn’t want to let go.

You turned and took your turn, washing him the same way.

You traced the scars on his chest like memories. Watched the muscles of his stomach flex under your touch. Washed his hair with care. Rinsed the dried sweat from his collarbones, the bloodstain from his wrist that hadn’t come out yet.

You both stood under the spray for a long time after that. Water pounding against your bodies. No talking. Just existing. Together.

The couch welcomed you both like an old friend.

Joel pulled on a pair of sweats and tossed you one of his ancient, threadbare t-shirts—the gray one with a faded Longhorns logo and a hole near the hem. You crawled beneath the blanket with your knees tucked beside you while Joel microwaved the plate you’d saved him.

The smell of brisket and cornbread filled the room.

He brought it over with a fork.

You both ate, passing the fork back and forth between bites, eating slow, savoring the quiet.

On the TV, some rerun from a cooking competition show played in the background. A judge was yelling about under-seasoned risotto. Neither of you really watched.

Joel looked so different out of the ER. His face a little softer. The worry lines across his forehead had faded just slightly in the warm lamplight. His arm was slung behind your shoulders, fingers occasionally grazing your upper arm like they were drawn there on instinct.

“Didn’t think I’d make it through today. After everything with yesterday...” you murmured, watching him chew.

He swallowed, then passed you the last bite of cornbread.

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Because you’re tough as hell,” he said.

You looked at him. “Because you were there.”

Joel’s eyes met yours. He leaned forward, kissed your temple, and didn’t move away for a long time.

You didn’t walk to the bedroom. You were carried.

Joel scooped you up the way he had before—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pressing you to his chest like something sacred.

You buried your face in his shoulder. His skin still smelled faintly like your soap.

He set you down gently on the bed, pulled the covers back, and slipped in behind you without a word.

His body curled around yours instinctively—the big spoon, always—and he dragged one arm over your waist until your back was snug against his chest, your legs tangled, your heartbeat steady.

The house was silent except for the hum of the fan.

His fingers splayed against your stomach. You reached back and rested your hand over his.

And just before you fell asleep, you heard him murmur into your hair...

“I love you.”

You didn’t need to say it back. He already knew.

And the hospital could wait. Because tonight, this was the only shift that mattered.

taglist: @secretlettersfromyourlove @areamir @hermionelove