#It's easy enough to turn that off with the right words

[karikitdemonrp]

Kari rubbed her eyes with a soft sniffle and took a breath. Hawks words and presences had helped her calm down. Sure the pain still lingered, but it didn't hurt as much. "I... I wanna keep going. No, I need to keep going." She chirped softly after a moment. "I can't just stop now. Not yet." She informed and turned back to look over more hero logs for her father.

Training logs showing his improvement, journals that dated before Kari's birth, interviews, news reports, and so on. Eventually Kari stopped on a journal entry dated a few weeks after Kari's birth.

"August 5, I brought Kari home for the first time. She's gained a bit of weight which is good. She's such an active little girl. Kitearo was immediately so protective despite how he acted before. I guess seeing how small she was and having processed what happened helped him a lot. Therapy has been a huge help for all of them. Shade us still sneaking top shelf books when I'm not looking, last time I saw her reading Moby Dick to Kari and immediately stepped in. We made an agreement that if she didn't read these to Kari then I'd allow her to read certain top shelf books with supervision. She's enjoying spending time with Kari, reading her books while she's is in Shade's lap. Boom and Beats always love to play with Kari, running around happily with toys and including Kati in their games. Flo shows Kari a ton of different plants, mainly flowers. Fino likes to have Kari ride on his back while in a random animal form. I feel like these kids will super close when they're older. Sure they'll get into arguments and maybe even fights, but thats life. I'm just happy it looks like things are gonna be alright. Still waiting for Boom and Beats to get their quirks, I'm not sure what they'll be since Mikomi's quirk is so different. She never explained why, but I have a rough understanding. Either way, I've made up my mind and I'll help with hero work in some other way, but I'll be retiring as a pro hero before Kari's first birthday. I can't risk it right now, there is too much at stake. I'll keep doing my best for them. - Lynx Himura."

Kari gave a soft smile then went to type in her mother's hero name and began looking through the hero logs there. Eventually she came across an interview, roughly around the same time as Lynx, though it was off by a few days.

"Hello, thank you for meeting with us, Angelic."

"Of course, I'm glad I could make it work. Been super busy and all." Mikomi laughed. Her eyes, while a different color, were roughly the same shape as Kari's. Though Kari's were a bit more pointed and Mikomi's slightly more rounded. But it was easy to see the resemblance.

"Yea, you've been very busy it seems. Your already the number six hero and you're still pretty young. Any insight as to why you're working do hard?"

"Ah, going for that question already. Fair enough. Well, it's kinda has to do with my quirk being so easy to... adapt to different situations so I can help out in many areas. So I'm able to be noticed more often and so on. That and I just like helping. It feels right to me. Don't get me wrong the money is nice too but I'm not wanting for anything. I'm actually only using what I need and saving the rest for future emergencies or plans."

"You planning on starting a family?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But I'll never let that information slip. I'm aiming high after all. If I have kids and I'm in the top three, their lives could be in danger so I'm keeping stuff like that close to my chest." Mikomi looked to the camera and smiled knowingly almost, in Kari's direction. Kari shivered a bit.

"Thats fair," the reporter hummed off camera and Mikomi looked back at the reported. "Now, about your quirk--"

"Sorry but I'm not divulging information about my quirk either." Mikomi was quick to interrupt. "I know it is different and rather weird but I'd like to keep that to myself as well."

"Ah, I see. Well, what about your relationship with Redone?"

"Oh, I--" Mikomi blushed a bit with a grin. "Well, it's a long story but after moving back from America, I had to go cuz of my mom's job, we reconnected in highschool and haven't really been apart since. He's really sweet and caring. We've been together for a while actually."

"Can we plan on a hero wedding anytime soon?"

"Ya know, I watched his interview last week and I tried asking him when he came by with the sweet buns. He just laughed and told me he'd propose when the time is right. I'm not sure when but I'm sure everyone will be made aware eventually." Mikomi chuckled softly. The interview went on, more questions, some dodged some answered. But all in all Kari got a good feel for Mikomi's personality. Kind but firm, not willing to take bullshit but not rude either. Stands her ground and proud of it.

Kari smiled and went on to find some missions, training logs, and a family tree. Kari widened her eyes. There she was with her siblings, her mother, her father, even her grandparents. There was Maica, Core, Core's father. Her whole family.

Looks like Lynx had two younger brothers one of which was deceased while the other was still alive but no where in Japan and no contact information listed and he looked to be estranged. Lynx's parents were listed too though his father passed away the same year as one if his brothers while Lynx's mother passed two years before Kari was born. Kari frowned, concluding an accident happened that took Lynx's father and brother. She shook it off and opened up a journal from her mother, taking a breath.

"I'm simply writing this so it is on record in case something happens to me and one of my children develops my quirk-" Kari perked up a bit. "I don't know if it'll come to that but dad said it's better safe than sorry. He probably knows something since we share a quirk and all. Thats besides the point. I plan on having this under heavy lock and key until I die or if one of my children requests it or whatever. I'm not the best with formal stuff but I'll try my best. Either way, I am Mikomi Himura. Mother to Kitearo Himura, wife to Lynx Himura. My quirk is called All of the Above. It is a highly adaptive quirk, able to integrate any other quirk upon seeing it, though it takes time. My DNA is very unstable for lack of a better way of putting it. My son's quirk is vastly different to mine. Well, it's going to be, he hasn't developed it yet but I already know. Sir Nighteye's quirk has been super helpful in calming the nerves of a new mother. For the most part at least, but I'm keeping that close to my chest for now."

Kari shivered a bit, having a feeling she knew what Mikomi was referring to but kept reading.

"As for the specifics of my quirk, I'm able to use a quirk I've copied with in a certain length of time after seeing it, depending on the type. A week or two for emmiter quirks, two to three weeks for transformation and accumulation quirks, and four weeks for mutation quirks. I don't just copy the quirk, but a snap shot of the person as well for lack of a better way of putting it. It can be refreshed if I see that person again but yea. Ugh this is more difficult to explain than I thought. Uh, the reason there is a snap shot is because I can call on it to help learn quirks more effectively, they take over my body and I learn through muscle memory. The quirks I have copied as well as the snap shots of the people will be passed on to which ever of my children inherits my quirk but those quirks will be locked until certain things are met, I'm not sure how that all works. Dad hasn't explained it and I haven't figured it out. It's weird to explain and better to show but I don't plan on dying so ill be able to show my kid when the time comes. Regardless, this is just a precaution and I don't plan on needing it. With that I'm closing this journal."

Kari blinked, moving to look through more journal entries. Some where around the time she was pregnant with her siblings. Then another caught Kari's eye.

"It's July 20th today. I'm feeling pretty weak from this pregnancy. Little Kari is really sapping me, but that's fine. I've had six kids before her so I'll be okay. But I'm not gonna lie this one has been rougher than all the others so I'm a bit worried. My due date isn't for another two month so it's fine."

"July 25th, something isn't right. I asked Lynx to take me to the hospital to have a check up. I might need emergency surgery. Kari might be born sooner than expected."

After that journal entry Kari found an obituary for her mother. "Number 3 hero dies for unspecified reasons." It lists the funeral date as well as other information.

Kari sighed softly, going over to Hawks and clinging to him, shaking and crying in weak sobs. She just needed a moment to process it all. "I... I know it's not my fault... but a part... A part if me still... still hurts." Kari hiccuped, nuzzling into Hawks' leg, just letting it all out. "I wanna know her. Who would she have been? What would be going on right now if she were alive? Why did she have to die cuz of me? It's not fair." The child cried, trying to hold back a bit but still needing to let out some emotions before continuing, if she even wanted to.

Hawks stood beside Kari the whole time, his usual laid-back expression softened into something quiet and pained. He didn’t say much while she clicked through the files—he didn’t need to. His hand gripped hers back just enough to remind her he was there, grounding her, steady and real in a space full of shadows from the past.

When Kari tried to lighten the mood at the end, Hawks crouched down a little to her level and gently brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. His expression didn’t shift into pity—it never did. Instead, it was the expression of someone who understood, who had lived through too many ghosts of his own.

“Two pounds, huh?” he murmured with a gentle smile. “And now look at you. Tough enough to face all this head-on, brave enough to want answers even when you knew they’d hurt. That kind of strength? That’s rare, Kari. That’s hero stuff.”

He let the words settle before continuing, his thumb brushing over her knuckles where their hands were still locked together.

“Your dad loved you. All of you. You can feel it in every word he wrote—even when things were falling apart, his thoughts were on keeping you safe. That’s not something a lot of kids get to grow up knowing. But you? You’ve got that. You’ve got him with you every time you use your quirk, every time you snort like he did.” Hawks grinned a little at that, trying to lift her spirit without pushing her too fast.

He then stood and offered his other hand to steady her.

“We can look for more when you’re ready—your mom’s records, maybe some old hero logs. But we don’t have to do it all today. There’s no rush. What matters is you have this now. It’s a part of you, but it doesn’t have to define you.”

He gave her hand a soft squeeze, his wings flexing slightly behind him.

“You wanna keep going? Or you want a break, maybe get something warm to drink, clear your head?” he asked gently, letting her take the lead again. “Whatever you choose, I’m here, little bird.”

[damneddamsy]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐎 MASTERLIST RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Harry Castillo x Female Reader (nicknamed ‘Eve’) FORMAT & SETTING Third Person POV & Post-Materialists AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 10k+ STATUS Ongoing

SUMMARY One honourable thief. One smitten billionaire. One stolen emerald ring. One simple con. And one very inconvenient attraction. She’s made a life out of stealing from men like Harry Castillo—influential, arrogant, freshly tailored to fuck and wealthy enough to believe they control the game. But when a diamond heist turns into a filthy rendezvous in a penthouse suite, her night gets complicated fast. See, Harry might’ve come undone under her, but he’s not done playing with her. Now, her biggest crapshoot isn’t the con… it’s falling for the man she’s robbing blind. Harry Castillo, powerbroker, fellow materialist, and her latest target, knows exactly what she looks like when she’s ravaging him, precisely how adept she is at lifting family heirlooms, and thus starts off one illegal beginning to a cat-and-mouse match soaked in sex, extortion, and gloated with more money than sense. Love, lies, larceny—all before sunrise. The state of play: he chases, she runs, they deceive. And someone always comes out on top (and sometimes that's quite literal.) Easy peasy, right?

INDEX

DEAR DESPERADO

GOOD GIRL GONE BAD

LOVE ON THE BRAIN

LOST IN PARADISE

to be determined...

TAGS ROMCOM, billionaire!harry castillo x thief!reader, how materialist should've treated Harry, one Pedro boy conned per chapter, New York being New York, laugh-out-loud humour, quips, banter, powerplay, biblical references, reader is a sexy, bad bitch, harry is disgustingly rich with a big dick that's what, questionable age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics.

CONTENT WARNINGS smut from the get go woohoo (p in v, oral - female and male recieving, and everything in between), explicit language, discussions on poverty, sexism, social prejudice, glass ceiling, toxic masculinity, abuse of power, substance abuse, materialism.

TAGLIST 🫶 { @oolongreads , @woodxtock . @divine-timings , @jodiswiftle , @bensonispunk @brittmb115 , @for-a-longlongtime , @pedritotito , @desuidesu , @bluelightwrites , @isa942572 , @mallingcalling-blog , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @itstokyo-cos , @holholliday , @i-workwithpens , @any-corrie , @yourallaround-simp , @directfromreynaldo , @tezooks , @yungsuesi-blog , @czessianna , @aleariixx , @noisynightmarepoetry , @th3mrskory , @monamedeiros12 , @oliveksmoked , @gothcsz , @itstheanxietyforme , @lowrisemiller } - for the few interested sweethearts and babes, thank you for your support! 🌻🦋

[sunshine-lux]

ok ok but established relationship joaquin x stark!reader who’s got a sassy little attitude and whenever she’s in a mood (which is often) joaquin always messes with her in a cute and flirty way and sam is always scared like “she’s gonna kill you man”

imagine the little “stooopppp quino”

grumpy x sunshine core i love them

Birds Of A Feather

summary: just a glimpse into the very lovey and chaotic relationship of y/n and joaquin!

pairings: Stark!reader x joaquin torres

warnings: mentions of death sprinkled here and there but nothing serious! y/n constantly threatening joaquin LOL, f!reader, i think that's it!

word count: 3.1k

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Joaquin Torres loves his girlfriend. He’d do anything for her—no hesitation, no questions asked, no matter how dramatic or unreasonable. He’s obsessed. Helpless. Completely whipped.

But with that love comes the deep, primal urge to annoy her to the ends of the world and back.

And lucky for him?

 Y/N Stark makes it so, so easy.

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Y/N slid into the passenger seat of Joaquin’s truck with a huff, slamming the door shut and buckling her seatbelt without so much as a glance in his direction.

Joaquin paused, glancing over at her with an amused lift of his brow. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”

He reached over and poked her arm gently, trying to coax even the tiniest smile out of her.

Y/N didn’t move. Just side eyed him and mumbled, “Whatever. Hi.”

Joaquin bit back a grin. Yep. She was in a mood. He’d seen that look before—usually when someone at work had pissed her off, or her tech wasn’t cooperating, or someone had the audacity to ask her a stupid question in the elevator.

Tonight, apparently, he was the one in the line of fire. Unlucky him. Or lucky, depending on how much he wanted to test her.

“You had one of those days, huh?” he asked lightly, starting the engine.

She didn’t answer. Just crossed her arms and turned to face the window with a sigh.

Joaquin glanced over, still smiling. “Aww, come on. Give me some sugar, sugar.”

He leaned over to kiss her, one arm snaking toward her shoulder to pull her in.

Y/N jerked away instantly, twisting her body toward the door like she was about to open it and jump out mid drive. “I’m so overstimulated right now, get away from me, Joaquin Torres.”

He blinked, hand still suspended mid air. “Damn. Full name and everything.”

“Do not touch me. I mean it. If one more person tries to breathe in my direction, I’m gonna explode.”

He bit his lip to hide a laugh. “Okay, okay. Hands to myself. Got it.” He settled back into his seat, throwing her a sideways glance. “But just for the record, you’re still really hot when you’re grumpy.”

She sighed again, dramatic and sharp. “I know. It’s exhausting.”

Joaquin chuckled, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “Want me to cancel the dinner res and just drive around until you’re slightly less homicidal?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering it. “Maybe. Only if you promise to shut up for five minutes.”

“Deal. But I reserve the right to poke you again when I feel like it.”

“Try it and I’ll bite your finger off.”

He grinned wide. “You flirt so weird.”

Y/N turned slowly to look at him, unimpressed. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Quino.”

He beamed. “You say that like it’s not my entire strategy.”

They’d been driving for ten minutes now, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the evening breeze in. Y/N hadn’t said much, but the tension in her shoulders was slowly easing. Her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, fingers tapping gently against her thigh to the beat of whatever lo-fi playlist Joaquin had put on as a peace offering.

Joaquin glanced over at her at the next red light, content to let her decompress.

Which is exactly when she spoke.

“Wow,” she muttered, voice thick with fake betrayal. “You’re not even gonna hold my hand?”

He blinked. “What?”

She turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Did you stop loving me or something?”

Joaquin snorted. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you, you cannibalist.”

“That was ten minutes ago,” she said, wiggling her fingers toward him like bait. “Things have changed. Keep up, Torres.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“And yet, you’re obsessed with me.”

He rolled his eyes but reached across the console anyway, threading their fingers together. She immediately curled into it, squeezing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the planet.

He gave her a sideways glance. “So dramatic.”

“Mm. You like it.”

He kissed the back of her hand at the next red light, then refused to let go for the rest of the drive.

They got back to Joaquin’s place a little later, and by then Y/N’s bad mood had mostly fizzled out, leaving her comfortably tired and… just a little clingy. She kicked off her shoes by the front door and flopped face down onto the couch like she was done existing.

Joaquin laughed as he locked the door behind them. “You okay?”

“No,” came the muffled reply from the cushions. “I want chocolate and a heating pad and maybe to be held like a small, misunderstood Victorian orphan.”

He grinned. “So… a regular night in.”

She lifted one hand and flipped him off without lifting her head.

He crouched down and gently brushed her hair from her face. “You’re gonna knock out here like this?”

“Maybe,” she mumbled. “Couch has less betrayal than the world.”

He smiled, leaned in, and without another word, slid one arm under her legs and the other around her back — lifting her in one smooth, practiced motion.

Y/N blinked, startled. “What are you—?”

“Carrying you to bed, princess-style,” he said matter of factly, already heading down the hall. “Can’t let my misunderstood Victorian orphan sleep in the drawing room.”

She buried her face in his neck with a dramatic sigh. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “here you are. In my arms. As foretold.”

“You’re lucky I’m weak.”

“You’re lucky I’m strong.”

She smiled against his skin. “Shut up and tuck me in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He returned a few minutes later with a heating pad, and a bar of chocolate he had absolutely bought just in case. He laid everything out beside her, then sat next to her and gently coaxed her to roll onto him.

She crawled into his lap like a sleepy cat, settling against his chest with a little sigh as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

“See?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All bark, no bite.”

“I bit you last week,” she mumbled.

“And it was hot.”

She snorted against his chest, letting him stroke her hair as she started to melt into the warmth and quiet.

“…Thanks, Quino,” she said softly after a beat.

He smiled against her forehead. “Always, mi amor.”

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It started innocently. It always started innocently.

They were supposed to be cleaning the kitchen. Keyword: supposed to. Y/N was wiping down the counter. Joaquin was in charge of dishes. Everything was fine. Peaceful, even.

Until he started singing.

Off-key.

Loudly.

And with zero knowledge of the actual lyrics.

“You. Belong. With me—YEAH! You BELONG with meeeeeee,” he howled, doing a little spin with a dirty plate in hand like it was a Grammy.

Y/N froze, rag in hand. “Quino.”

“What?” he asked innocently.

“That’s not even the right melody.”

He grinned. “I’m doing the remix.”

“Please don’t.”

But it was already too late. He launched into the next line, doubling the volume and somehow managing to harmonize with nothing.

“She wears short skirts I WEAR T-SHIRTS—”

“STOPPP,” Y/N shrieked, ducking her head into her hoodie, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. “Quinooo, I swear to god—”

He was cackling, absolutely thriving off her chaos, flicking soap bubbles at her now for extra effect.

“Say you like it,” he teased, chasing her around the island with a sponge. “Say I’m talented. Say I’m the people’s pop star.”

“YOU’RE A MENACE.”

She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, voice cracking as she tried to fight him off with a kitchen towel.

“Stop it,” she gasped, half laughing, half crying now, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m gonna pee. I’m gonna pee my pants. I mean it.”

“Better now than in the truck,” Joaquin said cheerfully, dancing around her like he was in a concert crowd. “This is the exclusive living room performance, babe. Be grateful.”

She collapsed onto the floor, breathless and curled in on herself, still giggling uncontrollably. “I’m going to call Sam and tell him what you’re doing to me.”

“Go ahead. He’ll side with me. He likes my performances.”

“HE DOESN’T.”

He knelt down beside her, smug and glowing with victory. “Admit it. You love me more when I’m annoying.”

“I don’t even like you right now.”

“You’re literally crying from laughter.”

“I’m crying because you’re deranged.”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

She flopped dramatically into his lap. “You’re exhausting. My brain is soup. I am soup now.”

He kissed her forehead like he hadn’t just caused a small emotional breakdown.

“I love you, my little soup.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it back.”

“Not until you promise to never sing Taylor Swift again.”

“...what if I said I have a whole playlist queued?”

“I will commit a crime.”

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Sam stepped into the apartment cautiously, already suspicious.

The music was loud. Like, walls shaking, windows rattling loud. And it wasn’t Joaquin’s usual feel good playlist—it was full on metal.  The kind of music that made Sam instinctively squint.

He followed the sound into the living room and found Y/N sitting cross legged on the floor, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized AC/DC shirt, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like she’d either had a long night or a very powerful catnap. She was tinkering with some little device in her lap that looked like an arc reactor, because of course.

Joaquin was in the kitchen, squinting dramatically at the Bluetooth speaker like it had personally offended him.

“She’s been playing this for an hour,” he called out when he noticed Sam.

Y/N didn’t look up. “You can leave. Door’s right there.”

Sam held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just here to borrow the air fryer. Don’t involve me in whatever this is.”

“It’s Iron Maiden,” Y/N said proudly. “It’s culture.”

“It’s a cry for help,” Joaquin muttered, scrolling through his phone. “We could be listening to Bad Bunny right now. We could be thriving.”

Y/N shot him a look over her shoulder. “Touch that speaker and I’ll throw this at you.”

Joaquin grinned. Touched the speaker anyway.

Instantly, the music cut off. Replaced by reggaetón.

Y/N froze. Slowly turned around like a horror movie villain.

“Joaquin.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“What did I just say?”

“That threats of violence are foreplay?”

Before Sam could even process that, Joaquin darted out of the kitchen, sprinting across the room as Y/N launched a pillow at his head. She stood up in one fluid motion, chasing after him.

“I told you not to!”

He laughed, circling the couch. “I’m enhancing the vibe!”

She chased him halfway around the living room before he doubled back, caught her mid-lunge, and threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Joaquin!” she screeched, fists pounding against his back. “PUT ME DOWN.”

“I will,” he said cheerfully, “once you admit my music taste is superior.”

“Never! I don’t even understand what they’re saying!”

Sam stood there frozen, holding the air fryer under one arm like a shield. “She’s gonna kill you, man. Actually kill you. Like, she’s got the Stark sass in her bloodline. You are so dead.”

Joaquin just danced around with her still on his shoulder, shaking his hips to the beat, grinning big.

“This is a normal Tuesday, relax,” he said, spinning with her as she screamed bloody murder and maybe—just maybe—was starting to laugh a little.

“I hate you,” Y/N gasped between giggles.

He smacked a kiss to her thigh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Sam backed slowly toward the door, still holding the air fryer like it might explode. “I’m leaving. Y’all are unwell.”

Joaquin winked at him. “Tell the world our love is powerful.”

Y/N elbowed him in the back. “Tell the world he’s getting buried in the backyard if he plays 'Moscow Mule' again.”

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Y/N got in a mood when Joaquin didn’t answer her text right away.

So when he finally walked through the door with groceries like a normal person, Y/N was already curled up on the couch in his hoodie looking emotionally unstable.

“You forgot about me,” she said flatly, not even looking up from the blanket she was swaddled in.

Joaquin blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t respond for forty-three minutes,” she said, holding up her phone like it was evidence in a trial. “I timed it.”

“I was driving. For you. To get your snacks.”

She sniffed. “I thought you were dead. Or worse. Ignoring me.”

He set the bags down and walked toward her slowly. “You good?”

“No. I’m feeling very unloved and neglected and fragile.”

“You FaceTimed me from the bathroom while I was still at the store.”

“I was vulnerable.”

He grinned. Oh. Oh. So that’s the game they were playing.

“Mi vida,” he said, kneeling in front of her like she was on her deathbed. “Are you saying I emotionally wounded you by leaving you here for an hour?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re right. I’ve been so cruel.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “But if I leave you again… take me out. I won’t survive the guilt.”

Y/N stared at him. “Don’t. Don’t do the soft voice thing. I’m being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”

“You want me to be distant to fuel the bit? Okay.” He stood up abruptly. “You’re right. Maybe I have been pulling away.”

Her eyes widened. “What.”

“I just think we’ve gotten too close, you know? Too fast. Maybe we need space.”

“JOAQUIN.”

“I’m worried we’re codependent.”

“STOP. TAKE IT BACK.”

He smirked, circling the couch now, fully committing. “Do you think we lost ourselves in each other?”

She launched a throw pillow at his head. “I will cry on purpose.”

“Good. I like it when you cry. Makes me feel needed.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m yours.”

She screamed into the pillow. “This is NOT how ragebait is supposed to go!”

“You tried to ragebait the ragebait champion. Know your place, princess.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

He flopped down beside her and tugged her into his lap, arms looping around her.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he whispered.

“I am,” she hissed back. “And I hate that for me.”

“Bet you still want forehead kisses.”

“…Shut up and do it already.”

He kissed her forehead three times in a row, obnoxiously loud.

She groaned. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“And I’m only getting hotter.”

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Y/N had exactly one thing planned for the evening: an uninterrupted candlelit bath. She’d earned it—long day, annoying people. The lights were low, her bath bomb had fizzed and the water was just hot enough to sting a little.

She’d sunk in with a dramatic sigh, bubbles up to her collarbones, a glass of wine perched dangerously close to her phone.

Then, like clockwork, the bathroom door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, not even opening her eyes. “Joaquin—”

“Heyyy,” he said cheerfully, already strolling in. “Just checking on my girl. You know. Make sure you’re alive and not drowning in your own princess foam.”

She cracked one eye open to glare at him. “I locked that door.”

He sat down fully on the closed toilet seat, grinning. “I picked it. Don’t be mad. I missed you.”

“You saw me ten minutes ago.”

“And yet—here I am. Suffering without you.”

Y/N groaned and sank lower into the water. “You’re such a pest.”

He leaned forward dramatically, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Tell me about your day, babe.”

“No.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask for therapy. I asked for silence.”

He dipped a hand into the water and flicked it gently at her arm.

She didn’t even flinch. “Do it again and I’ll drown you.”

He flicked again. “I like my odds.”

She turned her head, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you seriously just gonna sit there the whole time?”

“I can sit in there, if you want,” he offered innocently.

“You are the worst.”

Another splash.

“I swear—Joaquin, I am so close to—”

She paused mid threat and sighed.

“…Are you gonna get in or what?”

Joaquin lit up. “God, I love you.”

He stood and peeled off his clothes in record time, stepping into the tub behind her like he’d been waiting for that moment all day. He slid into place, wrapping his arms around her waist as she shifted forward to make room.

Now she was sitting between his legs, back against his chest, his stupid heartbeat steady and warm against her spine.

For a long moment, they were both quiet. Then:

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” she muttered. “Annoy me until I invited you in just to shut you up?”

He beamed against the side of her face. “You're so easy to break, princess. I was barely getting started.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She turned just enough to flick a bubble at his face.

He gasped. “Betrayal. In my bathtub?”

She grabbed the shampoo bottle and shoved it into his hands. “If you’re gonna invade, you’re doing labor. Wash my hair.”

He took it like it was a sacred task. “Gladly. You have the best hair in the world, by the way. It’s so soft and smells so good.”

“Stop talking.”

“But it’s true.”

“Quino.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“…Scrub.”

He lathered up her hair, fingers surprisingly gentle. Y/N sighed, melting back into him despite herself. He hummed a dumb little tune while massaging her scalp.

Eventually, she opened one eye. “You do know I’m gonna finish this bath alone after this, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, kissing the back of her shoulder. “Just wanted to be annoying enough to get a cuddle in. Mission accomplished.”

She smiled, tiny and smug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one.

Then, softly: “You’re so annoying.”

He grinned against her shoulder. “I’m aware.”

“No, like, you drive me insane.”

“Only the best for my princess.”

She groaned, but it was hopeless. Her head tilted slightly, letting it rest against his. “…And I love you so much all the same.”

His arms tightened just a little, his smile stretching even wider. “I know you do.”

“Quino.”

He laughed, kissed the side of her head, then whispered against her temple, voice lower now. “I love you too, cariño. So much.”

She closed her eyes again, finally at peace—surrounded by bubbles, steam, and the most annoyingly perfect human she’d ever known.

And for once, she let him stay in the bath the whole time.

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author's note: my first joaquin imagine ahhhh!! this is so freaking cute i was giggling and kicking my feet writing it. he's so cute i loveee him.

also ugh, when y/n says she doesn't like bad bunny cause she doesn't understand what he's saying hurt my soul cause i'm latina LMAO

i need to write more for him, and lucky for me, i have another quino request that i'll be starting this week!!

[kagaintheskywithdiamonds]

I'm thinking Stan can control the radio but he can't just like, project his own voice through it. That just feels too easy to me. So instead he flips rapidly between radio stations, staying on each station long enough to get like one word across and he pieces those words together to form sentences, like Bumblebee in that 2018 movie. (I swear later in the movie he flips between stations more rapidly to piece words together like I just described but unfortunately I can't find a clip of that.)

If Stan ever wants to annoy Ford he just flips to whatever station happens to be playing the most annoyingly catchy commercial jingle. I mean out of all the FM and AM stations broadcasting in the area there's bound to be at least one playing some stupid catchy commercial at any given time. And it doesn't matter if Ford turns it off immediately; hearing a few notes of the stupid jingle is enough to get it stuck in his head.

You're absolutely right that they still need to be able to have dumb brother fights, for enrichment.

Maybe before Stan figures out the radio thing, he and Ford settle on some kind of "one honk means yes, two honks means no" communication system. Idk I just really like the idea that Stan's communication is limited to things that a car can do so he has to get creative.

Ford is standing in front of the car, asking questions for Stan to give honk-based replies to (trying to phrase "how the hell did your soul become bonded to the car" in a series of yes/no questions). At one point he asks a question that Stan doesn't know how to answer and he watches Stan like, tilt his side-view mirrors up and then back down.

"...Was that supposed to be a shrug?"

Honk.

I should be sleeping right now but this AU idea came to me and won't leave me alone

Ok so it's the late 70s/early 80s, and Ford has just received word that Stanley is dead. Of course Ford is devastated, to say the least.

Stan left a suicide note on the dashboard of his car, addressed to Ford. Along with his final goodbyes and apologies, Stan also wrote that he wanted Ford to have the Stanleymobile. For the past decade, that car was like a piece of his soul, and he didn't want it to end up in a scrapyard (nor did he want it sent to their parents in Jersey; Pa would probably just sell it for parts).

So the car is towed to Gravity Falls. The interior of the car is apparently left untouched, and Ford is extra devastated to see plain evidence that Stanley had been living in it. No wonder the car was so important to him; it was his only home for so many years...

The car sits outside Ford's home, unused. While it's true that Ford had been needing a replacement vehicle ever since Steve devoured the last one, he couldn't bring himself to start using this vehicle. The thought of using the Stanleymobile for everyday transportation needs felt... wrong. It felt like disturbing Stanley's grave. Ford just couldn't bring himself to drive it.

But that's okay. He doesn't need to drive it, because the car can drive itself.

It can start its own engine without any keys in the ignition. It honks and flashes its headlights like it's trying to get Ford's attention. By all accounts, the vehicle has a mind and will of its own. One might even say the car is alive.

Stanley did say in his note that the car was like his soul, or that his soul was linked to it, or something to that effect.

Apparently he never left.

[rokiibrok]

Gentle Scratches

Smut with a plot.

Caleb x you

synap: After getting bruised in a fight with wanderers, Caleb offers to clean you up, leading to undeniable sexual tension.

The phone in your back pocket vibrated repeatedly. When you finally took it out, a very enthusiastic voice greeted you.

“Hey, pipsqueak, what are you up to?” You could almost imagine him twirling his hair like some excited teenage girl.

“Running a few errands, I hope you’re still free after,”

“I already cleared the rest of my schedule for you,” which wasn’t as easy as he made it sound.

“What are you doing?” You mumbled, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear.

He let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. " Boring colonel paperwork," His pen now twirling in his fingers.

"I would have thought you'd always be on your feet, stressing about something," you replied with a teasing tone.

“No, most of the time-” He paused. You could hear a faint knock before another voice started speaking. They sounded almost panicked as they rushed their words out. But you couldn’t make out a single sentence. “Sorry, pipsqueak, I have to go. Make sure to call me when you get to Skyhaven,”

You responded with a quick will do before ending the line.

You finally finished all your errands, but unfortunately, a hunter never gets a day off. Shortly after your watch pinged, Wanderers appeared. You quickly pulled out your gun, keeping an eye out for the fleeing people while also trying to contain the Wanderers and protect the rest of the city. The fight ended quickly, but you didn’t come away unscathed. Keeping people safe while fighting wasn’t easy; you had bruises, scratches, and some minor bleeding, but nothing life-threatening. An ambulance arrived and offered to take you to the hospital, but you declined; you were used to a few bruises by now. Finally, after everything, you arrived in Skyhaven, feeling relieved to have made it.

You didn’t even have enough time to click Caleb’s name on your phone before your name was called. The excitement in his voice cut off immediately.

“Are you okay? What happened?” He rushed towards you. His hand was hovering slightly above your face. His voice was stern.

“Just a bit exhausted,” You looked up at him, his brows furrowed. His hand finally cupped your cheeks ever so gently. He turned your face left, then right, slowly. “I’m fine, I swear,” you smiled, hoping it would ease the tension a bit.

“Was it Wanderers?” The way he spoke, moments when his voice lost all playfulness, all emotion. It reminded you he wasn’t the boy you grew up with. Not anymore. You nodded a bit, grabbing his hands.

“Let’s just forget about it. I’m not hurt, just a few cuts,” he didn’t respond right away.

“Can I at least check on you when we get home?” he said softly, almost as if he were begging. His violet puppy eyes looked down at you, and no matter how many times he gazed at you with that almost hurt expression, you always fell helplessly for it.

“Of course you can,”

——————-

——————

Caleb's thumb held your chin as he turned your face. Y'all were now at his place.

“Does that hurt?” His free hand gently running down your neck then stopped at the edge of your shoulder. You almost shudder at the touch.

“No-tickles,” you giggled a bit, which earned a small smile from him

“You have dirt in your hair,” he said, backing away and ruffling your hair. His voice was tinged with a hint of sorrow. He spoke softly, his brows pointing upwards. Lips pouted so slightly, if you hadn't known him so well, you would've missed it.

“Offering to wash it?” It was almost a joke. You felt kind of icky after the fight. After all, you had rolled around in dirt. Dried blood and sweat still stuck to your skin.

“I-,” he paused before smiling. “I haven’t washed your hair since we were kids,” you hummed, smiling.

“Because you'd pull my hair,” you teased, walking to the bathroom.

“Mayyybe because you couldn’t sit still.” He followed behind you, and you didn't notice when his gaze quickly flickered across your body.

You now sat in the tub. Bubbles sitting right above your chest. With Caleb, you never felt uncomfortable. Not even while you sat naked in the tub. Bubbles covering your most intimate parts. After all, you’d sat like this time after time with Caleb.

“Little Miss Hunter,” He spoke lowly. His fingers gently rub your scalp. “Always rushing head first into danger,” His fingers somehow massaged your scalp like an expert. Gently soaking the bubbles deeper. You almost hummed at the soothing sensation. “Try not to squirm, I don’t want soap getting in your eyes,” His voice low, breathy. Heat from his mouth brushes against your neck, causing you to shiver. One hand traces the curves of your back. “Does this hurt?”

It took you a moment to respond, not because of the question, but because you were worried you'd let out a moan for an answer. “No,” the words slowly fell from your lips, hesitant yet firm.

“Look up,”

You did as told without a second thought, almost instinctively. You shifted slightly, closing your legs as a pressure began to build in your lower stomach. It was something you were somewhat used to; after all, Caleb was a handsome man. It would be strange if he didn’t make your heart race once or twice, right? Especially when he spoke so low it should’ve been a whisper. It didn’t help when one hand ran water through my hair. You took a deep breath before slowly letting it out. Your chest, wavering. Your body reacting in ways you wish it didn’t. Goosebumps covering your skin.

“Try not to squirm I don’t want soap getting in your eyes,” He laughed slowly, a teasing, low laugh that made your head spin and your eyes roll back. Both of his hands rested on your shoulders. His left hand remained still while his right hand trailed down your arm, moving only with his fingertips.

“Your entire arm is bruised.” His voice was soft and slow, like it hurt to say. That quiet worry made your thighs press tighter together. God, he cared. And that did something to you.

“I’m okay,” A breathy moan escaped your lips involuntarily. “Promise,” you added quickly. Hoping to brush past the sound. Whether he noticed, he didn’t respond. You glanced over your shoulder and took in his disheveled hair, with a few strands sticking to his forehead, likely from the stream. Then, your gaze fell on the sleeves of his shirt, which were rolled up to his forearms. You noticed the bare skin of his arms, the visible veins, faint scars, and the contours of his fingers. His hand rested on the side of the tub for support.

“Distracted?” That boyish grin drove your imagination wild. Your eyes rolled as you looked away. The teasing lit in his voice caused you to smile. You couldn’t stop it if you tried.

“You done?” Maybe if you got him out of the bathroom, the heat consuming your body would slow down.

He smiled and tilted his head a bit before pushing himself up. “Yea yea,” that smile never leaving his lips. His eyes not quite leaving you either.

The moment he left, you let out a sigh of relief. The heat in your face slowly going down. You rinsed off the soap, feeling the water trickle down your body. Your mind wanders to the memory of Caleb's slender fingers against your bare back. Imagine the feel of his hand on other parts of your body. You quickly shook your head and got dressed. Which was unsurprisingly his shirt and shorts. They almost hung on you like a blanket.

“We aren’t playing doctor all night, are we?” You teased walking out of the bathroom. Caleb is already holding a few Band-Aids.

“Not much longer, promise,” He patted the open space on the couch. “We can do whatever you want after,” his smile didn’t fully reach his eyes.

“Whatever?” you echoed with a grin, your voice lilting just enough to let him know you were poking fun.

“Anything,”

“What if you regret saying that?” You sit down next to him. He scoots a little closer. You were only teasing-or at least it’s supposed to come off as that way. He paused a little, then smiled wider this time.

“Turn your head, pipsqueak.” The Gentle tone he used affected you more than you wish. As you did so, you could feel his hands on your jaw as he laid down a band-aid. He started covering the rest of the open wounds on your body. His hand gentle around your waist. You had to look away so you wouldn’t stare.

Especially when he dropped to his knees. Settling between your legs. Putting a Band-Aid around your ankle, with all his attention focused on that one leg. His eyes looked up. Those soft violet eyes made your heart jump. Just one glance from him could make your body shudder. Not to mention the feeling between your legs returned tenfold. His fingers spread as they slowly moved up your leg, inspecting every inch.

“Relax,” His voice was soothing and intoxicating all at once.

“I... am just," You paused, taking a quick breath. “Stings,” the words sounded more like a question. You shook your head, a bit embarrassed with yourself. It felt silly-the sexual tension building had to be your imagination. Caleb's eyebrows tilted ever so slightly. He glanced back at your leg before placing one more band-aid on your upper thigh.

“When we were kids you’d always get hurt doing the silliest things,”

He sat up, still on his knees between your legs. His ruffled hair covered his face as he looked down. His attention was on the same leg. Seemingly lost in thought as his fingers ran down. Stopping right above your ankle. He let a low, breathy chuckle.

“Then you’d come crying -Caleb, oh Caleb, I think I broke my leg,” he mocked. Then, slowly, he glanced up. His hair was still blocking his face. His eyebrows raised as he looked up at you, passing his lashes and strands of brown hair. “And I’d take care of you,” his thumb caressed the middle of your leg. “Until you felt better,” His tone steady and low. A moment passed, yet you couldn’t look away. Especially when you caught glimpses of his eyes.

“Caleb,” The words came out slower and softer than you expected. He didn’t respond right away, his head dropping to your leg once more. His fingers slowly trailed up your leg. One hand around your calf while the other on top. Both hands moving in sync. Then he said your name. So low you could’ve missed it if the outside world wasn’t so quiet. His hands stopped below your knee. He seemed almost hesitant.

“Is this okay?” The question seemed simple. But in reality, he was asking, Is it okay to cross this silent boundary? The one that kept us friends? Would it be okay if we went passed the point of no return? Slowly, you nodded, holding his eye contact. It took a moment before he stood up. One hand remains on your leg. Slowly moving up until it reached the outer side of your thigh. His other arm reached out beside your head. As he places his hand on the back of the couch. You followed his movements, then stopped back at his face. Your eye darted from his lips to his eyes. The dog tag you had gifted him was dangling from his neck. Slowly swinging back and forth. Him now standing between your legs.

“I need to hear you say it.” The usual teasing edge in his voice was gone, replaced by a quiet firmness that made your breath catch

“Yes,” you paused and glanced away. Only for a second. “It’s okay,”

The hand on your leg that was hesitating before now continued to roam over your thigh. You could feel the faint warmth of his body. He tilted his head and leaned in but stopped halfway. His unsteady breath hits your bottom lip. His eye was glued to your lips. Then they slowly trailed back to your eyes. He waited like a quiet invitation. As if he were asking, “Are you sure,” one last time. Wrapping your hand around his neck, you pulled him in. His lips immediately moved once they connected. His hand on your thigh roaming up passed your ass then stopping at you lower waist. He pulled you closer to him. It was slow and passionate. Like two flickering flames slowly connecting. His free hand on your neck. He slowly tilted your head down to follow his movements. His knees were back on the ground. His pelvis was on the edge of the couch. You could feel his chest against your lower stomach.

He was the first to pull back. You could see his eyes moving around your face. His lips slightly parted, his breathing irritated. Both his hands on your waist now.

“I want you.” Your eyes wandered to his chest. “I need you Caleb.” It wasn’t long until his lips were back on yours. His fingers tightened slightly. Not hurting, just firm. You go to take off his shirt. He pulls back for a second to slide his shirt over his head. His chest was firm. His torso was bare beneath the light. Lean muscle shifted with every subtle movement, each line of his abdomen carved like stone, sharp and defined, the kind of abs that made it impossible not to stare. the taper of his waist draws the eye lower.

“You have me,” he went back into the kiss. Tongues connecting, His slight groans muffled by your lips. Both of his hands now cupping your cheeks. He leaned into the kiss. Pushing your back against the plush couch. His hips moving between your legs. Your slight groans muffled with each kiss. “You’ve always had me,” He murmured against your lips. Not fully pulling back as if he wasn't ready- wasn't capable of breaking the kiss. You pulled back to slip your shirt off. A trail of saliva follows you. Now leaving you in just his shorts. He watched your every movement. Caleb's eyes seemed awestruck. Especially when he leaned back in with a smile. “You’re beautiful,” he said, kissing the side of your neck. His hands following the curve of your waist.

“Every part of you,” His lips trailed down your neck. Leaving small kisses in a slow trail. Finally stopping at your collarbone. He paused for a moment before continuing to kiss down your body, stopping just above your chest.

“Caleb,” The way you said his name was almost whiny. Showing him how impatient you were growing by the second. It didn’t make him move any faster. In fact, all he did in response was hum a little as he started kissing up your neck. Stopping right below your ear. His hum was almost a mocking "yeah"

He kisses your jawline, then pulls you back into his chest, before scooping you off the couch. You could feel his muscles as he carried you like nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him into another hot and heavy kiss. One arm wrapped around his neck. Your other hand was tangled in his hair, gripping slightly. You moaned into the kiss. His hand gripping under side of your thigh. He gently pushed your back against a wall. You leaned back, looking at him. His cheeks a slight shade of red. His head tilted ever so slightly. One of your hands rubbed down his bare chest. Keeping a slow, tantalizing speed. Feeling each ab on your fingertips while holding eye contact. He groaned at your touch. You could feel him grow tense. His eyes followed your touch. He squirmed as your fingers slid down. Without moving his head, he locked eyes with you. He was smiling. Your hand stopped at his waistband. You gently pulled at the front, making sure not to break eye contact. He whined just at your touch alone.

Putting his hands on your lower back, he pulled you into his chest before backing off the wall. He kissed you once more, like a starving man. He wasn't ashamed to be vocal, that's for sure. Using his foot, he kicked his bedroom door open. He dropped you onto his bed, your legs spreading as you looked up at him.

You leaned in, grabbing his dog tag and pulling him on top of you. He followed along, crawling over you, his arms resting on either side of your head. The tip of the tag rested on your bottom lip. You pulled at it, dragging him closer. His tongue tangled with yours. He slowly lowered himself onto you, his hands finding your waist. He moaned into your mouth as you both felt each other’s most intimate parts. The print in his pants rubbed against your clothed cunt.

He took the first initiative to take off your pants, sliding the oversized shorts off and dropping them to the floor. He paused for a moment, looking up at you. His lips spread into a slow smile as he looked down at your panties.

"You're wet," he said — almost like he couldn't believe it, like it was a dream. He leaned down, kissing your lower abdomen.

You tensed up a bit. You head rolling back on the soft pillow, one hand in his hair. Not pulling, just holding. The other holding the side of the bed. "Relax," He mumbled into your stomach. A low vibration followed his words. He trailed down, leaving kisses. One hand sneaking from your waist to your lower stomach. His fingers spread out. "I read you better than anyone,' The last word sounded venomous. Whilst the rest were low yet comforting. "I'll know if you start second-guessing," He said, kissing the lace on your panties. "I'll know," he kissed again. "So," he pushed your leg open, placing a kiss above the crease between your thigh. "Trust me,' He spoke slowly, his words sounding like a whine. Like he was silently begging.

"Of course, I trust you," the hand in his hair falling to his cheek for a moment. The way his brows rose, his red cheeks. His slightly parted lips. It made your heart rate rise. He kissed the space between your legs. Earning a low whine from you. A silent approval as he slowly slid your panties off. His eyes trailed down your legs, then back to the middle. He leaned in, not quite doing anything. Not yet, at least. His arm lying on the top of your upper thigh. Slowly he ran his thumb down your clit. you squeezed the side of the bed and looked away.

"Do you like it when I do that?" He asked, rubbing a small circle in the same area. A simple yes wouldn't be enough. It took you a moment before you nodded a meek yes, leaving your lips. Quickly followed by a soft moan. He played with your clit, enjoying your reactions. He'd been yearning for so long that he'd never want to rush this moment. Especially not with you. "I want to hear you," it took a few seconds before he continued, "Baby." His voice is enrichingly deep.

"Yes," Your words came out in a single breath.

"Okay' He leaned in. The tip of his nose on your bare pussy. "okay" He mumbled into you before leaving a kiss. Then he stuck out his tongue. Staring from the bottom and stopping a you clit. It was slow and long. Your body involuntarily jolted. Your back lifted off the bed for a second. One hand was squeezing his hair. His moans vibrating off the walls of your cunt.

"Please," you moaned, looking down at him. His eyes appeared between your legs. "Caleb." Whether it was your tone, his name, or the way you begged. Something made him snap. He ran his tongue over your soaked core one last time before finally slipping it inside you. Your breathing became ragged, your throat dry, as involuntary whines left you. Both Caleb's hands are on your thighs. You could feel the faint pressure of his Evol keeping your legs open. Your eyes rolled back. The heat in the room prickles your skin with sweat. You moaned louder when you felt a finger enter. His tongue still ravishing your pussy as he fingered you. You moaned his name. His tongue now lapping at your clit. His fingers kept a steady, slow pace. Finally, he lifted his head. The area around his mouth glistened. He watched looking at your chest rise and fall quickly. His fingers were still moving. He watched as you tried to hold eye contact. But failed as you continued to whimper. Your head falling back on the bed. His fingers wiggling inside of you. His evol letting up so he could watch you squirm in his grasp. Your legs shaking with every pump of his fingers. Then, as you reached your peak, he stopped. You heaved as your chest lifted and fell, struggling to catch your breath. After a moment you spoke.

"You’re such a tease," you said, not directing your comment at him specifically. Eyes glued to the ceiling.

"I can't help it," He sat up. "it's not my fault you sound-" He paused as you sat up and jabbed his chest gently.

"shut up," You pulled him back on top of you, pulling him into a kiss.

"So bossy," He spoke against your lips. Your hands found the buckle of his pants. He helped you slip them off alongside his drawers. Finally letting his cock spring to action.

"Oh," you leaned back on your arms. He was huge—realistically huge. It jumped as you stared, eyes tracing the curving veins. You sat up on your knees, taking a moment before gently pushing him down on the bed.

"Okay," you whispered next to his ear, your finger trailing slowly down his chest, giving him the same kind of slow torture he gave you.

You watched him whine, eyes locked on yours like he'd do anything you asked in that moment, no matter how ridiculous. He tensed when your fingers traveled back up his chest. He moaned your name and grabbed your wrist, not to stop you, just to feel you. You kept stroking his chest, and he jolted at your touch. Your fingers spread as you trailed down his chest. Feeling his chest and the ripple of his abs.

You hadn’t even touched his cock yet, and still it jumped like you did Pre-cum dripping down. "Do you... like this?" You asked hand lowering. Finally touching the tip if his cock. Cum sticking to the palm of your hand. He moaned, his fingers pulling at his hair.

"can-" He took a sharp breath as you ran your hand down his cock. "I want to feel you, baby." His voice wavered. You paused, looking up at him. His soft voice, almost a pleading tone. It made you ache to feel him. You leaned over him, catching his lips. You straddled his hips. His hands found your waist as you fervently made out. You moaned against his lips. Your hands on his bare chest holding yourself up.

"Is this okay?" You whispered, looking down at him. He took a moment before speaking.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered softly, reaching up to caress your cheeks. His thumb rubbed small circles as he continued, "I want you to feel how much I love you."

His words were all you needed as you hovered over cock. Before slowly sitting on top of him, you stopped at his tip. It stretched you open. He sucked in a deep breath his fingers tightening on your waist.

"Are you okay?" He asked with a husky tone. You nodded, giving yourself a moment to adjust to his size. Your hands are still on his chest most of your weight focused there. You slowly dropped yourself lower. A gasp left Caleb as you clenched around him.

You moaned his name when his cock twitched inside of you. His eyes still glued to you. Occasionally, trailing over your body. Taking in the sight of you on his penis. He stuttered as he said your name, head rolling back. "do you like that," His voice low.

You nodded, moving your waist. His penis moving against your walls. He whimpered, hands once again tightening.

"good job, baby," His voice was high. His breath was heavy with every word. Your hips bounced once more until you found the perfect rhythm. You moaned a bit, stifled as you covered your mouth. "let-" He interrupted himself moaning. "l-let it out," You clenched around his cock. His voice was low, husky, ragged, like each word was dragged from the back of his throat. “Just like that…” It rumbled out of him, breathless and broken, the sound heavy with want. Every syllable felt earned, like he was speaking through clenched teeth, trying to hold himself together while you moved on top of him.

"Yeah,” your words came out as a whine. One of his hands rested on the back of your neck, holding your head still to maintain eye contact. Your stomach tightened as the pressure built. Using his hand on your neck, he pulled you in for a kiss. The other hand traveled from your cheek to your lower back. Slowly, he flipped you, positioning himself on top. You let out a small gasp as your back hit the bed. “You feel so good…” You gasped, the words tumbling out between moans. Caleb slowly moved in and out of your pussy. Make sure to leave the tip in before slowly pushing back in. A plethora of wet sounds with each thrust. Caleb nodded at your words. His dog tag dangled violently, swinging with each thrust. Sweat dripped down his toned arms with each hand on either side of your head. His moans were loud, unashamed, and unrestrained, echoing in the air between you. There was nothing held back, no control—just raw, desperate sound spilling from him with every roll of his hips.

Balancing himself on one arm, he touched your lower stomach. He could feel the tip of his cock when it entered. He pushed down softly and earned an abrupt, loud moan from you. It left your lips without shame, high and needy, the kind of sound that made him look at you like he was ready to ruin you all over again. The pleasure building inside of you. You could tell he was at his climax. His words came out strangled. His breathing was heavy and whiny.

"Caleb, I'm going to-" You couldn't even finish speaking. Caleb nodded, his fingers curling around the sheets. The moment you stopped speaking your walls clenched around his penis. He moaned your name as he leaned down, catching your lips. Your moans entangle with his tongue. The world blurred for a moment as you both came undone. Legs shaking as the high slowly subsided. Caleb slowly dropped on top of you. Rolling over a little, not to crush you. Your limbs still entangled.

He took a few heavy breaths before he spoke. "Are you okay?" He seemed to speak in one breath. You nodded before turning your head to look at him. Strands of his hair stuck to his forehead. The rest is messy. His eyelids were lowered like he'd fall asleep at any moment. Unable to restrain yourself, a smile crept onto your cheeks. The euphoric moment takes hold of you.

"are you okay?"

He nodded at your question, smiling. His eye widened slightly, sparked with new life. His hand once again found your cheek. His thumb caressing your face as he held eye contact. Neither of you could speak. The moment was filled with comfortable silence as he admired you. He leaned in pressing his head onto yours.

"I love you,' He whispered before closing his eyes.

"I love you, too, Caleb." Your eyes fluttered closed as well, listening to his soft breathing.

----------------------

This was my first time writing actual smut. So I hope you all enjoy, and if you have any requests or feedback please let me know :)

[forestshadow-wolf]

Price on a mission where he finds soap in the cage. He's between fights, breathing heavy, resting on the chains that seperate him from the onlookers. The place is dirty, grimy, littered with strays and drunkards, and illegal goods. Price (lieutenant) is on a mission, looking for his target, he's not even a captain yet, he shouldn't be scouting. And he's not. But he's watched the man's last three fights, and he's queueing up for another as a new opposition steps in. He'd make a great asset. And Price is only a few months from Captain, he'll need his own team. There's little more time to think on it as his comms crackle to life, watcher tells to to get ready, his target is heading his way. Price is ready, always ready. Waiting to receive. One of the many stray canines trots across the floor. Except his target never shows. Watcher asks him what the hell he's doing. He says he's got no visuals on the target. Watcher says he was right on top of him. But the target wasn't there. Watcher tells him to pull out, get to exfil. He will. He does. But first. The man in the cage has just finished his fight, two tenders are dragging his victim out, and the man is back to leaning on the boundry. Price hasn't heard a word from him thus far, he's an angry looking man, dangerous, and something distinctly animal in his eyes. Price tells him he's got somewhere for him to go if he wants, something better than this. Something with purpose. In a voice that's more feel than sound in the low roar of the place. He watches the man think it over, price thinks he'll ignore him, he's about to let it go, won't take a what doesn't belong to him. But as price turns so does the man, not towards him, not towards the center of the cage either. Towards the chained gate. An attendant lets him out easily, and without a word the man follows price out. And he never stopped following Price

It's years down the line now, coming up on 8 years almost to the day. And he

Finds himself once again circling an adversary, in a metal bound arena. But this time it's Ghost on the outside where Price once was, he tells him that Gaz is nearly on their target. The whistle blows and there's no more time to ponder nostalgia. His knuckles sting as the split skin makes contact with his opponent's nose. Blood sprays, and Soap doesn't hesitate to follow it up with a jab in the sternum with his other hand. He stays on the much larger man, pummeling him with his fists. His ribs throb with bruises, his arms ache the same, it's hot, and the sweat slicks the blood fron the cut on his eyebrow. The man is large, and faster that soap expects, a heavy fist catches him on the cheek. His head snaps to the side with the force and he stumbles back, Gaz chases the target past the cage hot on his heels as Soap knocks in to the chains with a clang. Ghost is on the edge, right by his ear, but he's still reeling from the hit, and his opponent has him pinned now. It's easy, automatic to get low, block his face with his arms, let the hits land where he can take them, find an opening and fight dirty. There are no rules except *win*, and Soap never lost in the ring. His opponent leaves his left side open when he throws his right, not much, but enough to slip though. Enough for soap to win. Ghost's voice is clearer now. He tells him to get up. Soap takes the slip, drives his fist into ribs, puts his weight behind it. Pain explodes in his hand and runs up his arm with the force. The man backs off, and soap is on him immediately, slamming him into the opposite side of chains, holds him there as he swings his fist over and over into his face under soap feels the man stop fighting. Then he drops him. Spits blood from his mouth, circles the cage like a predator to show his strength, his danger, his dominance.

Ghost tells him Gaz got the target, that he and Price are heading back to exfil with him. Tells him that soap's done his job. It's time to go home now. Soap doesn't wait for someone to let him out. Another act of dominance. Aggression. He sees Ghost retreat, can't follow him yet, they still need this identity for another op. So soap stays. Not long. He, this guy, never does. Long enough to collect on his winning and have a neat drink. 45 minutes that's all. He's bleeding and sweating, and he lost his shirt somewhere, but the alcohol helps dull the pain, and he finishes it off soon after he collets his dues. Rich men with rich suits try to stop him like always, trying to buy his loyalty, his skill, but he pays them no mind like always. Pushes through the crowd like a bull after a fight.

Ghost is waiting for him when he leaves the cacophonous building. Hands him an oversized shirt, slings an arm over his shoulders as he helps Soap to exfil 2 klicks away.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

The idea of Stan (or Ford) having a praise kink and Reader having a degradation kink (or vice versa) is kind of humorous to me. Just getting off by saying wildly different things to each other, you know?

I feel like that's confusing wording, so to clarify: I mean this in a StanxReader or FordxReader way.

-🫶

oh my god yes ok ok so as someone who very much has a degradation kink but like selectively you know? only when it’s laced with praise otherwise it gets too real and i simply will cry, i deeply love this concept

like...unhmhm i need Stan to tell me “good girl for taking it like a dumb little whore”

anyways omfg i wrote too much, i just really liked it SORRRYYY

nsfw

just the idea of Stan or Ford earnestly trying to say smth sweet, genuine while you're beneath them just cooing out shit like “ugh shut up you fucking old man!! make yourself useful, stop talking and fuck me harder.” <33

you getting wet over being called a dumb little toy at the exact same moment as Stan is saying “you're doing so good for me” but then you go “no, no, be mean to me!!” and he just full stops and blinks like what the fuck do you mean mean???

let me talk about mullet Stan again cuz there's never enough of him. so imagining this with mullet stan please. please. listen. i think that bastard would lean toward degradation by default. not necessarily because he means it, but uhh somewhere deep inside, he thinks that's all he deserves. he’s lived his life on the back foot, always “screwing things up”, being the one who gets left or loses, so if he says “stupid baby” or ”dumb little fuck-toy” while he’s got his cock deep in you in some motel off the highway, it's because he thinks that’s what he is too. and if you praise him while he’s doing it, cup his jaw and whisper “you’re so good to me, you’re the best, no one fucks me like you do” (btw i think this is the phrase that he really likes) while his hand is around your throat? ohhh he might scoff or call you a liar. but he’s so soft for it. gets off on it against his will.

he's the one who doesn’t deserve tenderness. he can’t believe you’d want him for anything soft or sweet. and god help him the first time you whimper and ask him to praise you. ”you want good words?? from me??”

but also!!! also!!! and hear me out. you degrading him back. especially when he’s being all cocky with his chest puffed out and hands on his hips, AYGHYHH “yeah you like that, don’tcha.” and you just roll your eyes and “jesus christ, you’re such a slut for me.” game over. he’s gonna ruin the sheets. i’m so sorry but he lives to be called out, just a little. it's an honor to humble stanley pines with your filthy mouth. <3 need to write hate sex with him

AND OLDER STANNN. oh he thinks he’s got it handled until you start talking mean!!

he’s got you bent over a bed, calling you baby and sweetheart, kissing your shoulder and saying dumb stuff like “you’re so tight for me, fuck, ill never get enough of you” and you go “ugh you’re so easy, bet you’d cum just from me grinding on your lap in public. you that desperate for my attention, old man?” FUCK!?

but then, THEN. he matches your filth. if your kink is degradation, he learns it fast. starts growling in your ear “yeah? you wanna be used, that it? want me to treat you like trash? you’re nothin’ but a filthy little tease, huh? well get ready baby” but then a second later he’s worried “did that sound okay?? too much? not too mean?” wiping sweat off his brow and trying not to cry from being too turned on <3

as for Ford, where do i begin. you know this man has a praise kink deeply coded into his psyche right? he was raised on academic validation, on approval from elders, teachers, peers. he’s constantly been rewarded for being the smartest, the most innovative, the most competent. of course he wants to hear you say “you’re so clever, you’re the only one who knows how to touch me like this, fuck me with that genius brain,” while he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

and yet. and YET. i too must confess i want to call him a whore. i don’t know why. i love him, i do. but the mental image of looking down at Ford Pines, totally blissed out, stuttering, face flushed behind his glasses, and just telling him “look at you. you’d let me use that big genius mouth of yours for my pleasure, wouldn’t you? mm, all those degrees and still my perfect little toy.”

but anyways i mean this man has never been able to healthily express affection. so the second he’s finally in a position to touch and adore someone he actually loves, he goes full throttle tender mode, especially if it's established relationship. “you’re brilliant, so beautiful, you know that? you’re my darling, my love, my sweetheart” and you’re just underneath him with your lashes fluttering, dragging your nails down his back and moaning “ugh you’re such a fucking nerd, bet you’ve never even made someone cum before me. guess im the first pussy you’ve ever made a mess in, huh” WAAAAAHHH

and the worst part, he’s still into it. he cannot handle it but he’s so fucking into it. Ford starts blushing. sweating. stammering. but his hands are still gripping your thighs harder. the contrast between his praise & your degradation makes him insane until he’s literally groaning through his teeth and saying “you’re awful, you know that. . .disrespectful. . .but you feel so good, i can’t stop, im gonna” oh he'll cum soo fast

yes reader degrading Ford now that’s theatre. he’s expecting praise. he’s braced for “you’re so smart” and instead he gets “aw, are you gonna cum like a dumb little bitch for me?” like he’s offended lmao but also wildly aroused because his logical mind wants to protest but his body has never felt better

i love ittt. like Stan’s being mean to you but melting inside the moment you tell him he’s good and Ford’s trying to be praised and you’re calling him a brainless toy. everyone’s cumming and no one knows why....oh well

[guiltyasdave]

marry, kiss, or kill me

pairing: Dave York x Carol York

summary: Dave and Carol's kinky origin story (which is canon, thank you).

word count: ~2.6k

tags/warnings: explicit smut -> mdni, young carol and dave, fluff, flirting, dirty talk, talk about kinks and boundaries, unprotected p in v, nipple play, ass and titty slaps, hair pulling, a bit of rough sex, alcohol consumption

a/n: written for @thatcorporategirlie's never have i ever challenge, kiwi babe i'm sorry for being so late and also for stealing @sizzlingcloudmentality's man and prompt lol <3 (and of COURSE thank you daphne for holding my hand through this as always!!!)

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🤍

In truth, Dave feels a little too old to play a game like Never have I ever. But here he is, surrounded by people he barely knows. Sitting in a loose circle on the floor, his legs crossed, Carol leaning into his side. 

They’d only been dating for a couple of weeks and honestly, he was a bit surprised when she invited him along to a housewarming party of one of her friends. 

He likes Carol. He really, really likes her. She makes him laugh all the time. She’s much smarter than him. She wants a family, just like he does. Things feel easy with her. Right, somehow. And maybe it’s too early for that, but he could see himself build a life with her. So, he took it as a good sign and accepted the invitation. 

Most of the people around have been part of her friend group in high school, and he sees her turning into a different version of herself. A little less mature, a little more reckless. Giggling with her girlfriends, sipping on cheap wine, not like the ones that the both of them pick out together now. It makes him wish that he had already known her back then. It has him feeling a little younger himself, makes him forget about the pressure that his life is now shaped by. 

He’s been letting Carol pull him along, letting her introduce him to her friends. He’s been pretending that he doesn’t notice the appraising glances that are thrown his way, the variations of more or less subtle expressions on their faces aimed at her. 

Someone had suggested to play drinking games, for old times sake. The mere idea had been met with wild giggles and enthusiasm. So that’s what they’re doing. 

Carol’s hand is resting on his shoulder with a casual possessiveness that he likes. Sometimes her fingers slide upwards to play with strands of his hair. She’s slurring her speech a little when she whispers into his ear, and he thinks it’s adorable. 

He also has to admit that the game is much more fun now than it was in his high school days. Everyone is a bit older, a bit more experienced, so the most harmless confessions don’t lead to scandalized gasps and embarrassed laughter like back then. 

The guy on his right side thinks for a moment, then comes up with, “Never have I ever had a sex related injury.” There’s a second of contemplating, with no one touching their drinks just yet. Dave’s saying a quiet prayer of gratitude that he hasn’t, because he’s heard stories from a buddy of his, and well— 

Then, Carol pipes up from beside him. 

“Do bruises count?”

There’s another moment of stunned silence, and he feels a charged kind of heat traveling up his nape, where her fingernails are now teasingly scratching over his skin. She exchanges knowing looks with a few of her girlfriends, who are beginning to giggle again.

“Like a hickey, you mean?” a young woman across from them shyly asks, obviously unaware of any other indication. Carol smiles at her warmly.

“Yeah babe, like a hickey.” 

Her lips curl around the glass when she takes another sip from her wine.

It’s late in the evening when they stumble into Carol’s small apartment, both just on the right side of tipsy, enough that they could barely keep their hands off each other on the cab ride. Dave keeps kissing her hungrily as he’s walking her backwards to the bedroom, dimly lit with the yellow glow of a lamp on the nightstand.

He’s paying special attention to her neck, knowing that she likes the way his end-of-the-day stubble scratches over the sensitive skin there. The breathy moans that she responds with are music to his ears. Dave waits until they’re surrounded by soft sheets, with her hands buried in his hair, until his mouth gets more demanding. 

His lips are traveling down, his teeth sinking into the skin beside her collarbone, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue pressing hard against her flesh. She mewls underneath him, nails digging into his scalp, trying to pull him even closer. When he finally lets go, he can already see the purple bruise beginning to blossom under her skin. He looks up to find her looking at him, her eyes glinting knowingly in the low light. 

“What did you really mean? About bruises?” he asks, pressing a softer kiss to the abused skin. 

“Who says I meant anything more than this?” 

Her tone is teasing, challenging him. 

“Me.” 

He pushes himself up until he’s at eye level with her, placing kisses on her mouth, her cheeks. She laughs softly, cupping his face with one hand, kissing him back and holding him against her for a moment. 

“Okay,” she concedes, her fingers gliding over his shoulders and down his biceps. He suppresses a shudder at the goosebumps that follow her touch. “I— I sometimes like it when things are a little… rougher?” She shrugs, her expression just shy of embarrassed. “Rough enough to bruise, I guess.” 

Dave inhales sharply. The suggestion had tugged at the back of his mind all evening, obviously, but to hear her say it… His cock strains hard against the fabric of his pants and he lowers himself down just a little, giving himself just a hint of pressure against her thigh. Of course, she zeroes in on it like a huntress onto her prey. Her grin would be sharp enough to cut him if she tried. 

“Do you like that, too?” 

He gives something between a shrug and a nod, gratefully accepting another kiss when she pulls him down towards her lips again. “I— maybe. I’ve never—” 

“Would you want to try?” 

And fuck, does he want to try. Just— It always left him feeling kinda fucked up, when he jerked off to another porn video labeled rough sex or hard spanking or punishment. Wasn’t he fucked up for getting off to that? And sure, the women in the videos were getting paid for it, but would any of them really… want this? 

“Are you sure?” 

It’s the opposite of how he wants to be right now, his voice all timid and unsure of himself. He wants to be powerful, in control, but in this second, it rather feels like the opposite.

Carol laughs softly and nods, gripping his shoulders and motioning for him to move. He goes willingly, watches her take off her dress and straddle him in only her underwear. The bruise he sucked into her skin is an uneven shape in the semi-darkness, a mark that he left on her. Fuck, he’s gonna leave more if she really wants him to. 

“Okay,” she coos against his cheek, peppering his skin with kisses. “I’ll tell you what I like, and if you want to, you can do that. Deal?” 

He can only nod, his throat bobbing as he swallows. 

“I like being slapped.” Her voice is soft, her breath ghosting over his chest. “On my ass, my tits. Pinched, too.” Dave’s hips buck into her and she moans into his mouth. His hands find her waist, holding her tightly. 

“What else?” 

She grins at the tone, at the way the question comes through his gritted teeth. She leans down, her mouth right next to his ear. 

“I want you to fuck me, so hard that it hurts. So hard that I’m sore the next day.” 

Her teeth nip at his earlobe while her hips bear down on him, a soft moan escaping her when he meets the movement with his own. 

“Okay.” His voice is husky to his own ears, already breathless with arousal. His cock is throbbing in his pants. “You’ll— you’ll tell me? If it’s too much?” 

“Of course,” she promises. Her hands dip under his shirt, gliding over his naked stomach, up to his chest. His muscles quiver under her touch. “Get this off?” The words land on his lips along with her warm breath and he lets her push the fabric upwards, revealing his bare skin to her. He feels like he’s already burning up, his body hot under her fingertips, eager for what’s to come. 

Dave’s own hands find his belt buckle, hastily opening it and pushing both his pants and his underwear down in one quick motion. His cock is already leaking, hot and heavy when he pumps himself once. Carols reaches back and opens her bra, letting her tits spill out and right into his waiting hands. 

He has always liked playing with her nipples. Liked how it made her squirm, how needy it made her moans sound. He starts like this, with what he knows. She shifts around in his lap, sighing his name. The soaked fabric of her panties rubs against him, teasing him. 

With his eyes trained on her face, he scrapes a fingernail over her nipple, watches her mouth fall open and her eyes squeeze shut when he pinches the hard nub between his thumb and pointer finger and tugs. Just a little bit, just to try, but the reaction spurs him on. 

“Again, please,” she sighs, her own fingernails digging into his chest. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, both hands finding her breasts now and tugging simultaneously, a bit harder this time. 

Carol’s moan reverberates through the room and her back arches, pushing her breasts into his hands. It elates him, to be able to make her feel like this, to elicit this reaction from her. 

Impatient now, driven by hot need pulsing through him, he pushes her underwear to the side and thrusts his hips up, sinking into her. She meets him halfway, with a cry of his name on her lips. 

Her slick warmth engulfs him as her tight walls open up for him, making room for how his cock snaps into her. One of his hands is still toying with her nipple, teasing and tugging, and his name falls from her lips in needy little whimpers. He loves to watch her like this. And there’s more, more she allowed him to do, things he wants to— 

He hesitates for a second, taking her in, the bliss on her face, the movement of her body. Then, as if his brain finally short-circuits, he gives in to the desire. His hand connects with her ass cheek in a satisfying slapping sound. A loud, surprised moan tumbles from her mouth, in time with her nails digging into his flesh and her walls clenching around him so tightly that it takes all his willpower to not come then and there. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, his hand coming down a second and a third time before he can stop himself. It’s a strange thrill, letting himself loose like this. And to see Carol take it all, to know that she asked him to do this, that she likes it— 

He thrusts upwards with all the force he has while she bears down on him hard, crying out his name again. He wants, needs more. Gritting his teeth, he anchors her to himself with one hand on her hip while the other connects with her breast. It’s intoxicating, seeing the way her flesh bounces under his touch, seeing a shudder of pleasure ripple through her, seeing her throw her head back in reaction. 

He wants to do it again, see it again, so he does. His hand colors her flesh red, marking her, bruising her, adding to the spot by her collarbone. 

Without thinking, his fingers tangle in her hair, giving it a light tug. She reads the question on his face without needing words. 

“Fuck, please.” 

Her grin mirrors his when he fucks up into her and fists the strands tighter, pulling her head back and exposing her neck. Her nails scramble for purchase on his chest, probably leaving her own red marks on him. 

Her walls are engulfing him impossibly tight, her thighs are trembling, and he feels his climax approaching dangerously fast. With one hand still in her hair, the other trails down her naked body, groping where he can, until his fingers find her clit and press down with practiced ease.

“Wait,” she gasps, and he stills instantly, letting go of her hair like he’s been burnt. Was he too rough, did he hurt her, read her wrong? 

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t—” 

His hands cup her face, searching her expression for any indication of what might be wrong. 

Carol shushes him gently, her lips connecting with his, her tongue slipping into his mouth for a short moment. 

“I’m okay.” She allows herself a grin and a nip to his bottom lip. “I just thought, maybe we could—” She hesitates, a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. “Maybe you could fuck me from behind?” 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, kissing her back more urgently now, his own teeth sinking into her lip in retaliation. “Move, then.” A playful slap lands on her backside, making her giggle. 

She scrambles off of him and to her knees, taking off her underwear in the process and flinging it across the room. When Dave gets to his feet, she’s already kneeling on the mattress, her bare ass presented to him, her back arched and her legs spread, giving him a perfect view and perfect access. 

“So hard that you’ll feel it tomorrow?” he asks, leaning over her and leaving kisses over her shoulders. 

“So hard that I’ll walk funny tomorrow,” Carol quips back, making him groan. 

Hooking his hands over her hips and holding her steady, he fucks into her in one hard stroke, making her cry out. Pistoning into her, making sure that she feels him as deep as possible, that he’s staking his claim even inside of her. He slaps her ass again as well, a few times in quick succession, mesmerised by the red that’s blooming across her skin almost instantly and the sweet sounds of her moans in his ears.

She has sneaked one of her hands between her legs and he feels her clenching around his cock over and over, covering him in her wetness with every thrust that he punches deep inside of her. 

“Come for me,” he demands when he feels her becoming almost impossibly tight, feels her walls beginning to flutter, his hand finding her bruised skin once more.

Her scream of his name is muffled into the sheets, but the wild trembling of her body and the rhythmic squeezing of his cock hit him with full force, pulling him over the edge right along with her. 

Her hand blindly reaches for his at her back and he links his fingers with hers, spilling his own pleasure into her. His whole body feels shaky, the orgasm spreading through his whole body, down to his fingertips. He already knows that he’s gonna be addicted to this. 

Gently, he maneuvers her body onto the mattress and lets her pull him down beside her. She looks wrecked, but the smile on her face is dazzling, making him want to kiss her beautiful mouth until his lips are raw. 

“Was— was this okay?” he breathes out, his chest heaving and his skin damp with sweat, but his expression probably matching hers perfectly. 

“More than okay,” he assures him, running her fingers through his hair. 

It’s stupid, but looking back later, Dave swears that he knew at that moment that he wanted to marry her.

thank you for reading! reblogs and comments are love <3

[yoomiwrites]

No strings

Summary: (gn) Reader ends up more often than not with Shanks – in the same bed, yet still refuses to join his crew as his plaything.

Note: Anyone else up to date with the Manga? I just....SHAAAANKS. This one here is REALLY short, sorry, hun.

TW: Sexual topics (hints)

✦═════✦═════✦

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the room was already glowing with that soft orange light that always crept in too early after nights like this.

You stood by the window, tugging your shirt back over sore shoulders, fingers working slow buttons while the ocean breeze floated through the half-cracked pane. Your ship was anchored just past the dock, the familiar outline waiting for you, like always.

And behind you — sprawled out on the tangled bed, arm lazily tucked behind his head, red hair tousled — was Shanks. His grin, as usual, was there too, soft and crooked, half hidden under the weight of morning silence.

"You're leaving already?" he asked, voice still a little rough from sleep or from the night’s lack of it.

You shot him a look over your shoulder, smirking faintly. "You know the drill. Cargo doesn’t sell itself."

He hummed at that, his gaze following your movements as you adjusted your belt, checking pockets, prepping for another day of sailing — another port, another job. Same as always.

Except, this time, the silence stretched a little longer.

"...You ever think about not leaving?" he asked, casually — too casually.

Your fingers froze at the last buckle. You didn’t turn, but you could feel the shift in his voice, the soft tilt away from his usual teasing.

"You’ve got your ship, your business, your routes. But you could just... stop," he added, his voice lower, almost careful. "Join mine instead."

You let out a dry, quiet laugh. "Yeah, right."

But he didn’t laugh back. When you finally glanced over your shoulder, his grin had softened, but it wasn’t playful anymore.

"You know I don’t join crews," you said, voice lighter than you felt. "And I sure as hell don’t sign on as anyone’s plaything."

The words hung there, sharp and simple, but instead of brushing them off — the way he usually would — Shanks sat up. Elbow braced on his knee, posture loose but his expression dead serious, those bright eyes locked on yours.

"You're not a plaything." His voice was low but steady, cutting through the lazy morning air. "Not to me. Not ever."

You blinked. The room suddenly felt too quiet, like even the ocean outside had paused to listen.

He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small, sheepish exhale — like the words had slipped out before he’d meant them to, but now that they had, he wasn’t taking them back.

"I wait for your ship, you know." He glanced up at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, but there was no joke behind it this time. "Half the time I chart my course just to cross paths with yours."

That twisted something in your chest. You’d always assumed it was coincidence — or convenience. But looking at him now, all the easy charm stripped away, you felt the weight behind it.

He leaned back on his palm, eyes flicking lazily to the window, then back to you.

"I never wanted to tie you down. But I never wanted you thinking this was just a passing thing, either."

Your fingers lingered at your last button, stalled mid-motion. The tension drained a little from your chest, replaced by something quieter, deeper — the kind of warmth you couldn’t sell at any port.

"...You’re an idiot," you said, voice barely above a murmur. "You could’ve just told me."

His grin returned then, soft and crooked, but his gaze didn’t waver.

"Yeah, well. Timing was never my strong suit."

You stepped back toward the bed, standing close enough that his knee brushed your hip. His hand drifted up to rest at your waist, light and careful, as if he was giving you every chance to pull away.

But you didn’t.

[sammyquarius]

The JukeJoint

Note: This is part 2 of Beneath the Mississippi. Enjoy

Part 1:

Clarksdale, Mississippi – That Night

The juke joint pulsed with life.

It was loud, packed, and hazy with the sweat of laughter, fried food, and cheap perfume. The sound of blues guitar slid through the air like smoke low, slow, aching. Folks crowded into the small wooden building, their bodies swaying to the music like the whole place was holding its breath and remembering how to breathe all at once.

In the back kitchen, Annie moved like she never left.

Her hands seasoned meat like a memory. Cornmeal battered catfish cracked in hot oil. Steam rose from pots and pans like the past boiling over, and every now and then, she’d glance through the small order window and see Smoke moving through the crowd like a shadow with too much weight on his shoulders.

He hadn’t said much since she agreed to cook. Just gave her that same quiet look, like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

But Annie was real—and so was the attention she drew.

Out in the joint, a tall, caramel-skinned man in suspenders leaned on the bar beside her serving window, watching her with a little too much interest and an easy smile.

“Girl, if I’d known heaven was back in town, I would’ve set up a welcome parade,” he said loud enough for Smoke to hear.

Annie rolled her eyes but didn’t bother hiding the smirk. “Get outta here, Leon,” she called, her tone dry.

“I’m just sayin’, if you cook like that and look like that, Smoke better watch his step.”

Smoke stiffened across the room, glass halfway to his lips. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack the glass if he wasn't careful. Stack saw it right away.

“Oh hell,” Stack muttered, grinning behind his cigarette. “Here come the thunder.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He just kept watching, eyes locked on Annie and the man grinning at her like he had a shot in hell.

Stack nudged his girl Mary beside him. “Better go keep my fool brother from blowing a gasket. You know how he gets.”

Mary arched one perfectly plucked brow, her pink lips twitching with amusement. “He better not say a damn word unless he wants her to walk out again.”

Stack smirked. “I’m just here for the drama. And the hushpuppies.”

Mary smacked his chest and moved toward Annie.

Back in the kitchen, Annie felt the shift before she saw him. Smoke stepped through the swinging door like a storm rolling in off the delta.

“You enjoying the attention?” he asked low, trying like hell to sound casual and failing miserably.

Annie didn’t turn around. “I’m cooking, Smoke. Not auditioning for a man.”

“You didn’t shut it down either.”

That got her to spin around, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”

Smoke took a step closer. “He was flirting.”

“And?”

“I don’t like it.”

Annie laughed. It wasn’t kind. “You don’t get to like or not like anything, Smoke. You gave that up when you walked away.”

He winced like she’d hit him. Maybe she had.

Before things could go further, Mary stepped in, cool and collected, like she’d been watching from the shadows. “Okay, y’all need to cool it before somebody gets burned,” she said, slipping off her gloves and tying on an apron. “I came to help. Lord knows Stack ain’t doing nothin’ but talking loud and looking pretty.”

Annie’s lips twitched. “You sure you want to be back here with us broken folk?”

Mary shrugged, eyes soft but tired. “Stack and I fight more than we don’t some days. He says he’s tryin’ to protect me, but half the time it just feels like he’s pushin’ me away. Like lovin’ me out loud is something he’s afraid of.” She glanced at Annie, her voice steady. “But I stay. Even when it’s hard. Even when he makes me question if I should.”

Annie blinked, surprised by the rawness in her words.

“We all got our fights,” Mary said gently. “Yours just came back wearing boots and regrets.”

She glanced at Smoke, then gave Annie a quiet nod of sisterhood. “Don’t let the past boss your present. You want to cuss him out, do it. You want to feed him? Do that too. But make sure it’s what you want.”

Smoke stood there, silent, watching the two women find something he couldn’t touch. Something he didn’t have anymore. Not yet.

Stack poked his head in, grinning. “Y’all done? Or should I send for the church elders?”

“Boy, get outta here,” Mary snapped.

“Just making sure nobody’s bleeding.”

Smoke turned to leave, the scent of fried catfish and hard truths thick in the air.

Annie watched him go, heart thudding like a drum in her chest. She didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. Hell, she didn’t know what would happen in the next five minutes. But she had her apron on, her hands full, and Mary beside her.

And for now, that was enough.

Gonna start working on part 3!

Note: For more content follow me on https://www.tumblr.com/sammyquarius

[slattlicker]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * F O R G I V E   M E   N O T ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x reader exes-to-lovers fic · chapter T W O ✦ if it makes you smile ✦ ↳ 3.4k words · slow build · college/uni au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a female!reader in mind ✦ (but everyone’s welcome to suffer—i mean enjoy ♡)

you didn’t ask for this. but you didn’t stop it, either. now he’s giving you gifts like it’s a normal thing. and yeah. he brought two forks.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╮ ✧ mentions of past emotional neglect ✧ anxiety around reconnection ✧ implied depressive behavior ✧ college setting / casual profanity ✧ unresolved relationship dynamics ╰˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╯

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you wake up feeling weird.

not tired, not rested—just… off. like your brain’s still buffering from the night before.

you reach for your phone out of habit.

and there it is.

SCHLATT: morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

you just stare at it for a second. blank screen, black text. no “good girl.” no “sweetheart.” no voice memo at 2 a.m. slurring his regrets. just a quiet little check-in.

you didn’t block him. thought about it, a few times. even hovered over the button once.

but you didn’t.

you don’t text back.

not because you're mad. just because you don't know what to do with a text from your ex after months of not hearing anything from him.

✧

the sky is gray by the time you head out. that wet, chilly kind of morning where your hoodie sleeves feel damp no matter what. the quad’s half-empty. you take the path behind the music building to avoid the frat guys setting up some kind of table out front.

your first class is in a big lecture hall—intro to psych. easy credit, annoying professor, always freezing cold. you sit on the left side, third row from the front, second seat in. you always sit there.

which is why you freeze when you spot something already sitting on your desk.

a drink.

your drink.

exact flavors and toppings. still cold, no condensation yet. it was just dropped off.

your name is scrawled on the lid in sharpie in familiar handwriitng—but not just that. tucked underneath the drink, just barely peeking out, is a crumpled post-it note.

you glance around, like maybe you’re being watched. then slide into your seat and peel it out. it says:

figured this was better than showing up to give it to you. - j

your stomach turns a little. not in a bad way. just… a way. you’re still staring at the note when maya slides in beside you.

she takes one look at the drink, the post-it, your face—and gasps.

“oh my god. that’s from your ex, isn’t it.”

you don’t answer. but the color on your face certainly does. she grabs the cup and spins it in her hands like it might have a secret message written on the bottom.

“okay. no, actually, what the hell is this? when did you guys even start talking again? did he venmo you? is this, like, some kind of ‘drink truce’?”

you sigh, snatch the cup back, and take a sip.

it’s perfect. you hate that it’s perfect. you hate that he remembered.

you sort of wish your taste had changed, just so that you could have thrown or given this cup away. but it's been a miserable morning, and this class isn't going to make it any better...so you bring the cup to your lips again, and try not to think too much about where it came from.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

she didn’t text back.

which—fine. he wasn’t expecting her to, not really.

but that doesn’t stop him from checking his phone every five minutes like an idiot on a leash.

he even rereads the text once, just to make sure it didn’t sound too eager.

morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

yeah. no hearts. no weird overcompensating jokes. just enough. hopefully.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack and crosses the quad, head down. it’s cold, but not unbearable. cloudy. the kind of morning where campus smells like mud and energy drinks.

the drink in his hand is starting to sweat, so he wipes it on his sleeve. writes her name on the lid with the sharpie he borrowed from charlie. then he grabs a post-it from his notebook—crumpled from being in his pocket all morning—and writes:

figured this was better than showing up. - j

he doesn’t linger. just drops it off on the desk he knows she always sits in and ghosts out before anyone sees him.

by the time he gets to his own class, he’s wound tight.

he keeps his phone face-down. doesn’t want to see the nothing that’s still waiting there.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

by the time you get to the dining hall, your group already has the usual table: long bench, chipped edges, always kind of sticky. you see maya before anyone else—waving you over like she’s on a game show.

you’re halfway there when you notice something different. there’s a tupperware container sitting on your tray spot. not one of the sad, sweat-covered plastic trays from the line. a real, packed meal.

you pause.

maya grins like she’s about to explode.

“ohhhhhh,” she says, “you’re gonna love this.”

you sit slowly. look down at the container. it’s packed tight: rice, perfectly sliced chicken, sauce you actually like, and a cookie that looks bakery-grade.

everything’s still hot. nothing’s touching. wow.

you look at her. “what is this?”

she’s already pulling out her phone. “your boy dropped it off like five minutes ago. walked right up to us like he wasn’t about to commit an act of emotional terrorism.”

jordan leans in. “he said, and i quote, ‘figured she wouldn’t want to eat whatever crap they're serving today.’ and then disappeared. like. he didn’t even break stride. whoosh, whoosh...a true man on a mission.”

“he sprinted, ” courtney says. “his giant ass shoes squeaking. poor guy was so fucking nervous that we were gonna attack him or some shit.”

you blink at the tupperware like it might explode. you haven’t even opened it yet and you’re already spiraling.

and then you do. and yeah—it’s real. and it smells amazing.

“okay,” maya says, nudging your elbow. “say what you want, but if he ever wants to drop me a lunch like this, i’m available.”

you roll your eyes, but your face is warm and red again.

you take a bite.

it’s perfect. first a perfect drink, then...a perfectly hot, dorm-cooked meal?

you can't help but smile at the taste of the hot rice and fluster at the thought of: what could be next?

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

the classroom is dim. one of the ceiling lights is flickering. the projector screen is stuck on a slide about supply chain logistics—week 4, apparently—and the professor sounds like he’s trying to set a world record for how many times someone can say “optimization” in a sentence.

schlatt is not listening.

he’s sitting near the back, hood up, thumb hovering over his phone. there’s a notebook open in front of him, but he hasn’t written anything down in the last twenty minutes except a small, increasingly dark patch of scribbles in the corner.

he told himself he wouldn’t check again until the class ended.

he’s checked four times in the last six minutes. still nothing.

maybe she hated it. maybe maya made a joke and she got embarrassed and dumped the whole thing in the trash. maybe the cookie got soggy. did he pack it weird? should he have separated the sauce?

the container felt warm when he handed it off. that was a good sign, right?

god, he should’ve left a note. no—wait. no more notes. that's probably why she didn't respond after the drink delivery this morning. he's probably acting too clingy. right?

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. but the damage is already done.

he flips his phone over again, just to check the time—

and her name lights up the screen.

Y/N ♥︎ you can’t bribe me into being your girlfriend again.

he reads it once. then again. and a third time, just to make sure it’s not a hallucination brought on by cafeteria fumes and emotional instability.

his lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. he sits up straighter, like that’ll stop his heart from doing the thing it’s doing.

he types back immediately.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you’re halfway through lunch when your phone buzzes.

SCHLATT: i know wasn’t trying to just wanted to start off your week strong and maybe make you smile then, immediately after: schlatt: not like make you just like if it happened that’d be cool not saying you owe me a smile

a beat later:

SCHLATT: god i’m making this worse huh

you stare at the texts, thumb hovering, brain blank.

across the table, maya sees the look on your face and goes, “oh no. what did he say now.”

you ignore her. she'll make a huge deal about you even entertaining him after all that word vomit. you type slowly.

Y/N: you’re definitely overthinking this

SCHLATT: yeah i do that sometimes this is me being normal btw this is my normal mode

Y/N: terrifying

there’s a pause. then:

SCHLATT: you smiled tho right

you bite your lip. don’t answer right away.

Y/N: yeah whatever …thanks j

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

class ends with zero fanfare. the lights flicker once, the professor mumbles something about next week’s reading, and people start packing up like rats off a sinking ship.

schlatt barely heard any of it.

he’s been on autopilot since her text.

yeah whatever…thanks j

four words. that’s it. and yet somehow it’s enough to knock him on his ass. he can hear her voice, her little chuckle as she said it...

she could’ve left him on read. could’ve said nothing. but she didn’t. she responded. she joked. she used his initial.

he’s been replaying it all afternoon like a dumbass with a crush.

which—okay, yeah. that’s exactly what he is.

a crush on his ex-girlfriend that he's trying his damnedest to win back.

but still.

the second he’s out of class, he heads to the library. he actually wants to get shit done. maybe burn off some of the jittery energy in his chest. maybe just feel like a person with a functioning attention span again.

he takes the stairs up to the third floor, where it’s quiet and nobody breathes too loud. picks a table by the windows. pulls out his laptop and opens his notes.

he’s halfway through rewatching a lecture when he feels someone’s eyes on him.

looks up.

and there she is.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

he looks up before you’re ready.

not in a startled way. just… like he knew you’d be there. like part of him was waiting for you here...even if he knows that you almost never come up to the third floor.

but when he sees you, he smiles. it’s not a big smile. barely noticeable, really. but it’s real. no teasing behind it. no smugness. just soft.

safe.

you freeze for half a second. consider walking right past him, pretending you didn’t see.

but you don’t.

your feet move before your brain can stop them, and the next thing you know, you’re standing at the edge of his table. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either.

you hesitate.

not because you don’t know where to sit—there’s a chair directly across from him. and it’s a big table. too big, honestly.

you hesitate because he looks up and smiles and now your brain is suddenly way too loud with old memories full of mutual laughter.

you clear your throat, shift your weight, point at the chair across from him in the universal student body language of: “is this seat taken?”

he tilts his head, a little confused.

and then your hand kind of flutters. awkward. dumb. you gesture again, smaller this time, like you know what, never mind.

why are you even asking? this is the guy who disappeared on you for months. the guy who left when things got serious. who took your feelings, shoved them in a drawer, and slammed it shut because he didn’t know how to deal.

and now you’re asking for permission to sit with him? seriously?

you almost pivot away—almost leave it there.

but then he shifts in his seat, leans back a little, legs spread wide, and gestures toward the chair with a quiet:

“yeah. of course.”

no hesitation. no edge.

like it never even crossed his mind that he’d say no.

your stomach twists as you sit down.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you sit across from him, and for the first time in weeks, he actually gets through a full page of notes.

not because you’re talking to him. you’re not.

you’re doing the opposite—quiet, efficient, head down, just the gentle sound of typing and paper rustling from your side of the table. and somehow, that helps.

your focus is contagious. he picks up on the rhythm of it—syncs to the pace of your writing, the way you pause to re-read something, the exact second you reach for your water bottle.

it’s grounding. but also?

it’s killing him.

because he keeps catching himself watching you.

not for long—just little flickers. a glance at your hands. the corner of your mouth when you frown at your screen. the way you still bounce your foot when you’re stuck on something.

things he didn’t even know he remembered.

it’s like his brain is taking inventory, stockpiling little reminders of what it was like to have you in his orbit.

and it’s messing him up.

he gets halfway through typing a sentence—then backspaces the whole thing.

focus. he’s supposed to be focusing.

but every few minutes, that thought slips in: she’s here. she’s here. she’s actually here. she asked to sit with me.

and god, he’s trying not to mess it up.

so after a solid block of quiet, after he’s made it through two pages of notes and only spaced out once or twice—he pushes his laptop closed.

just softly. intentionally.

then he tilts his head toward the hallway. raises a brow.

“break?” no words.

just the offer.

and when you nod—he thinks maybe this is the first time all day he’s let himself exhale.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

the walk to the café is short. it always is. but somehow, with schlatt next to you—not touching, not even close enough to brush shoulders—it feels longer. or slower. or maybe that’s just your brain buffering. the two of you step inside. it’s quieter than usual. the late afternoon lull.

he holds the door. you say nothing.

you both drift to the bakery case. you stare at the drink menu. he tilts his head, studying the pastries like they’ve personally wronged him.

“get whatever,” he says, eyes still on the glass. “it’s on me.”

you roll your eyes. “didn’t you already pay a bit of your debt with that five-star michelin lunch?”

he smirks. “that was just an appetizer.”

you almost smile. you order something caffeinated. he orders something that sounds 100% artificially flavored. and then he points at one of the desserts behind the glass and says, “that too.”

the girl at the counter raises a brow. “want a fork?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “make it two.”

you blink. say nothing.

you end up at a small table near the window. sunlight spills across the surface in those weird golden strips that make everything feel older than it is.

he sets everything down. drinks. napkins. the sad little dessert. and quietly, without looking at you, he places one fork in front of your side. that’s it. no grand gesture. no comment.

like it’s just… assumed.

and somehow, that’s worse.

you sit. pick up the fork.

he digs in. keeps his eyes on the window. “it’s mid,” he says around a bite. “we chose wrong.”

you roll your eyes and stab a corner.

“we? you ordered it,” you say after a bite, dry. “don’t act like it betrayed you.”

schlatt snorts. “looked better in the glass. that’s not my fault.”

“you pointed at it with conviction. then forced me to be in on it too.”

he shrugs. “i have a history of bad decisions.”

you arch an eyebrow.

he catches it. sighs. “yeah, yeah. walked into that one.”

the silence that follows isn’t stiff. it’s tired, but not tense. comfortable, somehow.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you keep eating.

he watches the people passing by the café window. pretends not to check your expression when you’re looking down. tells himself not to read into the little things—how you haven’t moved your seat farther away, how you haven’t called this a mistake.

then you speak.

quiet. barely over the hum of the coffee machines.

“thanks. for today.”

he glances over.

you don’t meet his eyes, but your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. like you're not sure if you should’ve said it. like maybe he’ll make it weird.

“yeah,” he says. “anytime.”

he means it.

he didn’t know how today was going to go. hell, he didn’t even know if you’d respond to the first text. he thought he knew you better than anyone, before things blew up. but when it ended, when he left, it was like someone flipped a switch and made him a stranger in his own memories.

that’s what scared him the most. and now?

you’re here. sitting across from him. splitting a dumb little pastry and still catching him off guard with the tiniest thank you.

it’s not everything. but it’s something.

and for once, he’s not spiraling about what this means next. not planning the whole rest of your relationship in his head. not worrying (too much) about your parents hating him or whether he makes enough money or if he’s the guy who can actually give you what you deserve.

he’ll still worry about all that. later. but right now?

one day at a time feels pretty damn good.

✧

they leave the café without saying much.

it’s not awkward.

just… full.

like the air between them is carrying everything they haven’t figured out how to say yet.

he keeps pace with her down the sidewalk, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, shoulder just a little too close to hers.

every so often, their arms bump. then, when their hands brush, she doesn’t pull away.

and when he shifts his fingers—just barely—she threads hers through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t breathe for a second. just holds on.

the walk is slow. campus fades into a blur of yellow lamps and sleepy foot traffic. everything’s quieter now. softer. the kind of evening that makes you think maybe life doesn’t have to be so loud all the time.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t want to break whatever this is. whatever they’ve found today.

you squeeze his hand once.

and for a moment, it’s everything.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

his hand is warm in yours.

you let him hold it.

because you don’t know the next time you’ll get to.

because today was… good.

and that’s what hurts the most.

it started with a text—simple, easy, like he hadn’t left months of silence between the two of you. then the drink, waiting at your desk like it was never a question. the packed lunch. the smiley texts. and then there was the library. him focused. steady. glancing up at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there. like he didn’t deserve it. like he wanted to deserve it.

and when he tilted his head—silent invite to take a break with him? you went.

the café. the dessert. the two forks.

the way he didn’t push, didn’t demand anything, just… showed up. of course, you can't be won over by materialistic things, but...there was a thoughtfulness behind today that you couldn't shake.

and now here you are, walking back to your dorm, hand in his, in the same rhythm you used to move in before everything went sideways.

it feels like deja vu.

it feels like something you wished for months ago.

it feels like too little, too late.

he used to freeze up at the thought of doing anything like this. used to shut down when you asked for more. and now? now he’s doing it without being asked.

you’d spent months wishing for this version of him.

and now that he’s here…you want to believe this could work. you do.

but you also remember what it felt like to sit in silence, waiting for him to care again. you remember trying to hold things together by yourself, telling your friends everything was fine while checking your phone more times than you’ll admit. you remember how easy it was for him to disappear.

and now?

now he’s here. fully. or at least, showing that he can be.

but you can’t unlive the part where he wasn’t.

so you hold his hand.

a little tighter.

one last time.

and you try to memorize what it feels like.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * E N D   O F   C H A P T E R   T W O ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ remember how he disappeared for months? yeah. well. hahahahaha ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

📌 taglist - @f4sh10n-m4v3n

[mon-amorie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ ) ‎ P.2

scene ‎ ─── ‎ on campus where anonymity breeds honesty, a late-night confessions app becomes your escape. a place where students anonymously share voice notes or texts about anything—stress, confessions, poetry, love, lust, loneliness—all sacred. naturally, you become drawn to a certain user, his words resonating deeply, almost bleeding through the screen. compelled by an unspoken connection, you send a reply

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‎ ‎ ( pairing ) ‎ hyunjin x f!reader ‎ ( genre ) ‎ college au, slow burn, fluff, slight angst, academic burnout, profanity, contains mature content ‎ !mdni! ‎ ( wc. ) ‎ 28.7k‎ / ‎ part one. ‎ back to nav.

゜・．・ note! ‎ ─ ‎ wasn't meant to be two parts but here we are… continues right where we left off. again, hope you enjoy the rest of this fic, please let me know what you think. lots of love, nana

‎ ‎ ‎ Sometimes you wonder how life decides which moments will stick with you and which ones will slip by without a trace.

You move through your days on autopilot. Same streets. Same jokes. Same half-slept nights. Most of it blends together, bleeding into itself until time loses its shape.

But once in a while, something shifts. Something small hits different. A glance, a word, a silence. And before you even recognize it, it’s lodged itself into memory. Quietly, stubbornly. Like it’s always been there.

You’ve been noticing that more lately. The way small choices stay with you. A class you almost skipped. A seat you almost didn’t take. A person you never meant to notice. Not the kind who explodes into your life like a firework, but the kind who settles in like background noise. Steady, persistent, impossible to unhear once you’ve tuned in.

And you keep insisting it’s not about him.

That’s not the story you’re telling. That’s not who you are. You don’t get caught up like this, especially not now. Not when you’re this close to the end. This was meant to be the quiet stretch. Head down, eyes forward. No mess. No rewrites. No new beginnings when you haven’t finished the last chapter.

But there he is. Showing up in the quiet moments. Slipping into your thoughts when the noise dies down. Not loudly, just enough. Like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. Something you never meant to keep, but now can’t seem to let go of.

And it’s not just him.

It’s the people. The places. The way the city feels different now that you’ve walked those streets with someone beside you. It’s the group chat arguments over snacks and midnight jokes that feel more like lifelines. It’s the late walks back to your dorm, the dumb stuff that somehow started to matter.

The filler scenes, turning into plot points.

Some nights, you think about the version of you who didn’t show up that day. Who stayed home, missed the train, never walked into that room. That version wouldn’t know what she missed. And somehow, that’s what lingers. How easy it would’ve been to let it all pass you by.

You try not to dwell. Try to keep your eyes on what’s next. But even when you’re not thinking about it, it’s still there. A quiet thrum beneath everything else. A soft pulse at the edge of your vision.

Because some things don’t leave. Not really.

You remember coming back to your dorm that night, still riding the sugar high, cheeks sore from laughing, your shoes swinging from your fingertips because it felt easier than wearing them.

You texted him, almost hesitating before hitting send. Added your name, just in case he forgot.

lemme know once u get home safe

He replied a few minutes later, simple and low-effort but enough.

dw, i did :) hope you did too

And that was it. No fireworks. Just a tired smile pulling at your lips. Something small and instinctive, like muscle memory. After that, things started to shift. Not all at once or dramatically, but you noticed.

Poetry class came quicker than you were ready for. You barely had time to sit before the professor told everyone to trade assignments with their partner. You didn’t know what to expect from his writing. Maybe something vague or careful. But it wasn’t.

It was raw. Stripped-down honest in a way most people avoid, especially when it counts for a grade. Nothing overly poetic, nothing trying too hard. Just real. The kind of truth that sneaks up on you because it sounds so much like your own.

There were no names. No clues pointing anywhere. But you read it once, then again, hoping—maybe even aching—for it to be about you.

And across the room, he was doing the same.

Because somewhere between the scrawl of your handwriting and the way you wrote about fleeting things like they mattered, he saw a version of you he hadn’t quite seen before. Even if the poem wasn’t about him. Even if it was about no one in particular. The way you noticed things, that was enough to make him wonder. To make him hope.

Class ended too fast. You lingered, slowly packing your notebook under your arm, half-stalling when you felt a soft tap against it.

You looked up, and there he was. Eyes lowered, voice quieter than usual.

“I liked yours,” he said, like it was no big deal. Like it didn’t settle directly into your chest.

You smiled without thinking. “I liked yours too.”

He nodded, half-shy, half-pleased, and ducked his head like he didn’t want you to see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But you caught it.

After that, the weeks moved differently.

Late-night texts started coming more often, drifting into your mornings. Inside jokes started stacking up like little souvenirs tucked in your notes app. In class, he moved seats to sit beside you, brushing it off like it just made more sense. Like it wasn’t a decision he spent way too long overthinking.

You started walking to the bakery after class together, usually because he “didn’t want to go alone,” but you both knew that wasn’t really why.

The first time it happened, Minho caught sight of the two of you through the bakery window. He didn’t say anything at the time, just raised his eyebrows slightly and filed the moment away.

The next day at work, he gave you that look. The one that says I see you, but he won’t spell it out unless you make him. Sharp-eyed. Half-amused. But he let it be.

Maybe that’s why, days later, you found yourself walking beside him, the night before his birthday, trying not to laugh too hard while you fake-argued over his cake choice in a bakery that smelled like butter and sugar and something too soft to name.

You’d been there longer than expected, hovering near the glass display while the cashier wrapped up the box behind the counter. He kept second-guessing the cake, flipping between mousse and tiramisu, then back again like either one was life-altering.

You didn’t help. You just stood beside him with your arms crossed, making quiet noises of judgment every time he pointed at something with too much frosting.

“Be honest,” Minho said, eyeing the mousse like it had personally offended him. “If this was for you, what would you pick?”

“I wouldn’t wait until the night before,” you replied, not looking at him, pretending to study the croissants instead. “That’s what I’d pick.”

He scoffed. “Okay. But if we’re already here?”

“Probably the strawberry sponge,” you said. “It looks lighter.”

“Lighter? It’s cake.”

You shrugged. “Some of us like feeling joy without a stomachache.”

He gave you a look. Flat, unimpressed, familiar. “You’re exhausting.”

You smiled, not denying it. There was a comfort in how easily he threw those words around. Like he didn’t need to mean them. Like he trusted you’d know the difference.

In the end, he still went with the mousse. He stepped aside to pay, and you watched him from behind, absentmindedly peeling the paper off a stray straw wrapper. There was something familiar in the way he stood. Slightly hunched like he was trying not to take up space. The kind of posture people carry when they’ve always expected to be overlooked.

You wondered if he knew he didn’t have to do that around you anymore. Probably not. You’d tell him someday. Or maybe you wouldn’t. It didn’t feel urgent.

He reached for the box as the cashier slid it across the counter, then turned to you with that little victorious tilt of his head like he’d proven a point.

You didn’t know what point it was, but you let him have it. “Happy early birthday, I guess,” you muttered. “You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t buy it.”

“Moral support counts.”

“You argued against the cake the entire time.”

“That is my version of support.” He rolled his eyes and nudged you toward the door. You went, still smiling, shoes soft against the tile as the night pressed in just beyond the glass.

“What’s wrong with chocolate mousse?” he said again, pushing the door open with his shoulder as you stepped out into the cool air.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, falling into step beside him. “It’s just… predictable.”

He gave you a look. “You’re predictable.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Wow. That’s your comeback?”

“Works every time,” he said, smirking just enough to be annoying.

You scoffed under your breath and bumped your shoulder into his, not hard, just familiar. 

You both paused at the curb, unhurried, the kind of stillness that didn’t ask to be filled. Traffic hummed softly in the distance. Someone laughed around the corner. The cake box was balanced in his hands like something fragile, though you knew it wasn’t. He glanced over at you, then back at the sidewalk ahead.

“So,” he said, dragging the word out like it had weight. “You and Hyunjin, huh?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What about us?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Minho said, switching the box to one hand so he could nudge you with his elbow. “You’re always looking at each other like…” He paused, squinted, raised his hands like a director setting a frame. “Like you’re in a coffee commercial.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to feel it in your neck. “Shut up.”

He laughed, really laughed this time, the sound echoing off the buildings around you like it didn’t want to stop. You didn’t join in, but you smiled, eyes trained on the sidewalk, the corner of your mouth pulling without permission.

“I’m just saying,” he said, softer now, his voice dipping back into something closer to normal. “It feels different. In a good way.”

You didn’t respond, not immediately. Just let the words settle. They didn’t need an answer.

And even with all the teasing, even with your careful deflections and the way you’d trained yourself to shrug things off before they got too close, something about what he said stayed with you. Not because it was surprising. But because it wasn’t.

It almost slipped away the night of his birthday.

Almost.

Expensive Korean barbecue had been bought without a second thought for his birthday dinner. The kind that sizzled and smoked under the warm hum of conversation, where the metal vents overhead pulled in the haze but never quite cleared it.

The table filled slowly with side dishes and voices, overlapping in the easy chaos that only happens with people who’ve known each other long enough to speak without thinking.

There was no order to the meal. Someone was always flipping meat too early, someone else was stealing pieces off the grill before they were ready, the tongs passed around like an afterthought. Drinks were poured messily, small glasses raised over and over until you lost count of who was toasting what. Laughter caught in the smoke. The air was thick with it. Heat, hunger, happiness. Everyone leaned in a little closer than usual. Like the warmth might escape if they didn’t.

Even Jisung had shown up, slipping through the door with an apologetic grin and that flustered energy that always made you wonder how he got anywhere at all. “I was here the whole time,” he said as he pulled up a chair, like anyone believed him. Someone booed. He bowed deeply like he was accepting an award. A cheer went up anyway. It wasn’t about truth. It was about presence.

New faces filtered in as the night went on, pulled in by text invites and word of mouth. People you barely knew a week ago were suddenly offering you shots and asking for your star sign. Stories flowed as easily as the drinks. Everything felt loose. Safe. Time was forgotten, or maybe just ignored. Someone ordered more food even though no one was really hungry anymore. No one complained.

You’d disappeared somewhere between courses. The noise had started to feel like a blur, so you slipped out, taking the chance to give Minho his gifts before anyone else noticed.

The key ring was quiet. Just his cat’s initials, pressed into the leather with a kind of permanence that made it feel older than it was. You knew he’d like the weight of it. The simplicity. The usefulness.

The camera, though, was a different story. You weren’t sure what possessed you. Maybe it was the way he talked once, quietly, about wanting to travel more. About not remembering things as well as he used to. You didn’t say any of that when you handed it to him. You just gave it over and said, “Don’t lose it.”

He squinted at the box like it might bite him. “...You’re so annoying,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, but his mouth twitched at the corners, just enough. He turned away like that would hide it. It didn’t.

Later, he hooked the keychain onto his keys without a word. And the camera? It was out before dessert. The first photo was crooked. Everyone was laughing too hard to sit still, cheeks pink and eyes half-shut, someone’s chopsticks caught mid-air. The flash bounced off the smoke. You didn’t need it to be perfect. It just needed to exist.

Someone, probably Chan, slipped away to grab the cake. When he returned, the chocolate mousse you’d argued over was topped with a single sparkler, hissing and spitting light as everyone scrambled to find their phones. Minho groaned, already dreading the attention, but the sparkler hissed louder, forcing him to play along.

The birthday song that followed was a mess. Loud, chaotic, completely off-key. But no one cared. He blew out the sparkler with one sharp breath, muttering something about wishing for new friends, but his grin gave him away.

No one touched the cake until he’d claimed the first slice. Even then, people kept stealing bites from his plate. He let them.

And Hyunjin… well, Hyunjin never wandered too far.

He didn’t make a point of it, didn’t draw a line in the sand between you and the rest of the group. He just moved naturally, sitting beside you like that was the only available seat, brushing your leg under the table like it wasn’t the third time.

His hands moved without hesitation. Reaching for side dishes, refilling water, nudging napkins your way when your fingers were too sticky to grab them yourself. He didn’t make a show of anything. That’s what made it worse. Or maybe better. You didn’t know.

At some point, his arm found the back of your chair. It didn’t drop there all at once. Just settled gradually, like it had always been there.

You didn’t lean in. You didn’t move away. It just was. The kind of closeness you don’t question until later, when you’re lying in bed trying to figure out if it meant something or if it just meant comfort.

By the time the group drifted into the night, the city had cooled. The streets breathed easier after the warmth of the restaurant. Everyone was buzzing. Soft, sleepy chaos.

Chaeryeong had started humming some old K-pop song and pulled you into a half-dance, your feet barely cooperating as you stumbled across the pavement, laughing too hard to remember the lyrics. Jisung joined in just to be annoying, singing the wrong words on purpose until Minho shoved him half-heartedly. 

Hyunjin didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and gently took your bag from your shoulder, like it was the most normal thing in the world. His fingers brushed yours when he did. You didn’t comment. Neither did he.

Someone bought snacks from the convenience store, and the group huddled near the glowing machines outside, unwrapping candy and sipping canned drinks like the night would never end.

Seungmin passed out gum to whoever wanted some, and Minhyuk argued with Chan over the best flavor of chips until they realized they’d bought the same ones anyway.

Voices got quieter. Jokes got lazier. Eventually, people started leaving in waves. Early classes. Train schedules. Work in the morning. Excuses, all of them. But no one wanted to say goodbye first.

There were hugs, loose and off-balance. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Heads knocked together in clumsy affection. Sleepy promises: “Let’s do this again soon,” “Don’t forget to send me the pictures,” “Text me when you get home.” No one believed they’d follow through. But no one questioned the sincerity of it, either.

Hyunjin hugged you too. Brief, like the others, but different somehow. His arms wrapped around you with a quiet care that caught you off guard. Not tight or stiff. Just enough to notice. His chin brushed your shoulder before he stepped back, his hand lingering on your arm a second too long before slipping away.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. But the squeeze—quiet, careful, almost an afterthought—stayed with you. Long after everyone had gone. Long after you made it home. And somewhere between peeling off your shoes and sinking into your bed, it hit you.

You hadn’t felt this light in a long time.

The thought stopped you cold, settling deep in your chest. When was the last time life didn’t feel so heavy? When was the last time your shoulders didn’t carry the weight of everything you were afraid to drop?

It startled you, that kind of softness. The way gratitude can slip in without warning and leave you breathless. The way joy can feel so fragile you’re scared to look at it too closely, in case it disappears.

Because truthfully? You’d been close. Close to unraveling quietly while everyone else clapped for you, so sure you were okay, so convinced you had it all handled.

And it was absurd, wasn’t it?

You had it good. You had friends. You were about to graduate. Things could be so much worse. And yet, the weight never left you. The guilt for not being happier, the constant voice in your head whispering that a single low grade was a sign you were stupid, that a single bad day meant you were doomed to fail. It was exhausting.

But nights like this… nights where nothing big happened, where no one was asking anything of you, where you could just exist with the people who had quietly become your people—

Nights like this reminded you: maybe you weren’t as lost as you thought.

𐪞

The invite came quietly. No fanfare. No shared calendar link or group poll. Just a message dropped in the lull of a late afternoon. That odd hour when everyone’s half-busy, half-bored, still reflexively checking their phones like something might change.

It was the kind of thing you said yes to without really thinking. And maybe that was what made it feel good. Like no one was trying too hard.

By the time you got there, the sky had folded into that muted kind of blue that feels nearly grayscale. No sun, no rain, just air. The street was hushed, tucked somewhere between dinner and dark. 

Jeongin’s apartment sat on the second floor of a modest building, the kind with narrow stairwells and doorbells that buzzed too loud. The front door stuck a little at the hinge, but the light spilling out through the frosted window was already warm. Yellow and soft like butter on rice.

He opened the door with one foot, a half-eaten bag of chips tucked under his arm, and a wooden spoon between his teeth like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Wow,” he mumbled around it, stepping back to let you in. “You showed up before Chan. Historic.”

You kicked off your shoes and nudged them into a neater pile. “He’s probably circling for parking.”

“Or napping in the car like the ancient man he is.”

The door creaked again just as Jeongin said it. Chan walked in, holding two bottles of iced tea in one hand and shooting Jeongin a look that could’ve curdled milk.

“Say it again,” he warned, slow. “I dare you.”

“You’re late,” Jeongin shrugged, grabbing one of the bottles like it had always belonged to him. “Did you have to stretch before walking up the stairs?”

Chan set the other bottle on the counter with a thud. “Don’t ask me for help moving your couch ever again.”

“No promises.”

Jisung showed up a little while later, headphones still hanging loose around his neck and his hoodie halfway unzipped like he’d run the last block.

Then came Chaeryeong, breezing in with a knit tote bag and zero explanation, like she'd already lived this night once before and had just decided to return.

Not everyone could make it. But the ones who were free came. That was enough.

There was no plan. No itinerary or playlist waiting. Just a couch with too many blankets, something bubbling on the stove that smelled like ramen but richer, and the vague suggestion of a movie no one would watch until half the group was already horizontal.

You sat on the edge of the counter, swinging your legs lightly, watching Jeongin stir something into the broth. Garlic, maybe. Or sesame oil. Whatever it was, it made the kitchen feel like a small, warm world of its own.

Then, without hesitation, he dumped what could only be described as a reckless amount of chili flakes into the pot.

You blinked. “Is that… safe?”

“It’s not about safety,” he said, as if you’d asked something deeply philosophical. “It’s about respect.”

“You’re literally cooking instant noodles.”

“And they deserve to be treated with dignity.”

He handed you the first bowl. No fancy toppings, no garnish, just a glossy broth and a single perfect egg, soft-boiled to that exact kind of tender that makes you question your whole technique. You took a bite.

Of course, infuriatingly, it was good.

The rest of the night folded in on itself like that. Quiet movement, half-finished conversations, laughter that didn’t demand attention. At some point, Jisung booted up Little Nightmares on the TV and tossed you the second controller.

“Do not let me play this alone,” he said, already adjusting the brightness.

You squinted at the menu screen. “Is it scary?”

“It’s eerie,” Jeongin said from the floor, one socked foot propped up against the coffee table. “Not jump-scare scary. Just unsettling.”

Chan glanced over with a raised brow. “You screamed during the opening cutscene last time.”

“There was a loud door slam,” Jeongin argued, deadpan. “That’s a reasonable reaction.”

The game started slow. Long corridors, shadowy figures, the kind of atmosphere that made you hold your breath even when nothing was happening. You and Jisung traded the controller back and forth. He was better at jumping puzzles. You were better at not panicking when things chased you.

Chaeryeong curled up beside you on the couch, her legs folded under her and a blanket draped around her shoulders like she hadn’t even asked, just taken it. She kept gasping at all the wrong moments, even when the screen was dead quiet. 

Chan sat nearby, one arm lazily slung over the back of the couch, giving half-hearted directions in that dry, detached tone only older siblings seemed to master.

“Go left,” he said. “No, your other left.”

It felt like a long exhale.

There wasn’t any pressure to be interesting. No one was trying to one-up anyone. The light from the screen flickered across everyone’s faces, soft and shadowed. Jeongin leaned his head back against the wall at one point and closed his eyes. Jisung stopped narrating his every move. The quiet came not from boredom, but comfort.

Then someone broke it just enough to ask, “Ice cream?”

Jeongin perked up immediately, eyes blinking open like he'd been waiting for someone to say it.

“Yes. I bought weird flavors. You’re all trying them.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and reemerged with five small tubs, their labels strange and half-English. One had a taro root and sea salt on the front. Another was just called “black milk” in minimalist silver font. There was a pale green one that smelled faintly like rice, and a pink-speckled mystery that turned out to be lychee-strawberry.

“Jeongin,” Chaeryeong said, eyeing them with suspicion, “these look cursed.”

“They’re elite,” he said, already handing her a spoon. “You have no taste.”

“Taste is exactly what I’m worried about.”

You tried the taro one first. Creamy, a little salty, a flavor you couldn’t quite name. Not bad. Just unexpected. Jisung made a dramatic face after trying the lychee, but still reached for a second bite.

Chan didn’t say a word. Just passed each container with quiet efficiency, sampling everything, finishing his scoop before anyone else even commented. You caught the small hum he made when trying the black milk, like he wasn’t planning to admit it was good.

Now the apartment smelled like soy sauce and cold sugar, savory hanging low in the walls, sweet clinging to the air. Someone had turned the game volume down, and music played again. Not loudly, just some leftover track on loop at the tail end of a forgotten playlist.

The voices in the room softened. Jisung ended up half-sprawled on the rug, thumbing through a game on his phone with the screen turned low. Chaeryeong was scrolling through something, showing Jeongin a picture every few minutes with a quiet laugh. 

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your jeans, and began gathering the empty bowls without needing to be asked.

You moved into the kitchen. Rinsed each bowl under warm water. Stacked them gently. Let the faucet run and felt the heat seep into your palms, grounding and quiet.

The rest of the apartment hummed behind you, dim and cozy, but out of reach for a moment. The light in the kitchen buzzed faintly above you. You paused, listening to the low murmur of voices and laughter. Let yourself breathe.

Then, soft footsteps.

And Chan’s voice behind you, casual, like he hadn’t just been watching you slip away.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already stepping in like he wasn’t waiting for permission.

You shook your head, barely glancing over your shoulder. “Almost done.”

Still, he moved beside you, picking up a dish towel and drying what you handed off without a word. For a minute or so, that was all it was. Quiet movements, the occasional clink of ceramic. 

Then Chan spoke, still not looking at you.

“Tonight’s been nice.”

You hummed in agreement. “Jeongin’s place has good energy.”

“That, or he hides the chaos well.”

You smiled faintly. “He does put effort into pretending he doesn’t try.”

Chan laughed under his breath, low and knowing. “Takes one to know one.”

You handed him the last bowl, the water now running clear. The sink hissed as you turned it off, wiping your hands on a nearby towel. For a second, it felt like that was it. Like maybe he’d nod, thank you, walk back out to the others.

But he stayed where he was. Still leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. Something quiet passed behind his eyes before he spoke again.

“You’ve been kinda… quiet tonight,” he said, carefully. “Not in a bad way. Just… not all here.”

You didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t the kind of question you could dodge, but it also wasn’t the kind that demanded anything specific. So you just leaned back against the edge of the sink, arms folded loosely over your stomach, and looked at the countertop.

“I think I’ve been stuck in my own head,” you said eventually.

Chan didn’t press. He waited, the way people only do when they care.

“It’s not like anything’s wrong, exactly. I’ve just been feeling…” You trailed off, trying to find the right shape for it. “Small. Lately.”

He tilted his head a little, brows drawing together. “Small how?”

You breathed out through your nose. “Like I’m not enough. For someone. Or even just… in general. Like there’s this version of me I keep trying to show up as, and sometimes I’m close, but sometimes it just feels like I’m cosplaying. And I can’t tell if that means I’m changing or faking it.”

Chan was quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing lightly along the seam of the dish towel in his hands.

“Is this about Hyunjin?” he asked, gently.

You hesitated, then nodded. “Not in the way people probably think it is. It’s not… about him, not really. It’s how I feel when I’m around him. How I start second-guessing everything I say, everything I do. He never asks me to. He’s never unkind. But I keep wondering when I’m going to mess it up. When he’s going to realize I’m just…” You faltered, then finished in a breath, “someone he thinks is better than I am.”

Chan’s voice came quiet. “You think he’s looking for perfect?”

“I think I’m scared he’ll see how not-perfect I am. And maybe decide that’s enough reason not to stay.”

That landed in the space between you, soft but heavy. You didn’t mean for it to sound so fragile. It just was.

Chan nodded slowly, resting his arms along the edge of the counter. “Can I say something kind of lame?”

You gave him a look. “You’re asking me?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Fair.”

He let a small pause bloom between you before speaking.

“I think… the hardest thing isn’t showing up as the version of yourself you want to be. It’s showing up as who you actually are, even on the days you’re not proud of it. Especially then.” His voice stayed low, but there was conviction there. “If someone’s gonna love you, they have to meet you where you are. Not just where you shine.”

You looked at him, quiet.

“And sometimes,” he added, “we think we’re failing just because we’re feeling more than we’re used to. Doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

You let that settle in.

Then, from the doorway, Chaeryeong’s voice chimed in, casual, like she’d only caught the last part but still meant every word.

“He’s right, you know.”

You turned to see Chaeryeong leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression open. Warm.

“If you weren’t enough,” she said simply, “you wouldn’t be this scared of losing something real. You feel this way because you care. That’s not nothing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It wrapped around the three of you like a blanket someone forgot to fold. Loose, lived-in.

You let out a breath of a laugh, brushing your fingers along your temple.

“You two suck at lighthearted kitchen chats.”

Chan arched a brow. “You’re the one who started washing dishes like it was a metaphor.”

Chaeryeong grinned. “Come on. Jisung’s trying to freestyle over the Little Nightmares soundtrack and Jeongin’s threatening to throw him out.”

You nodded, eyes a little shinier than before. “Okay. Just a sec.”

They both left without needing to say more.

And you stayed for a moment longer, letting your reflection blur in the kitchen window, letting the echo of their words settle somewhere soft in your chest. Then you turned off the light and followed the sound of laughter back into the room.

‎

‎ ‎ [A year ago, campus housing]

The air in the dorm was thick. Thicker than the humid nights Hyunjin had grown up with, thicker than the weight that sat in his chest whenever things felt off and he couldn’t name why. It didn’t move. It just sat there, low and oppressive, like it had been waiting. The kind of heat that had nothing to do with weather and everything to do with what was about to break.

Julie stood across from him, arms crossed tight like she’d been bracing for this all day. Her mouth was set, not trembling, not apologizing. Just drawn into that flat, unreadable line she always pulled when she wanted to win something. A conversation. An argument. The upper hand.

Hyunjin’s hand twitched at his side. He wasn’t sure when the shouting had started. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe everything just got louder inside his head until it spilled out without meaning to.

“Are you even listening to me, Julie?”

His voice cracked. Not out of anger, not entirely. It sounded too raw to be that. It echoed around the small room, bouncing off the barren walls like it didn’t belong to either of them. Her face didn’t change. Not really. If anything, her eyes sharpened, like she was waiting for the next thing to get annoyed at.

“No,” she snapped, like it was obvious. “Not when you’re saying shit like that to my face.”

Something in him pulled taut. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, and for a second, all he could do was stare at her like he was seeing someone else entirely. He wasn’t the type to raise his voice. He hated it. Hated how it made him feel afterward. Gutted, guilty, spent. But this… this was something else. This was the kind of hurt that didn’t have a neat place to go.

He stepped forward before he could stop himself, voice low now, rough with disbelief. “So that’s it? We’re just going to pretend those messages didn’t exist?”

Julie didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She shifted her weight slightly, like she was tired of standing. Like this whole thing was dragging out longer than she thought it would.

“I already told you,” she muttered. “It’s not what you think.”

He laughed once. Short, bitter, humorless. Ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the root like it might keep him from saying something worse.

“You told your friends you were using me.” The words came out quieter this time, but sharper. Cleaner. Like a blade.

Julie’s mouth tightened. Her gaze flicked, just briefly, off to the side. That was all it took. A small, reflexive tic. But he caught it.

And in that sliver of a second, he felt it: the shift. That maybe she hadn’t expected him to find out. That maybe she thought she could talk her way around it, just like before.

He took a breath, trying to steady the part of him that was shaking. “You told me you loved me.”

The silence that followed stretched thin, pulling taut between them. She didn’t respond. Just looked down at her nails for a second, then back up like she was waiting for this to end.

“Was that bullshit too?” he asked, softer now. And that softness, that ache in his voice, was the worst part of it. He hated how small he sounded. Hated how much of himself still wanted her to say no.

But she didn’t.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Her voice was flat. Unmoved. Like he was asking too much from someone who had already given him everything they were willing to part with.

And maybe that was true. Maybe she had never intended to give him anything real in the first place.

Hyunjin swallowed. His hands were cold now. Everything in him recoiled, slow and silent. He looked at her. Not at her face, but at the distance between them. At the absence of something that should’ve been there.

He thought she was the one thing he hadn’t ruined. That even in the middle of everything else falling apart—assignments he couldn’t finish, expectations he couldn’t meet, friendships that slipped through the cracks like sand—she was the one thing that felt solid.

And she let him believe that. Let him pour himself into her, piece by piece, even when she had no intention of holding it.

“You didn’t love me,” he said, not accusing anymore. Just filling in the empty spaces. “You loved the attention. You loved knowing someone would pick up when he wouldn’t.”

Julie didn’t deny it. Not out loud.

She just looked away, toward the window. Always the window. And something in him broke for good. He felt it go. The last thread between them, so thin it didn’t even make a sound.

“Was any of it real?”

It came out small. Like something he already knew the answer to. Julie’s eyes flickered again, briefly, and maybe it was guilt. Maybe not. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t even say no.

She said nothing.

And silence is the cruelest kind of confirmation.

He nodded, slowly, as if his body had finally caught up to what his heart had already figured out. Everything in him hurt. But it was a quiet kind of pain now. A steady, dull thing.

He memorized the shape of it. Her standing there, arms still crossed, face turned away like this wasn’t worth her full attention. Like it was easier not to see the damage if you didn’t look at it directly.

“Right,” he said, and it was the only thing left. No anger. No desperation. Just the clean, hollow sound of acceptance.

He turned toward the door, his feet moving through something heavy. He paused, hand on the knob, still stupid enough, still human enough, to wait. Just in case she said his name.

Just in case she said anything.

But the room was quiet. Too quiet. Just the dull whir of the air conditioner and the sound of his own breath shaking in his throat.

So he left.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t check if she turned to watch him go. He didn’t want to know.

The door clicked shut behind him. That was the only sound left. One final punctuation mark at the end of something he’d been trying to hold onto with bloody hands.

And just like that, it was over.

𐪞

‎ ‎ ‎ Sometimes Hyunjin wondered if there was a word for it. That strange, hollow weight certain memories carried.

Not the loud ones. Not the ones that came with fireworks or shouting or door slams. Just the ones that hung in the air long after they were done. The kind that folded themselves into your ribs, quiet and permanent, like furniture rearranged in a room you barely recognized anymore.

After Julie, everything felt like that. Not sharp, not dramatic. Just... dulled. Like life had been turned down a few notches and left humming in the background.

He never really told people how bad it got. How the walls of his room started to feel like they were pressing in. How his own voice sounded foreign when it cracked down the middle from trying too hard not to cry. How there were nights when the silence swallowed him whole and spit him back out with shaking hands and swollen eyes.

Chan was the only one who ever saw him like that. Really saw him. Sat next to him on the floor when it all caved in, a takeout box unopened between them, his hand resting gently on Hyunjin’s shoulder like it could hold him together. He didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. Just passed him a tissue when the tears came again, and said, “You’re not weak for feeling it.”

That helped. Not all at once, not in a movie-moment kind of way. But enough to breathe again.

And now, he’s here. Not broken, but not whole either. Just quieter. Still soft in the places that matter. Still watching the world with those wide, wondering eyes like he’s waiting for it to surprise him.

Because that’s the thing about Hyunjin. He’s always seen the bigger picture. While most people rush through moments, he lingers. Notices the way light spills through half-closed blinds and paints shifting patterns on the floor. The way strangers on trains unconsciously mirror each other’s posture, like some quiet choreography playing out in real time. He notices the poetry in things others overlook.

He’s the kind who gets lost in thought mid-conversation, not because he isn’t listening, but because a part of him is busy folding the moment into something sacred. A hopeless romantic, not in the rose-colored sense, but in the way he believes there’s meaning tucked into everything. Every word, every glance, every almost.

He used to fall in love with the idea of people long before he truly knew them. Built whole lives from passing glances, imagined conversations spun from nothing, fell hard for moments that barely existed. And the thing is, he always knew better. But knowing didn’t stop him from wanting.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but sometimes, when the night stretches long and quiet, he wonders if that’s why the hurt always feels so sharp. So intimate. 

Because he opens doors too wide, too soon. Because he takes people at their word, believes in the good before it’s proven. And lately, he’s been questioning if maybe love, real love, isn’t found in grand gestures or loud confessions.

Maybe it’s softer than that. Maybe it’s a presence that lingers after the noise fades. A warmth that doesn’t demand attention, but never leaves. And lately, almost without meaning to, his thoughts keep circling back to you.

He didn’t mean to think about you so often. Didn’t mean for your name to come up when nothing in the conversation had anything to do with you. But it did. In the way someone mentioned your favorite drink. In the way the wind picked up a loose thread from his coat and reminded him of that afternoon you stood beside him at the crosswalk, too absorbed in your playlist to notice the world was already watching.

You never did try to be anything for anyone. That’s what he noticed first. The ease in your silence. The way you didn’t fill it with empty words. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sudden. It was just there. Your presence, slipping in until it felt like it had always been part of his day.

Some nights, when the city is too loud or too quiet, he lies on his back and lets his thoughts run. Wonders what version of his life he’d be living if Julie hadn’t said what she said. If he hadn’t walked out. If he hadn’t met you.

He doesn’t regret leaving. Not even for a second.

But he does think about what came after. The silence. The rebuilding. The cautious way he started laughing again. And how, eventually, it wasn’t just Chan who pulled him back.

It was you, too, without even trying.

He doesn’t know what this is. What it could become. He’s afraid to name it, to hold it too tightly and watch it slip between his fingers. But it’s there, anyway. In the small moments. In the pauses between words. In the part of his chest that doesn’t hurt as much when you’re around.

And that has to mean something. Even if he’s not sure what yet.

Maybe that’s why, days later, he found himself sitting across from you, tucked away in a restaurant he hadn’t meant to find.

It had been one of those nights, wandering with his hood up, earbuds in, the city folding and unfolding around him in quiet waves. He passed by the place without noticing at first. Then doubled back. The windows were fogged over, the light inside low and warm. There was something about it. Something soft. He took a photo of the front and sent it to himself with no caption. Just in case.

The message sat in his notes for three days.

He wrote it once, then rewrote it. Took out the heart emoji. Added a period. Deleted the period because it suddenly felt like too much. The blinking caret stared back at him like it knew he was stalling. Like it was waiting for him to stop lying to himself.

Eventually, he just sent:

hey, wanna try this place i found? food’s good, i think you’d like it :)

No extras. No expectations. Just enough to leave the door open. He hit send before he could lose his nerve, flipped his phone face-down on the bed, and tried to distract himself by pretending to clean his room. Mostly just moving clothes from one end to the other and half-heartedly looking for something to wear.

You replied eleven minutes later.

sure. when?

That was all. But it was more than enough to keep him from spiraling. It was a yes.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, his room looked like a battlefield—sweaters tossed over chairs, half-folded jackets strewn like fallen soldiers, the floor littered with evidence of indecision.

Nothing felt right. Everything was either too casual or trying too hard. He changed twice, then a third time, then circled back to the first option. In the end, he settled on the black sweater. The one worn soft from years of late nights and train rides. Frayed at the cuffs. The kind of thing he wore when he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.

The wireframe glasses came next. Not really for vision, more for image. They made him feel grounded. Like someone who hadn’t spent twenty minutes pacing in front of a mirror. A silver chain, subtle but intentional, rested against his collarbone. His hair wouldn’t cooperate no matter what he did, so he stopped trying, letting it fall into his eyes.

Chan lounged at the edge of the bed, legs crossed like a retired stylist on break, phone in one hand, canned coffee in the other, offering commentary without being asked.

“Don’t slouch. Wear cologne. The soft one. And stop checking your phone—she said yes. She’s not gonna ghost you in the next ten minutes.”

Hyunjin made a face. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope,” Chan said cheerfully. “Also, bring mints.”

Meanwhile, your room wasn’t much better.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Said it out loud. Twice. Just to hear it bounce back like it might stick this time. Just dinner. Just food and conversation. Just two people going to a place and walking back separately. That’s it.

You repeated it like a mantra while tearing through your closet like it had personally offended you. Sweaters hit the bed like confessions. Nothing looked right.

Still, you tried to keep your cool. Tried not to check your reflection every five minutes. Tried not to smooth invisible creases out of your sleeves like your nerves were stitched into the seams. You told yourself it wasn’t nerves. Just habit. Just something your body did when your heart got loud.

Chaeryeong was on facetime the whole time, half-buried in her pillow, chewing something and watching with her patented judgment-disguised-as-apathy expression.

“Leave your hair alone,” she mumbled.

“I’m not touching it.”

“You are.”

You sighed and reached for your lip balm.

“I swear, if you change your top one more time—”

“I’m not—”

“You are. One more outfit and I’m hanging up.”

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Somewhere in the chaos, the group chat had lit up like a warning flare. Jisung had decided, completely unprompted, that this was a date and was now sending unhinged emoji combos by the minute.

good luck tonight 💅😳🖤👀

Changbin, for some reason, was now deep-diving Hyunjin’s social media and sending timestamped screenshots with wildly fake personality analyses.

You muted the chat for your own survival. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a date. Technically, that was the truth. But also… that kind of missed the point.

Whatever it was, it mattered. Enough to make your hands restless. Enough to make you care. Enough to make you wonder what it meant that he’d asked you.

By the time you stepped out the door, the sky had already dipped into indigo. That early kind of twilight where the world feels in-between. Half-awake, half-dreaming. You didn’t rush. There was no reason to. The plan was simple: meet him at the restaurant. That’s all. 

But then fate, or something like it, stepped in.

The train rolled into the station just as you reached the bottom of the stairs, its doors sliding open like they’d been waiting just for you. You stepped inside through the nearest set, eyes down, thoughts already drifting ahead, imagining how the night might go—

And walked straight into someone.

“Oh—sorry—” you said automatically, the word halfway out before your gaze lifted.

Hyunjin had come in from the opposite side, head lowered like he hadn’t expected to see anyone familiar. His eyes widened slightly, just enough to register surprise, but not enough to make it awkward.

You stood there, caught in the slow current of passengers drifting past, neither of you moving, not just yet.

Then—

“Hi,” he said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it settled into you like it belonged there.

“Hi,” you echoed, the smile forming before you could stop it.

You slid into the nearest seat, and he followed without hesitation, settling beside you like it had always been the plan. Like this moment had been penciled into the day, just waiting to be discovered.

His shoulder brushed yours as he adjusted his sweater, a quiet shift. He glanced over, just once, his lips curving slightly, like this coincidence was something he’d secretly wished for but hadn’t dared to expect.

He was definitely writing about this on Hotline later.

The train lurched forward, and still, neither of you moved away. No words at first. Just silence, thick and alive with all the things neither of you needed to say yet.

Outside, the tunnels swallowed the world whole. Black walls and blinking lights replaced the cityscape, leaving you inside a capsule of motion and stillness. Your reflections ghosted across the glass, blurred by movement and streaks of passing light. You were aware of every small thing—

The steady rhythm of the train beneath your feet.

The scent of his cologne. Cedarwood and something softer tonight, like rain evaporating off pavement.

He looked good. Not in the practiced, “trying” kind of way, but in the way people do when they feel most like themselves.

Clean layers. Soft knits. A hint of silver at his collar. Glasses he only wore when he forgot to think too hard. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger for half a second longer than you probably should’ve.

He caught it. Met your eyes.

“You look nice,” he said, quieter than the train.

You blinked. He wasn’t smiling, not fully. His mouth curved at the edges like he regretted saying it, but didn’t want to take it back either.

And still, he meant it.

You looked down, the smile finding its way onto your face anyway.

“You too,” you said, and you meant that, too.

He looked away first, but not far. Just enough to settle into the seat beside you again. And you leaned back, close but not touching, feeling the air shift with every turn the train made.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but not the empty kind.

It was the kind that filled in all the quiet spaces. The kind that said I see you, even without the words.

And now, you’re sitting across from him, warmth pooling around your table as the low hum of the restaurant folds in around you.

The place doesn’t try too hard. 

The lights are soft, drawn low enough to feel like dusk even indoors. The ceiling bulbs flicker gently, casting halos onto the worn tables, while faint music flows under the quiet clatter of forks and conversations too low to catch. 

The air smells faintly of grilled meat and something sweet, maybe burnt sugar, drifting from the kitchen. The window beside you is fogged at the edges. A contrast to the cold slipping through the seams of the city just beyond the glass.

Hyunjin reaches for the water pitcher and pours into both glasses, fingers steady even though his pulse isn’t. You watch the way his hands move. Precise, a little careful, like he’s focusing on the smallest task so his nerves don’t give him away. 

He slides your glass toward you, thumb brushing the condensation as he lets go.

“Thanks,” you say softly, breaking the surface of the silence.

He nods, eyes flicking up for a second, then back to the table like he wasn’t quite ready to be caught looking. “You been here before?”

You shake your head, curling your fingers loosely around the cool glass.

“I found it by accident,” he says. “Weeks ago, maybe longer. Didn’t go in. Just… saved the spot.”

You raise an eyebrow, half smiling. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose and shrugs, like he’s considering if the truth would sound too much.

“Felt like the kind of place I’d want to come back to. With someone.”

That’s all he says. Nothing dressed up. But it lands anyway.

The server takes your orders and disappears, leaving just the two of you again, seated across a narrow table, both pretending not to notice how close the space feels. 

Hyunjin shifts slightly, settling into the seat like he’s still figuring out how to sit in front of you. 

One arm rests along the edge of the table, fingers tracing absent-minded circles around the base of his water glass. The other drifts up to adjust the wire-thin frames on his nose, then drops back into his lap. You notice—he doesn’t check his phone. Neither do you. 

You glance over the rim of your glass. “What did you eat today?”

He blinks at the question, caught off guard. Then scoffs, lips quirking upward. “What is this, a wellness check?”

“Sort of. I’m trying to gauge how weird your order’s about to be.”

“Rude,” he mutters, but he’s smiling now. “Okay… cereal.”

You raise a brow.

“But like—a healthy cereal. With almonds. Fiber and stuff.”

“That’s not a meal. That’s bird food.”

“It had protein.”

“So do actual meals.”

He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “Okay, then. What did you eat?”

“I plead the fifth.”

He huffs, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”

Your drinks arrive—his red wine, your cocktail. You clink glasses without a word. No toast. No performance. Just a soft, familiar tap of glass to glass, like this is something you’ve done before. 

He takes a sip, thoughtful, then nods toward your drink. “Is it good?”

You slide it across the table without answering. He tries it, then returns it just as easily, no comment, no hesitation. Like the kind of thing you do on instinct. Like the kind of thing you don’t think twice about.

There’s a faint trace of gloss on the rim now. You notice it. You pretend you don’t.

When the food arrives, the atmosphere softens even further. The clink of silverware, the low thread of music humming under the conversation, the murmur of voices from nearby tables. It all folds into the background like the night has exhaled. The table feels smaller. Not cramped. Just… closer. More intentional.

Mid-bite, you gesture toward his plate. “Is that the truffle thing?”

He nods, still chewing, already reaching for his glass.

“You hate mushrooms.”

“Truffle’s not—” He pauses, sighs, defeated. “Yeah. Okay. I’m learning things.”

You reach across the table and take a bite from his plate. No warning. No explanation. Just muscle memory.

He watches it happen. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t protest. Just lets it unfold, like this is something you’ve done before, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s good,” you declare, mouth half-full. “A little rich, though.”

“You just ate half my dinner.”

“For science.”

“You’re exhausting.”

You grin, hiding it behind your napkin. He laughs, quiet and easy, thumb running along the edge of his glass as he looks at you, like he’s adding this to some private catalogue in his head.

Conversation meanders, through half-serious debates, fake hypotheticals, and stories that lose their point halfway through. You find yourselves laughing over a class neither of you even care about, which somehow leads into a saga about someone in Hyunjin’s building who tried to organize a “silent hallway hour” via the group chat.

Hyunjin has thoughts. Strong ones.

“You can’t just mandate silence after 8 p.m.,” he says, shaking his head like he’s personally leading the resistance. “That’s not wellness. That’s fascism.”

You snort, trying to stifle a grin. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“I live there. I have rights.”

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Loud and full, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle shut. The kind that starts in your chest and refuses to be polite about it. You lean back in your chair, hand half-covering your face, trying to breathe through it, failing spectacularly.

When you peek up, Hyunjin’s watching you.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Not right away.

There’s a slow tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile too much, but failing just a little. A soft, crooked grin creeps across his face, like he’s quietly proud of himself for making you laugh like that. 

Then his gaze drops. Thumb tracing the rim of his water glass. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the warmth still rising in his chest.

The conversation trails off. Not into awkwardness, into quiet.

A good kind. One that settles around you like a blanket. One that doesn’t demand anything.

You both pick at what’s left on your plates. He nudges his toward you without a word. You steal another bite, shamelessly this time. He doesn’t blink. Just lets you.

You slide your drink over to him without thinking. He finishes it slowly, still listening to you talk, still half-listening to the hum of the restaurant around you. No commentary, no question. Just an easy exchange. It’s only when he pushes the empty glass back in your direction that you realize what happened.

You raise an eyebrow, slow and theatrical.

“What?” he says, all innocence, as if he didn’t just finish your entire drink like it belonged to him.

“You finished it.”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “You gave it to me.”

“Temporarily.”

“I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re very generous.”

“I try.”

The restaurant has dipped into that quiet lull. After the plates have cleared, after the noise of dinner has thinned out into murmurs and clinking glassware. Most people are lingering now. Not eating. Just being.

And you feel it too. How your limbs have gone soft and loose, how the air between you feels warmer than the candlelight alone can explain. It’s not just the drinks. It’s this. It’s him.

Hyunjin leans his cheek into his hand, eyes on the flickering candle between you.

“Would’ve been weird if we hadn’t run into each other on the train,” he says suddenly, voice softer now.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

“But also… not weird. I don’t know.”

You tilt your head, watching the candle melt lower. “It felt like something that was gonna happen anyway. Even if we didn’t plan it.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Then drops his gaze again, like the words sat too heavy in his chest to carry all the way out.

Neither of you finishes the last bite.

You lean back, the candle burned nearly to its base. Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, someone laughs too loudly. Outside, the windows have fogged again, softening the edges of the world. Inside, the two of you stay still a little longer than necessary.

The server comes and goes quietly, clearing the plates and dropping the check without a word. Neither of you reaches for it. Not yet. You’re both sunk back into your chairs, the weight of the night pressing gently down like a hand on your shoulders. Standing up feels like an idea someone else should think about.

Hyunjin takes another sip of his wine, still nursing it like he’s not quite ready for the night to tip into whatever comes next. The candle between you has burned low, casting soft shadows that flicker across his face.

“You’re definitely tipsy,” you murmur, watching him with a tilt to your head.

He scoffs. “You’re tipsy.”

“Am not.”

“You just narrated my wine pour in your head. I saw it happening.”

You stifle a grin behind your glass. “It was elegant. Deserved a voiceover.”

He lets out a laugh, soft and surprised, eyes flicking to the fogged-up window before settling on you again. “You always do that,” he says, quiet, not teasing. Just observing.

“Do what?”

“Say stuff like that. Like it’s a joke. But not really.”

You set your glass down gently, meeting his eyes. “Maybe I mean it.”

He watches you for a beat, something shifting behind his gaze. “Maybe you do,” he says, softer now. He bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s already second-guessing himself, but doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t try to smooth it over.

The quiet that follows isn’t uncomfortable. But it’s different. Heavier. Charged with something new.

And then, like it just slips out of him:

“I like you.”

You blink. “Right now?”

He smiles, slow and a little sheepish. “No. I mean… generally.”

“Oh.”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking down as he fidgets with the edge of his napkin. “Just figured I’d say it before I changed my mind and pretended I didn’t.”

You study him for a moment. The way his ears are slightly pink now. The way his knee is still pressed lightly against yours under the table. The way he won’t meet your eyes, but doesn’t move away either.

“I like you too,” you say. Soft, steady, like it’s weather. Like it’s always been true. He looks up, eyes searching.

“No offense,” you add, a grin tugging at your mouth, “but it’s been kind of obvious.”

His mouth twitches. “Wow.”

“I mean, you gave me half your dinner.”

“You stole it.”

“Semantics.”

He laughs again, low and real. You’re both smiling now, soft, a little glassy-eyed. There’s no act to it. No edge. Just the relief of the truth finally being spoken.

“I’m blaming this on the wine in the morning,” he mutters.

“You haven’t even had that much.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

You tap your fingers gently against the base of your glass. The candle between you flickers low, its flame thinning like it’s growing tired, like even the light knows the night is winding down. The quiet has returned, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of breath. Of waiting. Of things almost said.

You tilt your head slightly, voice low, casual. Too casual to be accidental.

“Are you gonna kiss me?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. Wide, but not startled. More like surprised by how easily the question left your mouth, like you’d asked if he wanted to split dessert or stay a little longer. No hesitation, no edge. Just curiosity.

“Do you want me to?”

You shrug, but your gaze doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“Maybe.”

Something shifts between you. Subtle. Like the moment inhales.

He leans forward, slow, careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull back. To say just kidding and laugh it off.

But you don’t.

And when he kisses you, it’s not fireworks. Not fireworks at all.

It’s quiet. Intentional. A touch of warmth, like the space between your faces had always been meant to close this way. It’s brief, almost unsure at first, like you’re both testing the weight of it. But then you lean in without meaning to, and his hand grazes your cheek, gentle and grounding. Like he didn’t plan it, only knew he needed to do it the second it happened.

You both pull back at the same time. Just a breath’s distance. And neither of you says anything. You don’t have to.

You’re still smiling, but not the kind of smile that comes from adrenaline or surprise. It’s the other kind. The softer kind. Like everything inside you just clicked into place.

Okay. Settled.

Hyunjin exhales, long and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath since the appetizers. He leans back in his chair, barely biting back a smile.

“Okay. Yeah. We’re blaming that on the wine.”

“Obviously.”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk creeping back in. “But just to be clear, if you steal food off my plate again, that kiss is now the price.”

You snort, resting your elbow on the table. “That’s extortion.”

“It’s fair.”

“I’d do it anyway.”

He lets out a soft laugh and tosses his napkin onto the table in defeat, like the matter’s settled. His grin hangs on his lips, lazy and crooked, like it’s not leaving anytime soon.

The candle gutters out.

You don’t move. Not yet.

The quiet folds in around you again, but it feels warmer now. The restaurant hums softly in the background. Murmured voices, clinking glass, someone laughing two tables over. 

Eventually—

“Who’s paying the bill?” you ask, voice low and syrupy, like you’ve just remembered the concept of money exists.

Hyunjin raises a brow, amused. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

You smirk. “I’m already winning.”

“You kissed me. That’s cheating.”

“I kissed you back. Big difference.”

He groans dramatically, grabbing the check like it wounded him. “Unbelievable.”

You smile, sitting back in your chair, watching him. Letting him.

Outside the window, the city keeps moving. Lights flicker. A bus hisses to a stop. People pass by with takeout bags and lives you'll never know. But right now, in this tiny pocket of time, you're not missing any of it.

𐪞

You leave the restaurant slowly, like you’ve both forgotten how to move with purpose. The air outside has cooled, but not in a way that urges you in. It’s the kind of night that hums instead of buzzes.

The sidewalks are mostly empty. Streetlamps spill their gold onto the pavement in wide, soft circles. You fall into step beside him without thinking.

At some point, Hyunjin slips his hands into his pockets, bumping your shoulder lightly as you walk. You nudge him back without a word. He grins sideways, the corners of his mouth still caught in that same half-smile from dinner.

“Your train’s this way, right?” he asks, tipping his head toward the station.

You nod, and he follows. No hesitation.

The station is nearly empty now. Just the low, echoing hum of the tracks far below, like the city’s breathing in its sleep. You move toward the platform, stopping just shy of the yellow line, and he stops with you. Not too close. Just enough that the warmth between you doesn’t feel accidental anymore.

“I still think you cheated,” he murmurs suddenly.

You look up at him, a brow raised. “On what?”

“Winning the bill standoff.”

“You let me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

“No,” you say, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were being defeated.”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he’s going to argue but decides not to. The train rattles into view before either of you speaks again, all noise and light and cold metal sighs.

Inside, the car’s nearly empty. Just a few passengers scattered like ghosts. You slide into the corner seat on the long bench, curling slightly toward the window. Hyunjin sits beside you, close. Close enough that his knee touches yours, and this time, he doesn’t move away.

There’s a kind of lightness between you now. Not drunken, not giddy. Just a quiet buzz. Post-confession. Post-kiss. That sweet, suspended warmth after I like you has landed in the air and found a home.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just lets the moment settle. Then his pinky grazes yours. A brush so light it could’ve been nothing.

But it isn’t.

So you turn your hand over, slow and certain. Let your fingers slip into his. He looks down, blinking like he’s not sure he’s allowed to smile that wide. But he does. A little dazed. A little undone.

Neither of you speak. Two stops pass like that. Quiet and full.

When the train slows again, brakes hissing against the tunnel walls, you bump your shoulder against his. “This is me.”

He stands without question. Follows.

The walk from the station is short. Four blocks, maybe. You talk the whole way. Tell him about your cursed laundry room. The dryer door that only closes if you whisper affirmations to it first.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

He laughs, loud and sudden, and nearly trips over the curb, which only makes you laugh, too.

By the time you reach your building, you’re both still catching your breath. You swipe your key card, and the front door clicks open with a soft beep. No roommates. No lights on. Just the warm, familiar quiet waiting inside.

“Home sweet home,” you say, flicking on the light low.

Hyunjin steps in behind you, slow, eyes scanning the space like he’s committing it to memory. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. Just slips off his shoes and lines them up neatly by the door before following you into the small living room.

You both ease down onto the couch, angled toward each other but not quite touching yet. You tuck your legs underneath you, settling against the armrest. Hyunjin mirrors the motion a beat later, his knee brushing lightly against yours as he leans in just enough to close the gap.

He glances over, voice soft. “Is this okay?”

You smile, the kind that doesn’t need effort. “Hyunjin. You’re here. You’re fine.”

He exhales like he’s been waiting for that answer since the train.

His hand drifts to your knee, fingers tracing idle shapes there. Not asking. Just existing. Your hand finds his again, thumb brushing the ridge of his knuckles, and for a second, you both just… stay.

The silence isn’t heavy. It hums. Light, like the kind of quiet that only happens when two people are finally still in the same place. You both laugh at the same time. Half surprise, half nerves, and it breaks the air open in the gentlest way.

“You’re looking at me like I’m supposed to do something,” he murmurs, smile curving.

“You’re the one who kissed me first.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

“I didn’t say that.” You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “But you’re not exactly innocent.”

He tries not to laugh. Tries and fails.

And then he kisses you again.

This one lands differently. Longer, slower. Not rushed, but more sure. You respond without thinking, hands curling into the collar of his sweater, pulling him a breath closer. He still smells like cedarwood, but now there’s something familiar layered beneath it. Your shampoo, maybe, from earlier. It makes you smile against his mouth.

You pull back slightly, noses brushing, and he’s already smiling too. A little dazed.

“This is probably the weirdest version of a first date I’ve ever had,” you say softly.

“Weird how?”

“Weird you’re still here.” You trail your fingers lightly along the edge of his jaw. “But I don’t hate it.”

That earns a quiet laugh, low and real. He slides his hand to your waist, this time letting it settle there like he means to. Not hesitant. Not waiting for permission.

Still, no one names this. You don’t have to.

You’re already leaning in again, both of you grinning against kisses that refuse to stay brief. They deepen gradually, like falling asleep with someone warm beside you. Natural. Unforced. Gravity, not urgency.

His hands drift, one finding your waist, the other threading through your hair, and the way he moves feels intentional. Affectionate. Like he’s not just reacting, but listening to every breath you make, every sound that catches in your throat when his fingers trace a little slower, a little lower.

You break apart again, breathless, eyes still closed for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m still blaming the wine,” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

“Tragic.”

You nudge his chest. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss there. Just one, soft and brief, then lets it fall back to your lap.

What happens next isn’t a moment so much as a shift. A quiet agreement passed between glances and proximity. A warmth already set in motion.

You stand up, fingers curling into his sleeve as you lead him down the short hallway toward your room.

You’re both laughing a little too much, stumbling over your own shoes in the low light, trying not to knock into the desk or your bookshelf or each other. And somewhere in the shuffle, Hyunjin’s hands find your waist, fingertips settling like he’s been waiting to hold you like this.

The laughter fades, but the smile lingers.

“I can’t believe we actually—” you start, but trail off when he presses his forehead to yours instead. Close, quiet. Not rushing you. Just there.

His mouth brushes your jaw, then the edge of your cheek. Gentle. Familiar. Like he’s learning you through smaller places, softer angles.

You thread your fingers into the back of his sweater, pulling him in. He exhales near your temple, hands sliding to your hips, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt.

He pauses just enough to meet your eyes. “Still good?”

You nod, sure. “Yeah. Still good.”

His hands lift the fabric slowly, giving you time. When he sees no hesitation, he helps you out of it completely. The rest follows—yours and his, layers exchanged for something quieter.

It’s not rushed. Not perfect. He laughs under his breath when he nearly loses balance trying to toe off his socks, and you giggle as you set his glasses gently on your desk.

“Do I look better now?” he asks, breathless.

You give him a look. “You look like someone I probably should’ve kissed ages ago.”

That stops him for a beat. Then he smiles, small, and leans in again, this time letting his mouth find your shoulder instead.

The backs of your knees hit the bed, and you sink down together. Slow, careful. He watches you as you lie back, gaze lingering like he’s memorizing something.

And when he touches you, it’s not rushed or greedy. Just intentional. He trails soft kisses down your collarbone, the curve of your chest, the space just beneath. Every movement feels like a question he already knows the answer to, but still asks, just in case.

His hands find your thighs, grounding and gentle, fingers playing lightly with the lace at your hips. When he settles between them, he looks up first, checking, always checking.

You nod. And then—he simply ruins you. Not with urgency, but with care.

He takes his time. Draws down the last layer with slow precision, every movement unhurried. He kisses the skin around your thighs first, following your breath like a guide. When his mouth finds you, it’s with quiet purpose.

There’s a moment. Your fingers threading tighter in his hair, your breath catching on a whispered “Don’t stop.” And he doesn’t, not even close.

It’s not showy or a performance. It’s honest.

And when you fall apart beneath him, he doesn’t speak. He just stays there, kissing the inside of your thigh with a slow steadiness, forehead resting against your skin like he’s letting the moment settle in his bones. His breath slows. Yours does too.

You tug him back up, not into a kiss, but into you. Into the soft space between bodies that don’t need to explain anything. Your foreheads press together. His hand finds yours, and your fingers lace without effort.

He stills when you do that. Looks at you like he’s not sure what you’re asking, but knows he’s already saying yes.

You don’t say a word. Just shift a little closer.

It’s enough.

There’s no tension, no second-guessing. Just two people meeting somewhere in the middle. Letting the quiet between them stretch into something fuller. He exhales, shoulders relaxing, and lets you guide him without resistance. His touch stays soft, deliberate, like this isn’t new, just unspoken until now.

And when it happens, when the rest of the space disappears, it doesn’t feel like something decided. It feels natural. Like the next line in a sentence you’ve both been writing together all night.

He moves with you, not over you. Present, open, giving. A kiss to your shoulder. A thumb brushing your knuckles. A hand steadying your waist with reverence, not control. It’s not about pace or pressure or performance. It’s about attention. The kind of closeness that knows how to listen.

And when your breath catches, a laugh halfway tangled in a gasp, he smiles through it, like he understands exactly what that means. He doesn’t pull back. He stays with you, mouth warm against your jaw, and you let him.

By the time it’s over, the air between you is quiet again. But not empty. Just full in a different way. You stay where you are, still tangled up, still touching. You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

Afterward, you're both half-buried in blankets. Legs tangled beneath the sheets. The kind of closeness that makes it hard to tell where one person ends and the other begins. Your breaths have finally evened out. The air between you hums with the kind of quiet that only comes after something tender, something earned.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the city bleeding through the window and the soft rustle of fabric when either of you shifts. Hyunjin is propped up on one elbow, head resting in his hand, watching you with a look that falls somewhere between dazed and quietly triumphant.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, smiling into the pillow.

“I think I earned it.”

“You really did.”

The laughter that follows is quiet, worn thin at the edges. Like all the nerves between you finally fizzled out, leaving nothing behind but this: limbs tangled, hearts quiet, hands brushing in the dark.

Beneath the covers, his fingers find yours. Threading gently. Holding, not gripping. Like he’s done it a thousand times already in some dream neither of you talked about.

It’s late. Too late, probably. But neither of you brings up leaving. Or staying. Or what any of it means.

Eventually, Hyunjin shifts, reaching over the side of the bed where your clothes are still scattered, careless and content. He fishes around until something buzzes under your sweater.

You watch through heavy lids, cheek pressed to your arm. “Tell me you’re not checking the group chat.”

“I’m not,” he replies, tapping away anyway.

You squint at him. “Liar.”

He flashes the screen toward you, smug as ever. Just one message sent. One emoji: a thumbs up.

You blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “They’ll get it.”

You huff, rolling your eyes as your smile pulls deeper into your cheek. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning closer, brushing your wrist with his thumb, “here you are.”

You don’t answer. Just let your head fall back against the pillow, laughter catching quietly in your throat before it fades into something softer.

You feel him settle back beside you. Closer this time. One arm around your waist, the other reaching again for your hand beneath the sheets like it’s instinct. Like it’s already habit.

And somewhere, across town, Jisung is already blowing up Hotline:

‎  ‎  quokka1409 • now — I TOLD YOU GUYS IT WOULD HAPPEN TONIGHT. Y’ALL OWE ME. I WANT RECEIPTS. I WANT APOLOGIES. I WANT A FRAMED CERTIFICATE OF PSYCHIC ACCURACY.

Mutuals are confused. But anyone who knows him knows exactly what he’s screaming about.

Back here, the world doesn't pause for anything. The streetlights outside keep blinking. A train groans against metal in the distance. Life keeps moving, indifferent.

But here, you fall asleep with his hand in yours, a quiet smile stitches into your cheek. No questions, no regrets.

Just that impossible, glowing calm of knowing you’re right where you’re meant to be.

゜・．・ hope you enjoyed! want to support?

part one • follow/reblog • leave a request • my other works

🏷️ ‎ @kkatsvy‎‎ ‎ ( ty for the support on starting this acc, love you sm )

[kurapikaspookie]

⋆˚࿔ Somethin’ Stupid | x ness  𝜗𝜚˚⋆

୨ৎ obsessed!ness x reader fic, 1.1k word/20k words, ongoing.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

A boy with big cheeks and a sheepish smile seems to be bent on making you work harder than you should.

 

It’s been hours under the harsh, German sun, hours running laps with him by your side, always keeping up, even though you’re a fast paced runner. He cheers you on, tells you there’s ‘only one more drill!’ although one always turns into two, and then into another round of hurried breaths because Ness can’t count. The two-hour session is over. Has been, technically.

 

Training to be a midfielder was not for the weak. Your father – Noel Noa – decided he needed to hone your skills. Apparently, he had ‘hired a professional footballer’ with ‘years of experience’, someone he knew personally. Of course, you had never expected the professional footballer to be a boy your age, not even taller than you, with bright eyes and an easy-going smile.

 

That same boy was standing in front of you, still managing to stay upright, even after the long lap the two of you completed. But you didn’t miss the way sweat made his hair stick to his forehead. Didn’t miss the way his chest was subtly rising and falling, hinting at his own fatigue.

 

“Good run, right?” Ness huffed, hands on his hips, his eyes wide and bearing into yours. “What next? Should we home your aim? That cross was a little off-“

 

You blink. “We’re… still doing this?”

 

“You said you wanted to improve,” he says, too sweet. “And I’m still technically on the clock.”

 

Except he’s not. His session ended fifteen minutes ago. And you’re pretty sure you saw him glance at his phone right before ignoring it.

 

“Wait, ‘m tired…” you groaned, stretching your arms behind your back. “Isn’t two hours enough? We’ve passed the time already…”

 

Ness’ eyes widen, as if he hadn’t realized how much time had passed. His hands immedeately sprung up, a light blush appearing on his cheeks, as if he’d just been caught in a heinous act. “Ah, sorry! Time really does fly by… I lost track of the time!”

 

This is the third time this week he’s “lost track of the time.”

 

You nod, smiling at him, still grateful somewhat. You said you wanted to push yourself today. “Don’t apologise, was just exhausted, that’s all.” You pause for a second, recalling his words, your eyebrows raising. “Hey, you said my pass was a little ott, right? I can’t leave without correcting something like <em> that </em>.”

 

Ness nodded, the sparkle returning to his eyes. He picked a ball up off the hard floor, throwing it up and down twice, eyes still intense on you. “Well, it was really just your form. You were leaning back, see? That would to an overfit, not ideal for your strikers. You wanna open up your hips and torso so you can see both the ball and your targets.”

 

Ness dropped the ball in front of you, before walking over behind you, the ball rolling in front of your feet, at a slight angle.

 

Ness clears his throat. “Is it okay if I-“

 

You nod, looking over to the side, catching a glimpse of his sweet, innocent, awkward smile.

 

“I don’t mind.” You respond, facing front again. You feel Ness’ hands on you, his breathing seemingly heavier. He seems close, his chin almost above your shoulder, his chest brushing against your back. His hands slide down to your hips as he angles them.

 

“So… uh… try and engage your core.” Ness’ voice is a quiet, calm and level like it always has been, contrasting his loud breaths.

 

Ness places a hand on your shoulder, pushing them down. “Normally, when I deliver cross paths, all I can think about is how cool I’ll look…” Ness’ voice trailed off, as if he said something he wasn’t meant to.

 

“Really?” You chuckle softly. “That’s the best advice I’ve heard in a while, honestly.”

 

Ness laughs as well, still slightly adjusting your posture, his touch soft and careful. He guides your body to the right position, concentration reflecting in the tense air. His hair smells nice, you realize. A soft, vanilla scent,, something you know you would grow to associate with him.

 

You nod, but it’s hard to focus with the way his breath ghosts over the back of your neck.

 

You clear your throat. “You always get this handsy when you train people?”

 

He startles, pulling back just slightly, cheeks instantly pink.

 

“I—uh—I’m sorry. It’s just the fastest way to correct posture, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

(You shouldn’t like how warm his hand felt. You do.)

 

Ness watches you try again, serious now, nodding as you follow his instruction. And when you finally get the angle right, when the ball arcs cleanly, smoothly… he beams, clapping his hands once with genuine excitement.

 

“That was it!” he says. “That’s exactly what I was trying to show you—see, I knew you’d get it!”

 

You’re flushed from the heat, but something else stirs in your chest. The way he looks at you, like you just won a match, like you’re the only person on the pitch, it’s… a lot.

 

“So…” Ness starts. “Time goes really fast during these lessons, doesn’t it?”

 

You nod, trying to gauge where he was going with this. “Sure does.” You mutter sarcastically, because no, time - in fact - did not go fast. “Why?”

 

Ness chuckled again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should… I should give you a gift or something. Because of the extra time. Sorry about that.”

 

Ness gave you a wide, turtle smile, to which you nodded, your heart melting ever so slightly. “Do you want to… I don’t know… go out today? To a restaurant or something. My treat.”

 

You chuckled, giving him a small nod. “Yeah, sure. I can never turn down free food.”

 

__

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(A/N: small draft to make sure I’m on the right track! I am so snowed down with exams and results and my own personal book, so I will probably finish this during summer, expect like 20k words or so! Comments are SO motivating and appreciated!)

[thebeatles-world]

I see you begging for Ringo >:) how about Ringo teaching us how to play the drums?

-🌷

Of course, I hope you enjoy! 💛🥰

Bang a little louder: Ringo Starr X Y/N

“Alright, love. You asked for it.”

Ringo’s voice came from behind you, low and amused, dripping with that accent you swore made even the word ‘rubbish’ sound seductive. You turned slowly from where you stood near the drum kit, eyebrows raised, arms crossed in mock defiance.

“I never asked for anything.”

He chuckled, already strolling across the studio with that casual swagger only he could pull off and sunglasses still perched on the bridge of his nose despite the fact that you were indoors and it was pushing eight in the evening. “You practically begged the other day.”

You scoffed. “I said you looked cool playing the drums. That’s not begging.”

“Hmm,” he hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. “Well, you look cool when you blush. But I don’t see you complaining.”

Your cheeks burned, which only made his smirk widen.

“You’re insane.” you muttered.

“But you,” Ringo said, straightening up, “are going to sit your pretty self down behind that drum kit and let me teach you something.”

The words pretty self hit like a cymbal crash.

With a roll of your eyes and a quiet God, help me, you lowered yourself onto the stool. The kit felt massive and intimidating, every drum shining like a mirror, but you refused to let him see you flinch.

Ringo came up behind you and crouched low, his arms reaching around yours not touching, but close enough that your skin tingled.

“Right,” he murmured by your ear, his breath warm against your neck. “This is your kick. This little beauty here, that’s your snare. You hit it like you mean it. It’s got attitude, just like you.”

You glanced back at him with a grin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ringo gave a crooked smile, eyes sparkling. “Means you’re mouthy love and I like it.”

You smacked the snare a little too hard and jumped at the sharp sound.

“Easy, tiger,” he teased, laughter dancing in his voice. “You’re not trying to break the thing.”

“You said hit it like I mean it!”

“I didn’t say murder it.”

You were laughing now, shoulders relaxed despite yourself. He walked you through the basics, kick on one, snare on two, keep your foot steady, don’t rush it.

You messed up more than you got it right, but Ringo was patient in a way you didn’t expect.

Every time you fumbled, he’d lean in, correct your grip, or tap the beat on his thigh while looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

He leaned in closer. “You’ve got rhythm in there somewhere, I just know it.”

“Maybe it’s buried deep,” you said, concentrating on your timing.

“Maybe I’ll have to dig it out,” he replied, his voice softer now, velvet wrapped around a dare.

Your hands faltered on the hi-hat. “You’re distracting.”

“Am I?” Ringo asked innocently, knowing damn well what he was doing.

“Your voice is distracting.”

“That’s a new one,” he said, pleased. “Usually people say my nose.”

You turned to him, drumsticks still in hand. “For the record, I like your nose.”

He grinned, full-on now. “Do you?”

“Shut up,” you said, flushing, turning back to the kit.

He moved around to face you again, no longer keeping his distance. “Alright, alright. No more teasing. Just do the beat one more time. One… two… three…”

You tried it. Got it mostly right. A little off tempo, but passable. You looked up, triumphant.

“Well?” you asked.

Ringo didn’t clap. He didn’t cheer. He just leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of the kit, lips tugging into that slow, infuriating smirk of his.

“I think you’re a natural,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your lips. “But I should probably keep giving you lessons. Just to be sure.”

You swallowed.

“Same time tomorrow?” he added casually, but there was nothing casual about the way his voice dropped at the end.

You gave him a sly smile. “Only if you promise to behave.”

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, straightening up and backing away toward the door, “I never behave.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel, drumsticks casually twirling in his hand, leaving you in a whirlwind of snare beats, flushed cheeks, and a heart pounding louder than a drum.

[lpmurphy]

Begin Again

<- Previous Next ->

Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, ofc’s daughter is a teenage menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Tag List: (comment if you would like to be added!) @foolishseven

Word Count: 4,595

Read on AO3

Chapter One: August 2025

Three hours left.

Jack didn’t bother checking the time again. The clock hadn’t budged the last three times he’d looked, and he was starting to think it never would.

His shoulder throbbed, a dull ache from an old break that had never fully healed. Not that he’d ever given it the chance; it hadn't exactly ranked high on the list in that string of injuries. But suturing a forehead gash in bad lighting and worse ergonomics certainly hadn’t helped. He rolled it once, twice. Still there. Still his.

The chart in front of him was for a kid with a concussion who wouldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend between bouts of nausea, even though his said ex-girlfriend was in the room with him, and had been very unaware that she was an ex. Jack had nodded, grunted in the right places, and ordered a scan mostly so he could hand the kid off to imaging and steal a few minutes of silence in the hallway before the next patient.

It wasn’t that he hated the job. Most days, at least. But being an ER doctor was like being in love with something that kicked the shit out of you daily and then asked you to stay the night. Some days he wanted to pack it up and run. It wasn’t an unfamiliar urge. He was good at running. He’d run before. Left things behind like they weren’t going to follow him. Turns out those things always did. Things that deserved better than a disappearing act and a silent exit.

The station was half-empty, the usual circus currently at play around them while nurses went from room to room. The overhead lights buzzed just enough to grind at his nerves. His scrubs smelled faintly of antiseptic and something that might have been chicken soup from the cafeteria. He hadn’t eaten. Didn’t remember if he had breakfast. When was the last time he ate? Might have been yesterday. Might’ve been last week, for all he knew.

Fuck the day shift.

He wasn’t supposed to be working the day shift. That was Robby’s little island of misfit toys. No, Jack worked nights, and he rather preferred it that way.

But since the small exodus of those who had survived COVID and decided they’d finally had enough after PittFest, and Langdon being away on his extended ‘vacation’, hands were shorter than they usually were until the new doc started on Monday.

So, Jack worked the day shift.

Which fuckin’ blows when your entire circadian rhythm is thrown off from living like a bat, but hey. What does he know? He’s just a doctor.

He didn’t prefer nights because they were easier. They never were. The sun would go down, and with it, apparently, went everyone in Pittsburgh’s goddamn sanity. The ER turned into a zoo the minute the sky went dark. Drunks with head wounds, panicked parents clutching feverish toddlers, psych holds screaming about voices, gunshot victims left bleeding through makeshift bandages on the curb of the ambulance bay. The triage board lit up like a Christmas tree.

Easy? Fuck no.

He’d seen people sprint out of medical school only to crumble on the night shift. Couldn’t hack the chaos. Couldn’t handle the volume of it all; the patients, the noise, the sheer sensory assault of it. People thought the night shift was slow. That was a myth told by people who’d never stepped foot in an urban ER at 2 a.m. when the meth hit and someone rolled in without pants demanding an exorcism.

The waiting room had a near-constant seven-hour wait and somehow still kept getting longer. Nurses ran on caffeine and spite. The vending machines always ate your cash. No one finished their coffee while it was still hot. Half the time the computers froze mid-charting and the other half, someone was vomiting on them.

But nights were loud. They filled the gaps. They didn’t give you peace. They gave you distraction. Blunt-force, blood-and-paperwork distraction. A wall of chaos he could throw himself into over and over again just to stay upright. They didn’t leave room for ghosts.

That was what mattered when morning would come. He’d return to an apartment he didn’t remember renting, an old dog who huffed when he walked through the door like he had been the one to work a twelve hour shift, and the fridge of a 48-year-old widowed bachelor. The silence there wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating. A long stretch of you made it home, now what? that he never quite had an answer for.

He’d walk the dog. He’d turn the scanner on and let the garble fill every room. He’d tell himself that he fell asleep on the couch again because of the exhaustion. Not because in the living room, he could hear the noise of the city outside his windows like a lullaby. Not because he couldn’t find rest in a bed that still felt too big. Not because her things still hung in the closet beside his own. Not because since the night she left and hospice erased every last bit of her, the apartment had been achingly still. But he’d been telling himself that same sorry excuse for nearly eight years now like someday he might actually believe it.

Nights gave him excuses. He slept through the day because he had to, and no one questioned the sleeping habits of a man when he worked the graveyard shift. Unless you were to count his therapist. He sure as hell had a few opinions about it.

So now, he kept his nights full. Filled the silence with broken bodies and paperwork, caffeine and nurses who didn’t mind his attitude. He clocked in, he stitched what he could, inserted a sarcastic comment wherever necessary, and he didn’t ask questions he didn’t want answered.

It wasn’t heroism. It wasn’t healing.

It was noise.

And it kept the quiet out just long enough to get to the next night.

But a day shift was what they needed. So he showed up and kept his head down until Monday, when the new doc was supposed to show up and maybe take some of the pressure off. Not that he cared who they were. Green or seasoned, genius or idiot, they’d all end up chewed up and spit out by this place eventually. Everyone was. The smart ones stayed out. But the idiots like him were called back night after night like they were being pulled by a tether. It’s in our DNA, he’d told Robby. Like bees guarding a hive. He hadn’t been able to bleed it out just yet.

Jack dropped the pen he’d been absently tapping against the counter and scrubbed his hands over his face. Fuck, he really needed to get some sleep. With a tired sigh, he turned his focus back to the chart on the screen in front of him. A nurse walked behind him holding a coffee he knew damn well wasn’t from the staff room. Didn’t smell nearly burned enough.

“I smell that and I hate you,” he muttered. Princess winked and kept walking.

Someone stepped up to the terminal beside him, their fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of precision and urgency that came from juggling five priorities at once. Robby didn’t bother to look up, eyes locked on the cascading data across his own screen as he typed.

“How’s your kid in five?” Robby asked casually, squinting at the screen before he remembered that he was fucking blind and went feeling for his glasses.

“Ear infection,” he said, earning a grunt of agreement from Robby. “Kid threw less of a fit than the grandmother did about waiting in Chairs for six hours.”

Robby huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Her and everyone else in that waiting room.”

Robby signed out and was already halfway to the next room before the credentials screen even finished flashing on the monitor. He turned on his heel, pointing back at Jack without slowing down. “Hey, I’ve got a tib-fib in twelve. Seventeen-year-old female, fell at cheerleading practice. You mind?”

“Do I get to take a buddy?” Jack called after him, tilting his head toward the gaggle of baby doctors clustered near the nurse’s station. They all seemed to perk up at the sight of Robby’s brisk pace, like ducklings imprinting on a very tired, very sarcastic mother goose. “Yes, go on, young ones,” he muttered under his breath, already pulling the kid’s chart and glancing over her intake vitals and notes. “Follow him to the cool shit. Save the world.”

“Whitaker,” Robby said, voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

The kid’s head snapped up from the far end of the counter, where he was frantically trying to rub something off his scrubs with a tissue. Something flickered across his face, somewhere between hope and outright horror.

He froze, tissue mid-swipe.

“You’re with Abbot,” Robby finished, jerking his chin toward Jack without waiting for a response.

Jack scrubbed a hand down his face and cast a glance at the elevator. Maybe the new doc would walk through those doors early and spare him. No such luck. He straightened up, caught Whitaker’s wide-eyed stare, and glanced at the clock.

Two hours and fifty-five minutes. No dice.

He waved him over, pushing off the counter and heading toward trauma twelve. “Let’s get after it, Doogie,” he said, already mentally sorting through the probable fracture protocol. “If she pukes, it’s all yours.”

Whitaker stuffed the tissue into his pocket with a stiff nod and scrambled after Jack, jogging a few steps before falling into stride beside him. His eyes locked onto Jack like he was trying to absorb everything by proximity alone.

“I’m assuming you haven’t made it this long without seeing a compound fracture?” Jack asked, glancing sideways as they approached the trauma bay.

“A few,” Whitaker nodded. “We had a lady come in on my first day with a degloved open fracture after being pushed off the train platform, so I think I can handle it.”

Jack pushed open the door and held it for Whitaker with a smirk. “Then this is nothing, kid.”

Jack pulled the curtain aside with one hand and stepped in first, holding it just long enough to let Whitaker slip in behind him before tossing it shut with a practiced flick of his wrist. The too bright room was tight, all antiseptic fumes and the fluorescent hum that was always suddenly louder without the ambient hallway noise.

A woman leaned over the bed, doing her best to comfort the teenager on it, straightened up at the sound. Her hand stayed on the girl’s shoulder, but her wide, panicked eyes flicked immediately to Jack. The school badge clipped to her lanyard jingled slightly.

The girl on the gurney looked up, her jaw clenched so tight Jack could almost hear her grinding her teeth. She was doing everything she could to hold it together, but her face had gone ashen, slick with a thin sheen of sweat. A few strands of bright copper hair had slipped loose from her blue-bowed ponytail and clung limply to her damp forehead. Her hands were fisted in the sheet, knuckles bleached white.

Jack’s gaze dropped to the leg; angled wrong. Obvious deformity. Ugly enough to make your gut turn. Not the worst he’d seen, but close enough for a first-timer to flinch, which thankfully, Whitaker did not.

Jack didn’t need an X-ray to confirm anything. That leg was well and truly fucked up. Undoubtedly so. He knew a fucked up leg when he saw one.

“Abigail Morgan?” Jack asked, sanitizing his hands while he stepped further into the room.

The girl shifted her gaze to him, wincing as she moved, and gave him a look like he’d asked the stupidest fucking question she’d ever heard. “What gave it away?”

“Had a hunch,” Jack said, sliding onto the stool and tapping in his credentials to unlock her chart on the screen. The girl hadn’t looked away. She was staring him down; those blue eyes stormy and uncomfortably familiar, locked in and unflinching. Something about them itched at the back of his mind, tugged at a memory he couldn’t quite pin down.

He turned back toward her with a faint, crooked smile. “I’m Doctor Abbot. Got a student shadowing me today. Mind if he sticks around?”

Whitaker gave a small wave. Abigail didn’t move.

“Sure,” she said, dry as bone.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose and stepped toward the bed to get a better look at the leg. The swelling was hard to miss. “Ouch,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then he looked at Whitaker. “Doctor Whitaker. Have at it.”

Whitaker stepped forward, trying for approachable. Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes; he was a good kid, really. Would make one hell of a doctor once he got out of his own head. Jack just wished he wasn’t so goddamn awkward in the meantime. “So, what happened?”

Abigail didn’t even blink. “Pyramid went wrong. Flyer slipped her liberty, took me down with her. I landed crooked. Leg snapped. Coach lost her mind. Cue ambulance. Now I’m here.”

“I’m not sure what half of that meant,” Whitaker admitted, crouching to inspect her toes, “but it sounds like it hurt.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Abigail muttered, wincing as he palpated her foot. Jack nodded slightly as Whitaker checked her pulses.

“Isn’t it a little early for practice?” Whitaker asked. “I thought school didn’t start until September.”

“Most fall sports start over the summer,” Jack provided, still observing the leg. “You’ll see a spike in concussions, sprains, fractures, and dislocations come July and August. Teenagers plus turf equals full waiting room. It’s the golden season for adolescent overconfidence.”

Whitaker nodded. “Well, your coach made the right call. It’s definitely broken.”

Abigail gave him a look like he’d just told her water was wet. “Gee. You really think so? Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor?”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. Little smartass. He always had a soft spot for the snarky ones. Whitaker moved to feel for her tibial pulse. Jack watched closely as Abigail flinched, her breath catching hard in her throat as she pinched her eyes shut.

“You don’t have to soldier through it, kid,” Jack said, softer now. Her eyes cracked open and met his. She blinked hard, swallowing something down, but kept his gaze like she had something to prove. He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Crying’s pretty standard in this wing of the hospital.”

“I’m good,” Abigail muttered through gritted teeth, wincing again. “Planning to save the breakdown for the reset. I’ve already picked out my favorite curse words. I want to earn that f-bomb.”

Jack exhaled a soft, amused breath and watched Whitaker press down gently on her toenail. The color was slow to return. Not great. Jack caught it, watching Whitaker’s jaw twitch in confirmation, along with the subtle pinch of Abigail’s as she tried to hide the discomfort.

“Smart,” he said with a small, approving smile. “You’ll want to save some of those for later, trust me.”

Abigail gave him a small, tight-lipped smile in return, but it wasn’t the playful, deflecting kind he’d expected. No, it was a little too tight, like she was trying to convince everyone in the room she was tougher than she felt. Jack felt that flicker of recognition return, gnawing at the back of his mind. It passed as quickly as it came. Maybe it was the familiarity in her tone; that dry wit wrapped around something stubborn and resilient. It reminded him of someone. Must be one of those faces, he told himself.

“Whitaker,” he said, folding his arms across his chest as he looked over at the kid. “Walk me through it.”

Whitaker cleared his throat and started, “Uh, sixteen-year-old female—”

“Seventeen,” Abigail corrected, still gritting her teeth. “I’m seventeen.”

Jack smirked, glanced at her, and gave Whitaker a nod.

“Right. Yeah. Seventeen-year-old female—”

“Seventeen-year-old female with no prior health issues,” Abigail cut in, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, voice flat and bored. “Dropped out of a cheer stunt, like, maybe six feet up. Landed wrong on the leg, heard a snap, saw stars. Now I’ve got a tib-fib that looks like it lost a fight with gravity. Closed, probably comminuted, but we’ll let imaging be the judge of that. Moderate swelling. I’ve got pins and needles in my toes, so you’re gonna want a neurovascular check before you even think about reducing it. Probable axial load with a side of torque. Could be some knee damage too, but hard to tell over the bone trying to jailbreak through my skin. Pain’s at an eight unless you touch it, then it’s a thousand, so stop touching it. Arms and head are fine; didn’t try to catch myself, just kind of ate it. Currently riding a two milligram IV push of morphine. Not enough to feel good, just enough to keep from screaming.”

Abigail turned that tight-lipped smile toward Whitaker again, this time laced with teeth and sarcasm.

“More drugs, please.”

The room went still. Even the monitor seemed to hesitate before beeping again. Whitaker froze, wide-eyed, hands hovering mid-air like he wasn’t sure whether to examine her or applaud. He shifted his weight awkwardly. “What she said…” he mumbled, glancing at Jack like he was waiting for the punchline.

Jack raised a brow. “Well, thank you, Doctor House,” he said, giving the leg another glance. “Not bad. Big Grey’s Anatomy fan, or did you go to Google Med School on the way over?”

Abigail snorted softly through her nose. “Neither. My mom’s a doctor.”

He looked at her again and then turned to the woman standing at the foot of the bed, who looked far too squeamish in an ER to be a doctor. She immediately raised her hands.

“Oh, no. Coach. I’m just the coach,” she said quickly, paling a little as she caught sight of the leg. “Mom’s on her way.”

“And Grey’s is painfully inaccurate,” Abigail added, as if personally offended. “Every person on that show would literally be in jail. Like, three times over. I could get more sound medical advice from ChatGPT.”

Jack fought a smirk. “Spoken like someone who’s been forced to watch it against her will.”

“Mom hate-watches it,” Abigail said flatly. “She needs something to cuss at when the Eagles aren’t playing. I think it’s therapeutic for her. Some people journal, some people do yoga; she crashes out over made-up doctors. Whatever works, I guess.”

Whitaker gave her a stunned look, like she’d just switched languages mid-sentence. Jack let out a short breath through his nose and turned back toward the monitor with a nod.

“Guess Netflix’s cheaper than therapy,” Jack said, tapping a quick note into the chart. “Let the pros handle it from here though, yeah?”

“I’m letting you,” Abigail deadpanned. “You’re just doing it slower than I would.”

That earned a real laugh from Jack; short, surprised. It caught him off guard as did the flicker of recognition that followed. It crept into him again, taking root in a way that made his throat tight. There was something in her cadence. The way she landed sarcasm like a punchline she didn’t care if anyone caught. It stirred something just out of reach that he couldn’t grasp. Had he treated this kid before? He’s sure he’d remember the little jackass if he had.

“Alright.” He stood, exhaling through his nose. “Doctor Whitaker’s got it from here. Neuro check and get her splinted before imaging. I’ll put the orders in and call ortho. She’ll deny it till her leg falls off, but she’s hurting. Let’s get ahead of it. What do you want to give her?”

Whitaker blinked, but answered quickly. “Another two milligrams morphine IV, slow push. Monitor vitals. Reassess in five?”

Jack gave a small nod of approval, folding his arms. “Good call. Write it up, I’ll sign off.”

He turned back toward Abigail. “You’ll want to start practicing your list, kid. This next part is gonna suck.”

“Lucky me,” she said, offering him a withering look. “Thanks for the encouragement, Doc.”

Jack chuckled, already walking away. “Anytime. Nice to meet you, Abigail.”

Jack had just started toward the curtain when he heard her voice again, smaller this time. Softer. Nervous.

“Doctor Abbot?”

He turned. “Yeah, kid?”

Abigail wasn’t smirking now. No sharp wit, no dry sarcasm. Just a girl in a hospital bed with a busted leg and scared eyes. “Can you tell my mom where I am when she gets here?” she asked quietly, then added a soft, “Please.”

It was the first time she’d sounded like a teenager since he walked in. Like a kid who just wanted her mom.

Jack nodded, something in his chest softening. He gave the kid a small smile. “You got it.”

But he didn’t move right away, because she was still holding his gaze with those blue eyes that he knew. He knew those eyes. At least, he used to.

Still, he forced the thought back down. Just another name. Just another kid with blue eyes.

Jack stepped out and pulled the curtain closed behind him, the soft swish of fabric muffling the sounds inside. The coach remained at the girl’s side, still speaking in low, steady tones, her hand moving instinctively to smooth damp hair from the kid’s clammy forehead. The girl was trying like hell to keep it together, teeth clenched, eyes glassy, fists twisting the sheet in silence. Jack had seen it before; kids who’d bite down on pain like it owed them something. He knew it all too well himself. This one was barely holding the line.

Back at the nurses’ station, Jack ignored the lukewarm coffee at his elbow and keyed into Abigail’s chart. His hands moved by habit alone; stable, neuro check pending ortho consult. He read it back once, almost absently, before calling the order down to radiology. As the line rang, his gaze wandered down the corridor to her room. The curtain was drawn, but he could still picture her: the clenched jaw, the sweat on her brow, the way she white-knuckled the sheet like pain was a battle she wasn’t about to lose, welding dry wit like a weapon.

It wasn’t just the attitude that stuck with him. It was the way she held it all in. Like someone who was trying to prove to the world that she could and was stronger than it. The shape of her face. The bow in her hair. That hard-earned edge in her voice that pulled forth blurry memories from the shallow grave he’d tried burying them in a long time ago.

“Abbot.”

The sound of his name tugged him back. Jack turned to find Dana watching him over the top of her glasses, brows raised.

“You good?” she asked, already skeptical of whatever answer he might give.

“Just peachy,” he replied, offering a dry half-smile.

“You sure?” she pressed. “You’ve been staring at that room like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nah. Patient just… looks like someone I used to know.”

Dana didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him a beat longer before giving a small nod and turning back to her work. He stared down at the monitor, her name blurring slightly before him. You’re just tired, he told himself. Seeing ghosts where there are none. It wasn’t new. Sometimes it was a flash of red in a crowd that he’d follow without realizing, a snorted laugh across a room that made his breath catch. He’d spent years chasing those ghosts. He thought he’d finally stopped.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, can you flag me when Abigail Morgan’s mom shows up?”

Dana glanced back over. “Yeah, sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

Whitaker flagged him on the way out of bay six. “Bowel obstruction,” the kid said, already pulling on gloves.

“Nope,” Jack grunted, waving him off. “On your own. Godspeed.”

He didn’t wait for the groan that followed, just veered off toward the guy in nine complaining of chest pain and armed with a hundred pounds of excuses about why he hadn’t touched his meds in six months. Jack listened, nodded, poked, prodded, ordered an EKG, and moved on. Bed fifteen had a diabetic foot ulcer that probably should’ve been seen a week ago, maybe two. He flagged podiatry, jotted the note, sanitized his hands, and moved on.

At some point, radiology had come for the Morgan kid. He didn’t see it, just noticed the bed empty when he passed. Later, the images came through and confirmed what he already knew: spiral fracture of the distal tibia and fibula. Comminuted, soft tissue damage, the whole nine yards. He’d seen worse, but it would still be a bitch to recover from. She wouldn’t be back on the sidelines anytime soon. Poor kid.

Next was a nineteen-year-old who’d absolutely not been vaping “just nicotine,” given his heart rate and the fact that he couldn’t remember his own name.

Jack finally checked the clock again. An hour forty-five left. He could do an hour forty-five.

“Abbot,” Dana called, catching his attention as he passed the nurses' station. She gestured down the hall with her pen. “Your broken leg’s mom is here.”

Jack gave a brief nod and grabbed one of the iPads off the charging station, pulling up Abigail’s x-rays as he headed down the hallway. His fingers swiped quickly, sorting through the images to find the right ones. He was already mentally preparing for the conversation ahead, but it was always a little different with parents. They didn’t want just the facts. They wanted reassurance.

He barely looked up as he reached the room, pulling the curtain back with one hand. Inside, soft voices exchanged words in a gentle murmur between Abigail and her mom. The woman stood bent over the bed, her voice low and steady as she smoothed a thumb along Abigail's cheek in gentle strokes. The girl had clearly started to cry, eyes puffy, tears fresh, but she clung to the comfort like she hadn’t let herself need it until now. A faded denim jacket hung over kelly green scrubs, creased and thin at the elbows and shoulders, the seams nearly white with age. Her daughter’s same bright auburn hair was twisted up neatly and held together by a flower-shaped clip that was clearly borrowed from her daughter’s bathroom counter.

“How’s the leg, House?” Jack asked as he stepped fully into the room.

The woman straightened up, her hand still resting on the girl’s arm as she turned toward him.

And then time stuttered.

Froze. Punched the air right out of his chest.

Blue eyes met his own, and suddenly, it was 1995 again.

Blue eyes that hadn’t changed at all, that same impossible shade of blue now wide in recognition. The same high cheekbones and sharp jawline, the bright hair, just a shade deeper than her daughter’s and flecked with gray. He could still feel that hair on his skin, smell sun and lavender in it. The same freckles scattered over her nose in the same constellations he used to map out with his thumb when they’d lie in the grass behind her parents’ house.

He knew that face. Not just in the vague way someone might resemble a memory, but knew it. Muscle-deep. Bone-deep. Etched into him like a scar. Even the jacket looked the same; the same rip in the collar that she used to play with before she kissed him goodbye.

Older, yeah. So was he. But the years had been kinder to her, or maybe they’d just left the parts he remembered untouched. She was still her. Still as beautiful as the night he ran.

She stared at him, lips parted and stunned, like he’d conjured himself out of thin air.

“Jack?” she breathed.

God. Even that was the same too.

He blinked, still not breathing.

“Beth.”

[bbywhitefox123]

Summary: After summer break, Lola returned to the Kook Academy with a swollen belly, with no other than the golden boy's, Rafe Cameron, locker engraved with the words - daddy cameron.

☆ Chapter 3: trailer trash☆

Rafe Cameron was never short on girls. They clung to him like perfume—cheap, sweet, and easy to wash off. But tonight, he couldn't treat his girlfriend like just another fling. Not with what he was about to do. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender. It was going to be ugly—messy like blood on white sheets, like mascara-streaked cheeks, like screaming in a house with paper-thin walls and no one listening.

He stood outside her door on the Fourth of July, the sounds of fireworks echoing from Tannyhill—his family and their rich, drunken friends celebrating in their glittering bubble of wealth. And here he was, soaked to the bone, standing in front of a run-down trailer with chipped paint and a porch light that flickered like it was trying to warn him.

He knocked, loud and sharp, a bitter kind of desperation bleeding into his fist. The rain poured harder, soaking his shirt, plastering his hair to his forehead—like the sky itself was begging him to turn around before he did something he couldn't undo.

Then the door creaked open.

Lola looked like trouble wrapped in brunette ambition. Her dark hair fell around her face in messy waves, damp at the ends from the humidity. Her lips were soft but chapped, like she'd been biting them raw, and her eyes—dark brown, sharp as glass—held no innocence, just warning signs. She wore a ribbed tank top that clung to her body, no bra, tiny sleep shorts hanging low on her hips. A cigarette burned between her fingers, half-forgotten, the ash dangling like it was waiting to drop on him.

Rafe met her eyes and smirked, that cruel curve of his lips that always came right before he said something vile. He didn't care how wrecked she looked. In fact, he liked it. The darker the eyes, the deeper the mess—Lola was all bite and bare skin and Rafe wanted it all.

"I heard backshots cost fifty bucks," he said, voice soaked in cocky venom, eyes dragging down her body like he was making a shopping list.

Lola didn't flinch. She blew smoke in his face, letting the silence burn first. Then her lips curled into a sneer. "This is all you have to offer? Daddy's short on pocket money, Cameron?"

"Why don't you let me in and find out?" Rafe said, his voice dipping low—lazy, taunting, soaked in arrogance.

Lola moved aside without a word, just a look. A slow up-and-down glance over his soaked frame. He was a pretty boy, no denying it—sharp jaw, pouty mouth, hair slicked back from the rain, and that smug look in his eyes like he already knew she'd let him in. She watched him walk past her like he owned the place, then kicked the door shut behind him with her bare heel.

Rafe wandered into her living room, dripping onto the stained carpet. The couch was a wreck—half a blanket thrown over the armrest, a few worn-out magazines, a half-smoked joint in an ashtray, and right on top, a lacy leopard-print bra like it belonged there. He picked it up, twirling it between two fingers, smirking.

"Bet leopard suits you," he said. "Heard you got yourself into a scholarship with your head skills."

Lola didn't blink. She stepped forward, arms crossed under her chest, one hip cocked.

"Came to see if the rumor was true, pretty boy?" she asked, voice sharp and sweet all at once.

He shrugged, still toying with the bra. "Curiosity's a bitch."

"And you look like the kind of guy who plays with fire just to get burned," she said, walking toward him slowly. "I heard about you too, you know. Rafe Cameron—rich boy with coke in his veins and a god complex. Should've figured you'd come sniffing around once daddy's money wasn't enough to keep you entertained."

"Think you can keep me entertained?" Rafe asked, his voice low and dangerous as she stepped up and plucked the bra from his fingers.

Lola smirked, twirling the leopard lace in her hand like a trophy. "I can keep you hooked if I want to," she said, cocky and sure—because she knew the power she held, and tonight, she was leaning into it.

Rafe smiled—slow, real, predatory. The kind of smile that said he was already addicted and just hadn't admitted it yet.

She turned away from him, hips swaying with purpose. And then, just before she left the room, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her tiny sleep shorts, sliding them down her legs without ceremony. She walked off in nothing but her panties—thin, black, and barely there—like she didn't have a care in the goddamn world.

Rafe watched, silent for once. Eyes locked on the curves of her body, the sway of her hips, the flash of skin that looked like sin under shitty trailer lighting.

He'd heard the rumors. That sex with Lola was like getting high for the first time. That she was chaos in human form—hands that clawed down your back, lips that left bruises, and a mouth that could bring you to your knees. They said her moans could make you believe in God and her silence could make you beg for hell. That once you had her, everything else tasted bland.

They said she didn't fuck—she possessed.

And now Rafe was standing in her trailer, breath shallow, heart racing like he was about to crash, wondering if maybe—just maybe—the rumors weren't exaggerated enough.

Rafe shrugged off his soaked Ralph Lauren puffer, letting it hit the floor with a wet thud, and followed her into the bedroom. The room was trashy, like something out of a dive bar hookup fantasy—walls stained yellow from smoke, a busted fan spinning slow on the ceiling, and clothes littered like confetti across the floor. The bedsheets were twisted, floral and faded, and the mattress sagged in the middle like it had too many memories soaked into it. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting a mess of makeup-stained tissues, half-empty perfume bottles, and a pink vibrator that sat shamelessly on the nightstand.

Lola didn't even look at him as she stepped over a pile of old hoodies and collapsed onto the bed, stretching out like she was inviting sin.

"Head is ten, missionary is twenty, doggy's fifty, choking costs five extra," she said casually, like she was reading from a menu. "And if you wanna finish on my face, I don't kiss afterward."

Rafe didn't laugh. He didn't flinch. He walked to her half-open dresser and dragged it open with two fingers, rifling through the lace, satin, and cigarettes until he found something interesting—pink fur handcuffs, the metal glinting under the weak lamp light.

He held them up, expression unreadable, voice low.

"How much is it to tie you up," he asked, stepping closer, "and fuck that pretty body senseless?"

For the first time—maybe ever—Lola was caught off guard.

She masked it well, but it was there: the quick flicker in her eyes, the sharp breath she pulled through her nose, the way her fingers curled slightly into the sheets. Rafe had said a lot without saying much, and that cocky, dark edge of his didn't just want a good time—he wanted control, chaos, all of her.

And she wasn't used to that. Not like this.

Ever since Lola figured out what puberty did to rich boys—the way it turned them into dogs in designer clothes, always chasing the next wet dream—she had been two steps ahead. She knew the look in their eyes, knew how to work their hormones, their wallets, their fragile egos. They were easy. Predictable. Puppets dressed in Gucci and hard-ons.

But Rafe Cameron wasn't acting like the rest. He wasn't begging. He wasn't bluffing. He didn't want a taste—he wanted to consume.

And for a second, Lola felt it.

Not fear. Not desire.

A challenge.

She sat up, slowly, legs swinging off the side of the bed, her eyes fixed on him now—sharp, calculating, curious.

"You sure you can handle that much power, pretty boy?" she asked, voice low, silk wrapped around razor blades.

Rafe twirled the cuffs once around his finger, lips twitching into a crooked grin.

"Let's find out."

Lola stood, slow and deliberate, like a panther about to pounce. Her bare legs brushed his jeans as she stepped into him, chest grazing his. The air between them was heavy—thick with tension, with heat, with the kind of energy that usually came right before something exploded.

She grabbed his jaw, tilted it like she was inspecting a piece of art she wasn't sure deserved the wall. Then she kissed him—hard.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was a fight.

Teeth scraped. Tongues clashed. Her fingers tugged his wet hair, and he shoved her back into the mattress, only for her to yank him down on top of her like she'd planned the whole thing. Their bodies tangled, hands roaming, each kiss sharper than the last. She bit his lip—he grunted and grabbed her throat, not tight, just a warning. She smirked against his mouth, blood blooming where she split his lip.

And then—

The click.

She didn't notice it at first. Too caught up in the high of it, the push and pull. But when she tried to grab at his shirt again, her arms jerked, stuck.

"What the f—"

Her voice cut short when she looked up.

Her wrists were cuffed to the headboard.

The pink fur ones. Her own damn cuffs.

Her chest rose and fell, eyes locked on Rafe as he leaned back just enough to look at her, breathing hard, lip bleeding, eyes dark with something wild and smug.

"You motherf—"

He laughed, quiet and slow, dragging his thumb across her lip. "Didn't think the girl with the mouth would be this easy to silence."

She yanked at the cuffs—rattling metal, fury rising in her throat—but he just leaned down, kissing the corner of her jaw, his voice a growl now, deep and filthy.

"You still wanna play, Lola?" he whispered. "'Cause I promise you, I play dirty."

Lola's eyes burned with something between rage and thrill, wrists yanking at the cuffs again, but not to get free—just to remind him she was still in the game. She wasn't scared. She was pissed that he beat her to the punch.

Rafe grinned, slow and vicious, hands dropping to the button of his jeans. The sound of it popping open was loud in the silence, cocky and deliberate. He slid the zipper down and let the denim fall, stepping out of them like he had all the time in the world.

"I've heard a lot about that mouth," he muttered, kneeling on the bed, eyes locked on her lips. "Let's see if it lives up to the hype."

He leaned over her, one hand braced beside her head, the other trailing down the curve of her jaw, slow and taunting. She arched up to bite him but he grabbed her chin, holding her still.

"You're not in control anymore, Lola," he said, voice low, hot against her skin. "Not tonight."

Her laugh was breathy, wild. "You think cuffs are all it takes to handle me?"

"No," he said, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip again. "But it's a start."

Rafe hovered above her, the mattress creaking under his weight as he slid further between her legs, the cuffs rattling softly against the metal headboard. Lola's eyes didn't flinch—didn't blink—just stayed locked on his, steady and daring.

She didn't ask. She didn't beg.

She opened her mouth.

And when Rafe moved closer, guiding himself to her lips, he realized—almost instantly—why the rumors had followed her like smoke.

She didn't just use her mouth. She used her eyes, her breath, her tongue—slow, deliberate, and merciless. She took her time, like she wanted to make him regret every cocky word he'd ever said. And Rafe, for the first time in a long time, wasn't thinking. He was feeling.

The way her mouth worked him—tight, warm, skilled—had him bracing one hand against the headboard, his other still tangled in her hair. His breathing turned ragged, sharp groans leaving his throat as he tried to keep his damn composure.

She didn't let up. Not once. And every time he thought she was done, that she'd ease up, she sank deeper, dragged him further under.

Rafe's head dropped back, lips parted, the muscles in his stomach twitching.

The rumors weren't just true—they didn't do her justice.

And Lola? She just looked up at him, smug as hell, like she'd just won a war without lifting a weapon.

And being inside her?

That was better. Way better.

Rafe had always had a high drive—chronic, untamable. He'd chased every thrill, every tight body that threw itself at him, and most of it blurred together into a forgettable mess of heat and motion. But this? Lola?

She was different.

The second he pushed into her, it was like the noise in his head finally shut the hell up. Everything narrowed down to her—her heat, her grip, her gasp that sounded like it belonged in a confession booth.

She clenched around him like she knew what she was doing—like she was built to wreck him.

Rafe's breath hitched, his body locking up as he bottomed out, the room swaying for a second from the sheer intensity of it. It wasn't just physical—it was punishing. Addictive. A drug disguised as a girl who bit her lip like she wanted him ruined.

She moved beneath him like she wanted a fight—hips rolling, eyes daring, the cuffs rattling as she tried to get leverage.

He gave it to her. Every inch. Every rough snap of his hips. He didn't hold back, didn't pretend to be gentle. And she met him, stroke for stroke, eyes wide open like she was memorizing the moment she made the Cameron boy lose control.

"Still think you're in charge?" she whispered, breathless but smug.

Rafe growled, slamming deeper, his hand wrapping tight around her throat—not enough to stop her words, just enough to make her feel them.

"Shut up and take it, Lola."

And she did.

With a smirk.

Rafe wasn't sure how many rounds they went—three, maybe four? Everything after the first felt like a blur of sweat, tangled limbs, and filthy words exchanged between gasps and growls. His back burned with scratches, raw and stinging in the best way, and his neck? Bruised. Marked. Her lips had left proof of ownership like she was staking a claim.

He stood hunched over the sink in her tiny bathroom, shirtless, rinsing himself off with lukewarm water and a bar of soap that smelled like cheap vanilla and weed. The mirror was fogged and cracked in the corner, but he could still make out the bruises, the bite on his collarbone, the red welts clawed down his ribs.

He smirked at his reflection.

She was insane.

He liked it.

When he stepped out, still drying his face on a threadbare towel, the scent of sex and smoke still thick in the air, he froze in the doorway.

Lola stood by his jacket, back turned, wearing nothing but a long t-shirt—probably his—and holding his wallet open. Her fingers were plucking out a few bills with the same laziness she kissed with. Confident. Unbothered. Like she was taking what was already owed.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, watching her without a word for a second. Then he stepped closer, his voice casual but laced with a grin.

"Stealing from me, Lola?"

She didn't even flinch. Just shoved the cash into the front pocket of her shirt, turned, and smirked.

"Call it a tip," she said, brushing past him. "You wanted the full experience, didn't you?"

He grabbed her wrist—not hard, just enough to stop her—and leaned in close, their faces inches apart.

"You keep playing games with me," he said low, eyes locked on hers, "and I'll make sure next time, you forget your own name."

She smiled sweetly, lips still swollen, cash peeking out from the edge of her shirt.

"Then maybe you better come remind me."

Lola didn't even let his hand drop from her wrist. She stepped into him again, lips brushing his like she was tasting the threat on his tongue. Then she kissed him—slow at first, but with heat rising fast, sharp and needy. Her hand slid into his hair, the other pushing his towel off his shoulders like she owned him now.

"You really think I'm done with you?" she whispered against his mouth.

Rafe let out a rough breath, his hands already gripping her waist. "You emptied my wallet, sweetheart."

She smirked, pulling him back toward the bed. "And you're still here."

He didn't argue. He didn't need to.

Lola dropped onto the mattress and dragged him down with her, fingers curling around the back of his neck. She looked up at him with that same wild gleam that had him hooked from the start.

"You gonna prove you're worth my time?" she murmured, her legs parting to welcome him back in.

Rafe growled, low and feral, biting at her neck just hard enough to make her gasp.

"You talk too much."

"Then shut me up," she dared, tilting her chin.

And he did—with his mouth, with his hands, with the kind of urgency that came from obsession. From the need to win a game that had no rules and no end.

They didn't stop until the sun broke through the cracked blinds—and even then, only because they were too spent to keep playing.

But neither one of them looked ready to quit. Not for good.

《