#but then I just kept writing... and writing... and writing...

[buckysleftbicep]

cradles and chaos 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

warning: morning sickness, loads of fluff, and team shenanigans

summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: i love writing fics with teeth rotting fluff, genuinely love them so much! i hope you enjoy them, i love ya and stay safe out there!

requests are open! i love, love, love soft!bucky

The day started like any other.

Morning training. Groggy coffee run. Bucky kissing the top of your head before heading off to spar with Alexei and you trying not to gag at the smell of the protein powder he insisted on putting in his smoothie. Just the usual.

Until it hit you.

The wave of nausea crashed into your gut so suddenly that you barely made it to the compound bathroom in time. Knees on the cold tile, you gripped the toilet bowl and dry-heaved like you were trying to launch a demon from your oesophagus.

It was violent. Loud. And, unfortunately for you, not private.

Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”

You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”

She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”

“Don’t—”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”

Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”

“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”

“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”

You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”

You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”

Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”

“That I trust you?”

“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”

You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."

“Yelena.”

“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”

“…Yelena.”

“Deal?”

“…Fine.”

She grinned, already scheming.

You had taken every precaution.

No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.

But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.

One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.

Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.

Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.

“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”

She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”

You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”

“This is me avoiding paperwork.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.

“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.

Over the next week, you noticed the little things.

A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.

Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.

Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.

He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.

“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”

And just like that, Bucky let it go.

The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.

Ava just knew. And that was enough.

It was bound to happen.

You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.

Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.

But then came Alexei.

Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.

It started in the kitchen.

You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

And that’s when disaster struck.

Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.

“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”

From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.

“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Alexei didn’t listen.

Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”

Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”

“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”

You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”

Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”

Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”

“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."

He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.

And then he saw you.

Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”

“Okay—”

“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."

Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”

“Alexei—”

“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”

You stared at him.

“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”

“Decorative.”

Yelena snorted.

Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”

You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”

You didn’t mean to drag John into it. Not directly, anyway.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.

You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.

you up? can you get me mango gummies. and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek. please.

There was a pause. Then:

Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?

You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.

Another pause. Longer.

Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.

True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."

You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.

John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"

“Yup.”

“Like... voluntarily?”

“It’s good.”

He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”

You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”

There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”

“So did you,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”

“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”

“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”

You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”

You froze, mid-bite.

He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”

“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”

“John—”

“I called you a sleepy turtle.”

“John,"

He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”

You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”

He looked genuinely uncertain. You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.

After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.

“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”

You smiled. “You’ll be great.”

Bob found out by accident.

You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you managed.

He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”

Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”

You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"

“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”

“Not yet.”

Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”

He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."

And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:

“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”

You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.

You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.

But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.

There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.

You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.

Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”

“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.

There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”

Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”

Silence.

The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”

Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”

Bucky blinked, still reeling.

John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”

You turned your head slowly. “John.”

“She punched one!” he said quickly.

“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”

Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.

And then you reached for his hands. Everything softened.

You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”

Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.

Then he looked up, and everything changed.

You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.

Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”

He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.

“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”

You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”

His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.

You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.

A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.

You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.

"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.

“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”

“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.

Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”

Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”

Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”

Every head nodded.

He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.

“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”

You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”

And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.

A flutter beneath his hand. A tiny, impossible shift.

His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”

You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.

And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.

Because you were.

[yuwritesstuff]

The moment Satoru found out his wife was pregnant, something shifted inside him — like an ancient spell breaking open in his chest, releasing light and warmth he hadn't known he'd been missing.

He’d stared at the little test in your shaking hands, blinking under the harsh bathroom light, and when you looked up at him — nervous, hopeful — he didn’t say a word at first. He just fell to his knees and pressed his forehead gently against your stomach, arms wrapping around your hips as if to say thank you to the tiny life just beginning there.

From then on, it was like the world had flipped upside down in the gentlest, most absurd way.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, was suddenly anxious about everything. He kept one hand behind your back every time you walked as if you'd tip over without it. He scowled at the stairs as if they’d personally offended him. He triple-checked the expiration date on everything you ate, even the fruits. Apples!

“Do you think our baby likes apples?” he’d asked one afternoon, watching you crunch into one while curled up on the couch.

“I think I like apples,” you laughed.

“Okay, but we’re a team now. You and the baby are a package deal. So I’m asking for both of you!”

You'd just rolled your eyes — but smiled the whole time.

He thought your cravings were adorable. Even the 2 AM “we need fried chicken right now” kind of cravings. There was no mountain he wouldn't climb for you — and in fact, he did climb one once to get a specific type of peach you said you wanted. He’d teleport to different prefectures if needed.

Your growing belly was his favorite thing in the world. He loved watching you rest your hand on it absentmindedly, like you were already cradling the baby. He’d trace soft patterns over your skin with his fingers, murmuring nonsense stories to the child who kicked like they already had opinions.

He was fascinated by everything. The sound of your baby's heartbeat on the monitor. The way you waddled and scolded him when he called it cute — but he did think it was cute. You were beautiful like the moon — soft, whole, glowing in a way that wasn’t meant to be touched but cherished from beside.

He kept a journal. Something he never told anyone.

It wasn’t elegant or poetic — it was full of rambling thoughts, doodles, little “today the baby kicked again” notes, and things he wanted to tell them when they were older. Sometimes he wrote about how scared he was. How the world was cruel. How much he wanted to protect them. How he was afraid he wouldn't be enough. But always, at the end of the entry, he’d write:

“But your mom is here. And that makes everything okay.”

Satoru was the kind of man who laughed too loud and talked too much, but around you lately, he’d gone soft and quiet in the evenings. He loved brushing your hair back behind your ear. Loved kissing your shoulder when you leaned into him. Loved pressing his cheek to your belly and just… being. No missions. No curses. No battles. Just you.

And despite all his fears — the world, the danger, the weight of who he was — he was happy. Genuinely, finally happy.

It hit him one night when you fell asleep on his chest, your hand loosely over his heart, your child nestled between you two.

He whispered into the silence, voice rough with awe, “I think… I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

And for once, Satoru Gojo didn't feel like the last one standing in a war-torn world. He felt like a man — loved, loving, waiting for a life to bloom.

[satsugo]

୨୧ You tried to sneak out after a one-night stand. Gojo wakes up — calm, shirtless, and not okay with being left behind. What follows is possessive touches, quiet threats, and a reminder of who you belong to.

I wanted to write something that felt like a slow unravel — soft words, sharp intentions, and Gojo being terrifyingly calm in the way only he can be. just a lil treat for the yandere girlies ♡ hope it ruins you in the best way. mlist

gojo satoru x reader

minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.

The floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you tiptoed across the suite.

Gojo’s apartment was too clean — pristine white walls, muted city lights pouring through wide windows, and expensive silence that made your breath feel too loud. Your dress from the night before was clutched in one hand, wrinkled and still smelling faintly like sweat and cologne. You hadn’t even put your shoes back on yet.

He was still in bed, you were sure of it. He’d been wrapped in those dark gray sheets when you slid out, dead silent. You hadn’t dared to glance back.

Until now.

“Y’know,” a voice drawled behind you — slow, amused, terrifyingly awake. “If you really wanted to leave quietly, you probably shouldn’t have stolen my shirt.”

You froze mid-step, breath caught like prey in a trap.

He was sitting up now. Hair messier than before. One long arm braced behind him, the other pushing the sheets off his bare torso. His blindfold was gone, tossed somewhere on the nightstand, and his icy blue eyes caught the dim light like sharpened crystal.

You swallowed.

“It was cold,” you offered, lamely.

“Oh, totally,” he said, voice light and sarcastic. “That’s why you’re sneaking out like you killed somebody.”

You turned slowly. “I didn’t think you'd care—”

Gojo laughed. Not loud — just sharp, like a knife sliding across glass.

“You didn’t think I’d care?” he repeated. “Sweetheart… I’ve had your name circling my brain since the second you touched me.”

He stood, bare feet whispering across the hardwood as he stalked toward you — tall, loose-limbed, terrifyingly calm.

You backed up.

Bad idea.

He moved faster, one hand pressing against the wall just beside your head, caging you without even touching you.

“That’s mine,” he said softly, flicking the hem of the shirt you were wearing. His shirt — white, oversized, the one that hung just a little too low on you and hit just high enough on your thighs to drive him insane.

“You mean the shirt?”

His head tilted. “I mean you.”

You went quiet, breath shaky. “We hooked up once.”

“So?” Gojo smiled, slow and bright — but his eyes didn’t match. They burned. “You don’t do that with someone like me and leave. That’s not how this works.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue. But the words died on your tongue the second his fingers hooked under the shirt’s hem and pushed up — slow, deliberate, warm palms skating along the skin of your thighs.

“W-Wait—” You shifted, but he just stepped closer, pressing the full heat of his body into yours.

“Don’t run,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear now. “You’ll only make me chase you. And you won’t like how that ends.”

Your breath hitched. His fingers kept moving — slipping higher, thumbs brushing over the crease of your hips, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

“I liked seeing you in my shirt,” he said softly. “But I like you better out of it.”

You shivered.

Then he tugged — not gently. The shirt lifted over your head, arms caught for a moment before he pulled it free and tossed it aside. You were bare beneath, breathless and pressed against the wall like you didn’t know what to say.

“Pretty little thing,” Gojo murmured, fingers trailing over your bare stomach. “You really thought you could disappear from me? After the way you moaned my name last night?”

You blushed — visibly. It made his eyes darken.

He kissed you. Rough, breath-stealing, like he was trying to taste every sound you’d ever made. You clutched at his shoulders — and it hit you all over again just how strong he was. How fast he could crush you. But he didn’t.

Not yet.

“Bed,” he said. “Now.”

He didn’t yell — didn’t need to. You obeyed without thinking, legs shaky as you moved. He followed like a storm.

The sheets were still warm when he pushed you down, straddling you easily. His hands roamed — over your breasts, down your sides, fingers memorizing every inch like he’d been given a test on it.

“You looked so cute sneaking out,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin as he moved lower. “But you’re not going anywhere now. You hear me?”

You nodded — breathless, wrecked, unsure if it was fear or desire curling low in your stomach.

Maybe both.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, before glancing up with those impossible blue eyes.

“I’m gonna remind you exactly who you belong to.”

And when he finally lowered his mouth to you — all heat, tongue, and expert cruelty — you forgot your own name.

But you remembered his.

Over and over and over again.

satsugo 2025 © all rights reserved; do not plagiarize, translate, or repost my writing.

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ juicy . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . At the gym, Chris and Matt spot you doing squats, and to their surprise, they realize just how thick your ass and thighs had gotten from your routine workouts, leading them to want to show you just how much they appreciate your hard work

contains . . . eventual smut, threesome (ZERO INCEST), reverse cowgirl position, oral (m!receiving) + handjob, slight spanking, praise

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #12

Controlled breaths and soft grunts left Matt's lips as he stood in front of the wide mirrors on the walls, watching himself as his arms curled up, his hands gripping dumbbells.

His white tank top was already clinging to his chest and shoulders, darkened around the collar with sweat. His arms flexed with each movement, clean and practiced, biceps bulging as he curled the weights up slow, controlled, the kind of effort that didn’t need noise to prove itself.

A few feet away, Chris was mid-set on the incline bench, veins snaking along his arms as he pushed the barbell upward, the plates clinking softly as they steadied at the top, breaths slow and steady.

His black tank stuck to his skin in the same way as Matt's, but it rode up at the sides to reveal carved abs and a sheen of sweat ran down his v-line that lead underneath his basketball shorts. 

They weren’t talking and they didn’t need to. The shared rhythm was there like always — both of them tuned into their own routines, but still clocking each other in that silent way brothers do. Who was lifting heavier. Who was keeping pace. Who was going to tap out first.

Matt made it through one more before his form started to slip. He paused mid-lift, teeth gritted and his huffs seeping through his teeth, then let the weights drop with a quiet, frustrated thud against the mat, a defeated huff leaving him as he heard Chris's bar clink as he racked it.

From the bench, Chris didn't even try to hide his grin as he sat up, his voice almost breathless as he celebrated. “Ha! Told you you’d tap out first.”

Matt shot him a look, still catching his breath, rolling his shoulder in that way he always did when he was being petty. “I didn’t tap out. I’m switching muscle groups.”

“Sure you are,” Chris teased, grasping his gym towel and tapping the sweat that lines his hairline. “That face said ‘I’m done’ five reps ago.”

Matt huffed out a laugh, rolled his eyes, and grabbed his water bottle. “Your bar’s lighter than my warm-up set.”

Chris leaned forward on his knees, towel now slung around his neck as he chuckled. “You can say whatever helps you sleep tonight, man. Just admit it — you tapped out.”

Matt ignored him, raising the bottle to his lips as his eyes absentmindedly swept across the gym absently — just taking in the space, the atmosphere and other people present, maybe thinking about what machine to hit next.

Until his eyes suddenly landed on you.

All three of you had come together, a routine you'd kept up for the last three months of your relationship, but as Matt looked at you, he'd realized something he sure as hell didn't realize before.

You were at the squat rack with your back to them, legs shoulder-width apart, moving through your set with slow, intentional form. There wasn’t a hint of struggle in the way you lowered into each rep, thighs tightening beneath your leggings, ass moving in that perfectly controlled rhythm.

Matt blinked once, then twice, and slowly, his water bottle lowered just a little from his lips, as if he were in a trance.

Chris noticed the shift in his brother's silence, that pause in his motion, and decided to follow his gaze, suddenly now beyond happy he'd made the decision to do so.

You were still going, steady, focused, completely in your own zone. Each time you lowered, your form was solid — back straight, knees right where they needed to be. But the way your leggings hugged you, how your thick thighs now filled out the piece of clothing, how the curve of your ass moved with every rep — fuck, it was something else.

Chris finally broke the silence as he let out a quiet breath. “Damn.”

Matt didn’t answer, just tilted his head a little like he was recalibrating everything.

“When did that happen?” Chris asked under his breath, referring to how thick you'd gotten, tone almost impressed as he stood up from the bench he was on.

Matt swallowed as he slowly capped his bottle, still watching you with a chuckle in his tone. “I have no idea... but i'm fucking loving it.”

“She’s been working legs without us,” Chris pointed out as he now stood next to Matt, a little amused now, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

Matt glanced at him. “Apparently.”

They both stood there for a second, caught between moving and not. You hadn’t looked over yet — but the angle of the mirror in front of you caught everything. And a beat later, your eyes flicked up, right to where they stood.

You didn’t miss a thing. Not the way they were staring, not the way Matt had gone quiet, not the crooked grin starting to pull at Chris’s mouth, even if they both looked like total pervs just staring at you.

You didn’t break your stride though, just kept going, but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips — smug, like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Chris leaned over just a little toward Matt, keeping his voice low and teasing. “Still pacing yourself?”

Matt narrowed his eyes as he glanced at Chris, shaking his head once before holding his bottle tight in his grip, starting to walk over to you.

“You coming?” he asked over his shoulder at Chris who looked as if he was still curious on whether he should come to you or not, but as Matt grew closer, he couldn't help but chuckle before he grabbed his bottle from the bench and made his way over to you and Matt.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

By the time all three of you got home, you were trying not to grin as you fumbled with your keys, the lock just slightly stubborn in that way it always was. You leaned into the door with a soft laugh under your breath as Matt’s hands slid around your waist from behind, pulling you gently back against him.

“Hey—” you protested, giggling a little, half-surprised at how handsy they were getting with you. “I’m trying to open the door.”

Chris’s voice was a breath right at your ear. “Mhmmm,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s why you've been taking your sweet ol' time with the key for like… a full minute.”

You laughed again, breathy and flustered. “It’s stuck!”

Matt kissed the back of your shoulder, slow and warm, whilst Chris's kissed at the opposite side of your neck, Matt murmuring against your skin. “You’re stuck. On our minds.”

“Oh my God,” you scoffed at his cheesiness, but you were already smiling, biting your lip as you finally got the door open. The second it creaked inward, Chris stepped behind you as you all walked in and kicked it closed without missing a beat.

You took two steps forward before you felt Matt’s mouth again, soft and slow at the base of your neck, while Chris’s hands slid under your tank top from behind, grazing up your sides. You squirmed a little between them, a laugh bubbling up before you could stop it.

“Okay, okay,” you said through a grin, trying to turn around. “Why are you two acting like this all of a sudden?”

Chris didn’t move far, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, feigning innocence with a soft chuckle. “Acting like what?”

“Like you’re about to eat me alive,” you teased, giggling again when Matt’s hand squeezed your hip.

“Because we are,” Matt said, voice rough but playful. “You should’ve seen the way you looked at the gym.”

“You were showing off,” Chris added, grinning as he tugged gently at the hem of your tank top.

“I wasn’t,” you lied, barely holding back another laugh as you knew you were totally trying to catch their attentions back at the gym, a breath catching in your throat as Matt’s fingers slid under the waistband of your leggings.

“Then why were you smirking at us in the mirror?” Chris asked, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then lower. “You knew we were staring.”

“You were staring?” you asked, pretending to sound scandalized — but it was no use with how flushed your face felt. Your voice broke on a laugh as Matt’s hand smoothed over the curve of your ass, just firm enough to make your knees wobble a little.

Matt leaned in, pressing up behind you like he was losing grip on his self control. “How could we not?”

Chris slipped to walk in front of you, his hand finding yours to guide you gently forward, his back facing away from you. “Bedroom. Now. Before I do something ridiculous in this hallway.”

You giggled again, tripping a little on your way down the hall, but they steadied you between themselves like they had a plan — like they’d been thinking about this since the moment they'd left that gym.

As you all stepped into the bedroom, your lips met Chris's, his hands trailing down to grasp the hem of your tank top as your hands slid up to curl into the strands of his hair. You felt as he tugged up your tank top, making you pull from the kiss to help him take it off, chuckles and giggles spilling from the three of you as you got to the bed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

"Oh f-fuck!"

Your moans echoed throughout the bedroom, mixing in with Chris's groans as his hands gripped your hips tight, his eyes trained on the way your ass lifted and fell with each movement you made, your hands holding yourself up on his thighs as you rode him reverse cowgirl style.

A gasped yelp left your lips as Chris's hand came down with another smack, not too hard, but not too weak, perfect enough to sting upon impact before instantly melting into thrilling pleasure that coursed through your body.

"Jesus fuck, ma— such a perfect fuckin' ass. Been working it out for a while now, huh? Wanting to see if we'd notice?" Chris teased as his hands guided your hips, his head lolling back at the ecstatic feeling of you riding him like this.

You could hardly give him a clear answer back as Matt's cock slipped back into your willing mouth, your eyes rolling back at the taste of him before bobbing your head, a muffled "mhmmm" leaving you around Matt's dick as one hand came up to grip his thigh as well.

"Couldn't– fuck– couldn't help ourselves, baby," Matt cooed down at you, groaning deeply as you took him so perfectly, just like you always did, your pretty eyes looking up at him in a way that had him nearly blowing his load right the. and there. "We just had to reward you once we saw how much your work's been paying off."

You moaned around Matt's cock at his words, feeling as his fingers gripped your hair tighter with a grunt leaving his lips.

Nothing but sounds of pleasuring sex filled the room, groans and moans, whines and grunts, slaps and slurps. It was obscene, but god, you fucking loved it. You couldn't help the way you mewled as Matt's cock slipped from your mouth, feeling as Chris thrusted up into you, his movements now quickened in a way you knew all too well.

"Shhhit, ma— god, you're gonna make me fuckin' cum—" Chris groaned out almost pathetically, his hands sliding down to dig his fingers into your deliciously thick thighs, his thrusts meeting your moving hips in a way that had your nearly trembling with pleasure.

You couldn't get Matt back into your mouth with how Chris was fucking you, so your hand shakingly moved up, wrapping around his thick cock and starting to pump him at a pace that had him stuttering his breath and tensing his thighs.

"Fucking hell— gonna make me fucking cum too, baby— keep that up— oh fuck, please—" Matt moaned, his hips thrusting forward to meet your pumps, practically fucking your fist as you looked up at him with parts lips and flushed cheeks.

You could feel as both of their movements became a little sloppy, hurried as if they were scrambling to the edge, and as you felt that burning pleasure grow and grow within, you moved your hips and hand in time just to tip them over the edge.

As if in unison, you felt as thick, warm spurts of cum from Chris filled your sweet cunt, all the while pearly ropes of cum shot from Matt's cock, your mouth open as they landed on your tongue and face, making you let out a breathless giggle before you felt your orgasm wash over you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

Groans, whines, and moans filled the room as you rode out your collective highs, before everything finally slowed down to a stop, Chris's thrusts halting, you hips stopping, and your hand slipping from Matt's cock. The once pleasured noises turned now into panted breaths.

"Please don't ever fucking change this gorgeous body, ma," Chris panted behind you, pulling breathless chuckles and giggles from all three of you, a collective agreement throughout the room.

Oh you were never going to stop giving them more to drool over.

☆ : so so sorry this is coming out so late in the day, was out most of the day with family so, had to work on this when I could 😭 hope it turned out good and that you guys enjoy!! 1 MORE DAY YALL <33

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[heejamas]

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

[jutryst]

Me with this one oneshot I published years ago. It was honestly kinda bad but a few months ago I got a notification for a comment, simply saying they enjoyed it and they hope that I kept writing...I still think about them and it makes me more hopeful to maybe publish some more works that are just sitting on my PC

"I didn't comment on a fic I liked because I don't think the author would care or remember my comment anyway". fanfic writer here, I still remember comments I got on my fics from seven years ago. I still think about them and they still make me smile. your kind comments are what motivates us and what helps us keep writing.

I personally know writers who take screenshot and print out comments they got from their readers.

TL;DR comments matter to us writers more than you think. if you like a fanfic, never be shy to let the author know ♡

[suliigwp]

Helloooooooo, how are you?? Love your work!!

So I got this idea for Oscar, where they have been dating for years now and everyone always teased him about when he’s popping the question. The fans pick up to it and reader finds it super funny so she posts a video with Oscar like full on sleeping on her chest with the song paper rings but like the soft part at the end. Fans go crazy and his mum Nicole actually urges him to pop the question. What do you think?? You can always change the plot a bit, it’s just an idea, hope you have a great week!!

-(cal me) rudolf or 🐢 anon (if it’s free)

Paper Rings

Oscar Piastri x Reader

SULI:Hii thank you so much for the request! Yes 🐢 anon is free— welcome to the family! I loved writing this, so sweet and ugh I just love this man— hope you enjoy! This ended up wayyyyy longer than what I imagined I would write (this is my fav gif of Oscar I had to use it)

Also this is not proofread so forgive any mistakes lmao

Warnings: talk of dangers of f1

Oscar and Y/N had been together since high school. Their story wasn’t one of wild romance or instant fireworks, but a slow-burning, steady kind of love that grew from shy smiles in crowded hallways and whispered secrets beneath the bleachers. They had been the kind of couple everyone expected to last forever — the golden pair who fit so perfectly it was like they’d been made for each other from the start. And for years, they had been inseparable.

Despite the many years and countless memories they shared, there was one thing everyone around them kept teasing Oscar about — when was he finally going to pop the question?

It started with their close friends and family. At the racing team’s gatherings, Oscar’s teammates couldn’t help but poke fun. Lando would smirk and nudge him during strategy talks, “Mate, been years. When’s the ring going on her finger?” Carlos, never one to miss a chance to tease, joked about how Oscar’s mum was already asking if he needed help picking out the perfect ring. Even Y/N’s best friends would text him with sly messages about the “big question” everyone was waiting for.

Oscar laughed along with it, but deep down, the teasing pressed on him in ways no one could see.

The fans were no different. Social media buzzed with excitement and speculation, creating a frenzy over the couple that had grown up before their eyes. Screenshots of their old photos surfaced alongside edits set to romantic songs, and forums debated which race weekend would finally see Oscar get down on one knee. The pressure wasn’t just from the people closest to him — it was everywhere, loud and relentless.

But what no one really understood was what was holding Oscar back.

It wasn’t a lack of love. Oscar loved Y/N with every fiber of his being. He’d dreamed of forever with her since they were teenagers, and his heart raced faster than any car on the track every time he thought about their future. But there was something else — a weight he carried quietly.

Since those early days, his life had been a constant race, both on and off the track. The world of Formula 1 was unforgiving, full of unpredictability and risks that could change everything in an instant. He wanted more than anything to be the man she deserved — stable, strong, able to give her a future without fear or doubt. But how do you promise forever when tomorrow is so uncertain? When every race could bring glory or heartbreak?

The truth was, Oscar was terrified of failing her. Of not being enough.

Late at night, he would lie awake, clutching the small ring box hidden beneath his pillow — polished and perfect, a silent promise waiting to be made. But every time he imagined getting down on one knee, doubt crept in, filling his chest with cold hesitation.

His mum, Nicole, saw through the cracks, even when he tried to hide them. On video calls, her voice was gentle but firm, “Oscar, darling, you’ve been dating Y/N since you were kids. Isn’t it time you made it official?” She teased and encouraged, reminding him how much they all loved Y/N and wanted to see them take the next step. Oscar would laugh nervously, promising he was thinking about it. But he wasn’t ready to say more.

Y/N, too, sensed the tension beneath his smiles. She wasn’t in a rush, never had been. Their love wasn’t about grand gestures or deadlines. It lived in quiet moments — Oscar’s hand slipping into hers during long waits at airports, her sketching his tired face after races, the way they’d curl up together on their couch, wrapped in blankets and the comfort of simply being with each other.

But she knew. She knew he was scared. Not of her, but of the weight of forever.

It was late — the kind of still night when the rest of the world felt like it had slowed down just for them. Oscar was completely exhausted, his body finally surrendering after a long day of training and travel. He’d collapsed onto the couch beside her, and before she could even say a word, he had rested his head gently on her chest, eyes closing as his breathing deepened into slow, even rhythms.

Y/N sat perfectly still, careful not to disturb him. She looked down at him with a tenderness that made her chest ache in the best way. His hair was soft and messy from the day, falling loosely over his forehead and around his ears, and she couldn’t resist the impulse to reach out.

Her fingers moved slowly, as if not wanting to break the spell, threading gently through the dark curls above his temple. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm made her heart flutter — quiet and steady, like the steady beat beneath it.

Oscar shifted just slightly, his breath hitching for a moment before he relaxed again. Encouraged by the calmness of the moment, Y/N let her hand trace a gentle path from his hair down to the curve of his cheek, brushing softly against the smooth skin there.

Almost immediately, Oscar nuzzled closer, pressing his face deeper into her palm and the warmth of her touch. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes — a silent conversation of comfort and trust that had grown between them over the years.

She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didn’t need words, just the pure knowing that this moment — this quiet, unguarded closeness — was everything.

She took out her phone and started recording.

The soft, fading notes of Paper Rings drifted in the background, delicate and warm, wrapping around them like a gentle promise.

Y/N shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and continued to stroke his hair, her heart full in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

There was no rush, no grand declaration needed right then. Just this — Oscar asleep in her arms, safe and at peace, and the world reduced to the simple rhythm of their shared breath.

Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside was waking up slowly, but inside, time seemed to have paused just a little longer.

Y/N lay still, feeling the steady rise and fall of Oscar’s chest against her side. His head was still resting on her, the faint warmth of his skin seeping into hers. For a moment, she just let herself soak in the quiet — the kind of quiet that feels like home.

Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, now softer in the early light, and when he shifted just enough to nuzzle into her again, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips. He wasn’t fully awake yet — just caught in that beautiful space between dreams and reality.

Careful not to disturb him, Y/N reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen as she scrolled through the overnight notifications. The video from last night had exploded in views — thousands upon thousands of hearts, comments filled with love and excitement, and ring emojis flooding the feed.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly, texts lighting up the screen. Friends teasing, fans gushing, and then — a message from Nicole, Oscar’s mum, flashing bright and urgent: “When’s my boy gonna put that ring on your finger?!”

Y/N laughed quietly to herself, the sound soft but filled with warmth. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Oscar’s forehead.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light warm and soft against his face. For a moment, he didn’t move — just took in the weight of Y/N’s body beneath his head, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat grounding him in a way nothing else could.

His fingers twitched, still tangled lightly in her hair as he blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the peaceful calm of the moment wrap around him like a blanket.

Then, ever so gently, he shifted—nuzzling deeper into her, burying his face just a little more against her skin, as if trying to hold onto that feeling of safety and quiet a little longer.

A soft smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he whispered, barely louder than a breath, “Morning.”

He opened his eyes fully then and glanced down, catching sight of Y/N’s smile. His heart swelled — that little smile she wore, the way her eyes lit up even first thing in the morning, it made everything feel like home.

Oscar let his hand cup her cheek softly, thumb brushing over her skin in the gentlest of touches, before he spoke again, voice still thick with sleep, “I’m never waking up from this.”

The moment Oscar and Y/N’s little video went viral, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, no one—friends, family, even fans—could stop teasing him about the one thing everyone had been quietly (or not so quietly) waiting for: when was he finally going to propose?

It started small. At training sessions, his teammates would nudge him with raised eyebrows. Lando, always the cheeky one, smirked and said, “Mate, it’s been years. You planning on popping the question before you retire, or should we start a countdown clock?”

Oscar just laughed, brushing it off, but the grin never quite reached his eyes. Y/N caught it too—the way he’d glance at her sometimes when the teasing started, half-amused, half-worried.

At the paddock, journalists began picking up on the hints, asking the question slyly during interviews. “So, Oscar, fans are dying to know—when’s the big moment?” they’d press, flashing that knowing smile.

And then came the texts and calls from family. His mum, Nicole, was the worst. She didn’t hold back. “Honestly, Oscar, what are you waiting for? You have a beautiful girlfriend, you love her—do the right thing, darling.”

Oscar would groan every time. “Mum, I’m not ignoring you, I just want it to be perfect.”

“But you’ve been saying that for three years!” she shot back, totally unfazed.

Y/N watched it all from the sidelines, amused and affectionate. The whole world seemed to be in on this joke except Oscar himself.

One night, at a small gathering with their closest friends, the teasing hit peak levels.

“Come on, Oscar,” Hattie teased, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You’re not getting any younger, and neither are we. You planning on letting Y/N keep stealing your hoodies forever or are you gonna make it official?”

Lando chimed in, “Yeah, I’m starting to think you’re scared of the big question. What’s holding you back?”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. “I’m just making sure it’s the right moment, alright?”

Y/N leaned over and whispered, “Or maybe you’re just nervous.”

That made the room burst into laughter, and Oscar’s cheeks flushed.

Despite the teasing, Y/N knew what was really going on. It wasn’t fear or doubt holding him back—it was the weight of the promise he wanted to make. The years they’d spent together, the ups and downs, the quiet moments and the big ones.

Still, every joke, every question, every nudge only made the anticipation grow, and somewhere deep inside, Y/N knew their perfect moment was coming—she just didn’t know when.

...

The house was quiet that afternoon, sunlight slanting through the curtains in golden strips. The buzz of the earlier crowd—friends coming and going, family lingering over coffee and conversation—had finally faded, leaving just Oscar and his mum in the kitchen.

He was standing by the sink, rolling a glass of water between his palms, while Nicole sat at the kitchen table, watching him with that look only a mother could give. Patient. Knowing. Unapologetically nosy.

“I’m surprised you stayed behind,” Oscar said, glancing at her. “Thought you’d be the first to head back to the hotel.”

Nicole shrugged, sipping from her cup. “Wanted to see you. Just you. Just my son.”

He gave her a small smile, one she didn’t miss was a little tight around the edges. She set her cup down.

“Oscar.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Just tired.”

She let that settle for a moment before asking, gently, “Is it about the proposal?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to—his silence said enough.

Nicole stood and crossed the kitchen, resting a hand lightly on his back. “Can we sit for a minute?”

They moved to the small couch in the sunroom, where the late afternoon light painted everything in a soft, fading warmth. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glass still in his hands.

“I know everyone’s been teasing you,” she said carefully. “I’ve done it too.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. You and literally everyone I know.”

Nicole tilted her head. “And I know you, sweetheart. When something means a lot to you, you overthink it.”

Oscar was quiet, his thumb moving over the rim of his glass.

“I want to do it right,” he said softly. “Y/N... she’s everything. We’ve been together since we were kids. She knows me better than anyone. She’s been patient through it all—through the races, the travel, the constant being away. I come home exhausted, sometimes barely there at all, and she never makes me feel guilty for it.”

Nicole listened, eyes soft, waiting.

He sighed, deeper this time. “And I think that’s part of what scares me.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“I’m always gone,” he continued, his voice low. “Race to race, country to country, time zones and airports and hotel rooms. And when I’m not away, I’m still not really... here. My head’s always somewhere else—on the next turn, the next performance, the next interview.”

His throat tightened. “It’s not fair to her. It hasn’t been for years. I’m in this career that asks for everything—my time, my focus, even my body. It’s dangerous, Mum. I know I don’t talk about it, but it is. One crash, one wrong move, and everything could change. Or end.”

Nicole reached for his hand, wrapping hers around his.

“She never complains,” he said, a little brokenly. “She just waits. Supports. Smiles and makes it easier. And I just keep taking and taking, and what if marrying her—what if making her my wife—means she gives up even more of herself?”

Nicole’s heart ached at the way he said it, like he was carrying guilt for simply being loved too well.

“Oscar,” she said gently, “you don’t protect someone by keeping them at arm’s length.”

He looked at her, eyes glinting with emotion.

“She already chose you,” Nicole continued. “Every day. Every race. Every long-distance call, every night she watched you on a screen instead of next to her. That’s not changing if she’s your girlfriend or your wife. She knows what she signed up for—and she signed up for you.”

“But what if something happens?”

“Then she’ll grieve with your name on her heart,” Nicole said, voice strong despite the crack in it. “Just like you would for her. That’s what love is. Not running from the risk—choosing each other anyway.”

Oscar swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she added, “or wait for the perfect moment. You just have to be honest. And if what’s holding you back is fear—then let her be the one to hold you through it. Like she always has.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

And then Oscar leaned back on the couch, eyes burning, head gently tilted toward his mum’s shoulder.

“I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his hair. “That means you care.”

...

Oscar hadn’t told anyone about the ring.

Not at first. Not even when he bought it two years ago, alone in Monaco during a break between back-to-back races, standing in a quiet little boutique with too much white and too many mirrors. He remembered the way the glass counter reflected the tiny gold band, delicate and simple, with a solitaire diamond — exactly how you would’ve wanted it. He remembered the way his thumb had hovered just slightly before he nodded at the jeweler, heart racing harder than it ever did in a car going 300km/h.

He hadn’t told anyone because the moment had been his. Just his.

Because even though the teasing had started back then — from his mum, from his friends, from half the bloody paddock — something in him wasn’t ready yet. Not because of you. Never because of you.

Because of his job. His life. The travel, the danger, the days he spent exhausted and strung out from back-to-back flights. Because being a racing driver meant sometimes being absent, and you had never asked for anything more than his presence, even when he could barely give you that.

And part of him — some quiet, scared part of him — had convinced himself that maybe you deserved better than a boy who left more often than he came home.

So the ring stayed in a drawer. Wrapped in its velvet box, tucked away in a zippered pouch behind spare cables and old credentials. He’d check on it sometimes — carefully, reverently — opening the lid and staring at the soft glint in the light. Sometimes, after particularly long races or lonely nights, he’d whisper things to it.

“She’s still it. Still everything.”

But he never moved.

Not until a month ago.

It started with that video — the one you posted without thinking. Oscar dead asleep, face smooshed against your chest, hand curled around your wrist like he’d found the only thing worth holding in the world.

He’d woken up to chaos.

Hundreds of thousands of likes. Comments. Reposts. TikToks dissecting the lighting. Tweets demanding a proposal. Memes of him asleep with “husband material” scrawled over his forehead.

You were so sweet about it, always scrolling past quickly when you were scrolling on your phone together about him proposing, to not give him any pressure.

And that was what made it impossible to wait anymore.

So, for the first time in two years, he pulled the ring out — hands slightly trembling, breath caught in his throat.

And then he did something he never thought he’d do.

He showed your best friend.

You weren’t home — you were out running errands, and he’d texted her on a whim, asking if she could stop by, not giving any context. She arrived with suspicious eyes and a grin, teasing him instantly.

“She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“What—no! Jesus—just come in.”

She barely had time to take her shoes off before he was pulling the little velvet box from behind the fruit bowl, practically hiding it in his palm like it was some illicit secret.

And when he opened it —

She gasped.

Hand to her mouth, eyes already shining.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed, nerves kicking in hard and fast. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“She’s going to sob,” she whispered, voice thick. “Are you kidding me? You’ve had this for how long?”

“A while.”

Then, softer: “I just didn’t know if I deserved her yet.”

That was all it took.

Suddenly, your best friend was crying. Not loud, but that quiet, overwhelmed kind — blinking fast and biting back a full sob. Oscar froze, unsure.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” she said quickly, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. “No. You idiot. She’s going to marry you in ten seconds if you ask.”

He held onto her, feeling something heavy shake loose in his chest.

“She waited for you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “She always would have.”

Oscar didn’t cry. Not then. But something welled in his throat as he looked down at the little box in his hand — the one that had sat in the dark for too long.

Now it was time to let it see light.

He was ready. Finally.

To ask.

To hope.

To begin.

...

Oscar sat on the couch with his laptop open, not racing footage or telemetry data for once, but a blank Notes page titled in all caps:

THE PLAN.

It felt so serious typed out like that. He almost laughed — almost. But his heart was beating a bit too fast for that.

Because it was real now. He was going to ask you to marry him.

And if there was one thing he wasn’t going to do, it was wing it.

He rubbed at his jaw, glanced at the velvet box beside him, and typed the first bullet.

1. Location.

He wanted it to be somewhere meaningful. Not over-the-top. Not something grand or wildly public. It had to feel like you. Like the two of you, in your quiet little world where love lived in the silences and shared glances.

Your high school back garden where you had your first kiss? No, too far.

The rooftop where you watched fireworks two years ago on New Year’s Eve? Maybe.

But then he paused. Thought harder.

He ended up circling back to the simplest answer.

Home.

Your shared apartment. The one filled with plants you insisted weren’t dying (even when they definitely were), the kitchen that still had “his and hers” mugs from high school, the faint dent in the hallway wall from when he crashed into it during a Mario Kart race.

Home, where he had found the softest version of himself because you’d made space for it.

He typed:

→ Living room. Candles. Dim lighting. Quiet. Just us.

2. Time.

She’s always busiest on Thursdays. I’ll do it on a Sunday evening, when she’s sleepy and soft and doesn’t expect anything. Maybe after a movie, or her favourite dinner.

His fingers hesitated before typing:

→ Sunday. 8PM. Movie first — something she loves. Then dinner. Then quiet.

3. Distraction plan.

He needed help setting up. Someone to make sure the candles weren’t setting off the smoke alarm, that the lights were dimmed, the playlist queued.

He’d already talked to your best friend. After the ring reveal, she’d sworn a blood oath of secrecy and offered to help with anything. He sent her a text while typing the next point:

→ Best friend will take her out earlier in the day. Mani-pedi + coffee excuse. Gives me time to set up.

4. Ring placement.

Not in his pocket. Too risky. He had a history of losing things in couch cushions.

He considered the idea of hiding it in something — a dessert, a coffee cup — but then physically recoiled.

No.

You’d murder him if he accidentally made you swallow the engagement ring. Rightfully.

Instead, he decided:

→ Box in drawer by the record player. I’ll go get it when it’s time.

5. Speech.

He hadn’t written it yet. But he knew the beats.

Talk about the first time he saw her — not the version everyone knew, not the cutesy “we were high school sweethearts” part — but the real moment.

The time she stayed after his karting practice with a juice box in her hand and said, “You looked miserable. Thought you might need sugar.”

The moment he knew: this girl was going to wreck him.

How she’d been the only thing constant, solid, and warm through years of jetlag, failure, podiums, and pressure.

How scared he’d been to ask — not because of her, but because of everything he wasn’t sure he could promise.

And how now… he was finally ready.

→ Just speak from the heart. Don’t fumble. Unless she laughs — then laugh too.

6. Playlist.

Because he knew her. Because he loved her.

Because if he didn’t pick the right songs, she’d tease him forever.

He opened Spotify and started a new list: “for us.”

First on the queue? “Paper Rings (Acoustic),” because she still hadn’t realized how much that one post meant to him.

Then a few of the songs they’d fallen asleep to on long flights. A bit of Hozier. A soft Japanese track she’d taught him how to pronounce.

→ “for us” playlist. Final check. No ads. No shuffle. Don’t mess this up.

7. Contingency plan.

Because Oscar Piastri was nothing if not prepared.

What if she cried too hard to answer?

What if he dropped the ring?

What if she thought it was a prank?

He typed quickly:

→ Hug her. Don’t rush. Let her answer on her own time. Don’t panic.

And then, finally:

8. The after.

He wasn’t going to post right away. He wanted it just for them — just for one night. Maybe they’d tell your best friend first. His mum next. Then the rest could come.

But he did have a folder of photos ready. All of them candid. All of them glowing. Like the one where she kissed his cheek while he was still brushing his teeth. Or the blurry one of her asleep on his chest with the sunlight painting her face gold.

→ Just us, first. Always.

Oscar leaned back.

Looked at the list.

And exhaled.

He was going to ask you to be his forever.

And for the first time in years, there wasn’t a single doubt in his heart.

But there had always been one thing lingering at the edge of it all — one thing he couldn’t skip, couldn’t avoid.

Asking your dad.

You and Oscar had been together since you were sixteen — practically grew up alongside each other. Your parents had seen every version of him: the awkward teenage boy with racing posters in his backpack, the one who nervously shook your dad’s hand at the front door in a too-big suit on your Year 12 formal night. The kid who once broke your mum’s favourite vase and nearly passed out apologizing.

They’d watched him grow.

Which somehow made this even more terrifying.

So when he texted your dad and asked if they could get coffee — “just the two of us, if that’s alright?” — Oscar already felt his palms getting clammy. Your dad replied almost instantly: “Of course. I’ve been waiting.”

That didn’t help.

The café was quiet, tucked into a leafy corner of your neighbourhood. A place your dad liked — Oscar knew because he’d driven past it on slow Sunday mornings with you in the passenger seat, talking about nothing.

He got there early. Sat at a corner table and fiddled with the coffee cup sleeve until it nearly tore.

And then your dad walked in, wearing the same calm, unreadable expression he always had. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but never too easy to crack. The kind of man who didn’t say much unless it meant something. Just like you.

“Hey, Oscar,” he said with a nod, sitting down across from him.

“Hi, sir,” Oscar replied, voice a little tight.

Your dad looked at him for a long second, then smiled, just a little. “Relax. You’re not here for a job interview.”

Oscar laughed — nervously — but still.

They chatted first. About racing. About travel. About the state of his car lately and how your dad had been watching from the sidelines and still yelling at the screen when strategy made no sense. It was easy. Familiar.

Until the conversation lulled.

And Oscar knew.

This was it.

He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.

“I… I wanted to ask you something,” he started, rubbing his palms against his jeans beneath the table. “Something important.”

Your dad leaned back slightly. Watching. Listening.

“I’ve loved Y/n since we were kids. And I know that sounds too young to be sure, but I’ve known every version of her — every birthday, every laugh, every bad day where she still managed to smile — and I’ve never once doubted her. Not once.”

He swallowed.

“And I know this job… it’s a lot. It takes me away. It’s dangerous. It’s unpredictable. But she’s never made me feel like it was too much. She’s stayed. She’s supported me. She’s been my home through all of it.”

Oscar paused. His voice softened.

“And I want to marry her. If… if you’re okay with that.”

The words hung in the air. He could hear the tiny café speaker humming something low and jazzy in the background. He hated how loud his heartbeat sounded in his own ears.

Your dad didn’t speak right away.

He looked down at his coffee. Then back at Oscar.

Then he nodded.

And said, “I’d be honoured to call you my son.”

Oscar blinked. “Really?”

“I’ve watched you love her for years,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “And I’ve never worried. Not once. That means something.”

And for the first time since Oscar sat down, he breathed — really breathed.

Your dad smiled and added, “Now, if you hurt her, I will kill you.”

Oscar’s laugh cracked through the nerves, shaky and full of affection. “That’s… fair.”

They clinked their coffee cups like glasses. Two men who had never needed many words — only trust. And now, they had it.

Later that night, Oscar drove home with both hands on the wheel and that velvet box sitting in the glove compartment like it had been waiting too.

He was ready now.

Really ready.

And you had no idea what was coming.

Say the word, bestie, and I’ll write your best friend seeing the ring again, and the moment Oscar stands in the living room, hand shaking, heart thundering, ready to ask.

...

The sun poured in soft and gold through the windows, spilling across your sheets like something out of a dream. You were still curled beneath the duvet, face warm against your pillow, when a knock came at your bedroom door — three soft taps and then a cheeky voice you knew too well.

“Get up, princess. We’ve got a date with some hair masks and overpriced lattes.”

You groaned, smiling into the pillow. “Do I have to?”

Your best friend poked her head in, already dressed in a flowy linen dress, sunnies on her head, and a grin that looked suspiciously like she was up to something.

“Yes, you have to,” she said. “I booked us the works — nails, hair, brows. I’m talking pampered-to-the-heavens kind of day.”

You blinked sleepily, pushing your hair out of your face. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, sauntering in and yanking your blanket off dramatically, “you’ve been an exhausted little marshmallow lately, and I need my best girl back. This is long overdue.”

You laughed, kicking your legs in protest before finally sitting up, stretching your arms over your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m lucky you haven’t figured out this is all an elaborate ploy to get you glowing for a very specific reason.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She smiled too hard and practically dragged you into the bathroom.

The salon smelled like citrus and jasmine and felt like stepping into heaven. Everything was light and airy and crisp — soft music playing, staff already greeting you with cucumber water and complimenting your skin.

Your best friend leaned into the receptionist’s desk and said, “She’s the bride.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“I said ‘divine.’ She’s divine,” she corrected smoothly, elbowing you with a wink.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re acting so weird today.”

“I’m acting fabulous, babe. Relax and let me spoil you.”

And you did. The two of you sat side by side, heads tipped back over sinks as warm water ran through your hair and a stylist massaged your scalp with something that smelled like vanilla and orange blossoms. Your eyes fluttered shut. You let yourself drift.

Your best friend took secret photos of you with a soft smile on her face, heart clenching just a little because you have no idea. You have no idea that the love of your life has been texting her every twenty minutes asking “is she happy? is she relaxing? does she suspect anything?”

You were glowing.

After your nails were done (a pale blush pink she subtly nudged you into choosing), and your hair was blown out in soft waves, you sat in front of the mirror, blinking at your reflection.

“God,” you said, softly. “I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m floating.”

Your best friend came up behind you, resting her hands on your shoulders.

“You look like magic.”

You turned to look at her, eyes soft. “Thanks for today.”

She swallowed, heart skipping. “You deserve the world.”

And when you leaned in to hug her, warm and sleepy and full of love, she had to blink away tears.

Because you still had no idea.

And Oscar Piastri was about to give you everything.

...

Oscar had been pacing.

Not nervously — not exactly. Just that kind of buzzed, excited pacing that meant his heart wouldn’t quite stay calm. His socks were half sliding on the wooden floors as he moved around the flat, adjusting and readjusting the little details.

The living room looked like a scene out of a love song.

Candles — the expensive kind he knew you liked, the ones that smelled like fig and honey — were flickering gently across every surface. Your favorite flowers — not red roses, but the weird little white ones you always called “the ugly pretty ones” — were everywhere, tucked into vases and glasses and little jars like a secret garden had exploded in their apartment. The playlist had been curated to within an inch of its life, starting with the soft stuff you always hummed to in the car and slowly building toward the songs that felt like him and you — lazy days and road trips and the night you moved in together.

In the middle of the drawer beneath the record player. Waiting for the right time.

He hadn’t even opened it today — he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what it looked like. Simple, clean. The band was warm gold, nothing flashy, but the diamond was clear and bright. The kind of ring that didn’t try too hard. The kind that felt like you.

It sat there quietly, like it knew its moment was coming.

Oscar stepped back, hands on his hips, staring at the table like it might suddenly ask for his blessing.

“You ready, mate?” he muttered to himself, voice soft and full of something breathless.

Then came the knock on the door.

His breath caught.

He checked the time. Perfect. You were early.

He made it halfway down the hall before stopping, raking a hand through his hair. He turned around, sprinted back, and grabbed the tiny bouquet of baby’s breath he’d forgotten to put by the door — the one he wanted to give you the moment you walked in, for no reason at all. Just because.

Another knock. This one softer. Familiar.

His heart was pounding.

He opened the door.

And there you were.

Hair done, face glowing, a soft pink gloss on your lips and that look in your eyes — the one that always landed right in his chest. Your tote bag hung off one shoulder. You still had the little paper wristband from the salon tucked on your wrist like you forgot it was there. You were a little windblown from the walk up the stairs.

He couldn’t breathe.

You blinked at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking a little.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I just missed you.”

You softened. “It’s only been a few hours.”

He stepped aside, holding out the little bouquet.

“For you.”

You blinked, smiling at the crinkled paper wrapping. “What’s this for?”

“Nothing. You just look really beautiful.”

You raised a brow. “Oscar Piastri, are you trying to distract me?”

He laughed, nervous and giddy and warm all over. “A little bit.”

You leaned in to kiss his cheek — something so casual and familiar it made his chest ache — and stepped inside.

You didn’t notice the candles at first.

Didn’t notice the playlist, or the flowers.

But he watched as it all slowly hit you.

Your steps slowed. Your eyes flicked around. Your mouth opened slightly.

“…What is this?”

He closed the door behind you and didn’t answer yet. He gave you time to take it in — to see the apartment the way he saw you. Soft and glowing and full of meaning.

He stepped up beside you, heart wild in his chest.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquet.

“Oscar?” you said again, barely above a whisper.

The air felt too heavy. Like your lungs had forgotten how to stretch all the way. Like the walls had inched closer without warning.

He looked at you gently, but you couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second. Your eyes flitted around the room — the golden light, the candles, the record spinning something soft and slow in the corner, the colors that didn’t belong to an ordinary night.

You took one step inside, then stopped. The silence stretched too far.

“Oscar,” you said again, quieter this time, “what is this?”

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying yet. You were just still. Too still. Like your body was trying not to feel it.

Oscar’s voice came soft. “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, almost imperceptibly. “I wasn’t— I didn’t know—”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand reached for yours, fingers warm and familiar. “Hey. You’re okay. I promise. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

You tried. You really did. But your chest barely moved.

You blinked again, fast. “Why does it feel like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like something’s… about to change.”

His smile was soft, almost sad. “Because it is.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted, your hands shaking around the stems of the flowers.

He laughed quietly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “God, you’re so quiet right now. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

He took a breath.

And then, still holding your hand, he began.

“There’s a ring in the drawer — wrapped up, hidden, waiting for the perfect day. But then last weekyou walked through the door in that new green dress and I saw you, so happy, and something inside me just said, Why are you waiting?”

You made a small sound, like a breath that didn’t land all the way.

He kept going.

“I’ve watched you walk into so many rooms, and every single time, I’ve fallen in love with you all over again. And I think—” his voice caught a little, “—I think part of me’s been falling since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t something to be afraid of.”

Your other hand had risen to your chest now, fingers pressed lightly against your collarbone.

Oscar stepped closer, his words steady even as his eyes grew glassy.

“You always say you’re too much. Too sharp, too complicated, too careful. But do you want to know what I see?”

You nodded, barely.

“I see a girl who laughs with her whole chest when she forgets to be scared. Who stays up late sending pictures of weird clouds. Who holds my hand like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered and still pretends she’s not the softest person in the room.”

A quiet laugh escaped you — wet, stunned — and you shook your head slightly, as if trying to keep yourself upright.

Oscar held your hand a little tighter, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin.

He exhaled slowly, voice a little steadier now. “You know, my job… it’s not easy. It’s demanding in ways I can’t always explain — the travel, the pressure, the constant chase for perfection. Some days I feel like I’m barely holding myself together, and other days I blink and another month’s passed.”

He paused, his voice going quiet again.

“But even in all of that — even when I’m jet-lagged or exhausted or reading strategy notes at 2 a.m. — I still find myself thinking about you. Wondering if you slept okay. If you ate. If something made you laugh.”

You looked down, your breath catching.

“I know I’m not always going to be around in the way you deserve. And I hate that. But I promise you… I’ll try. I’ll try with everything I have to be present, to be there in the moments that matter. I’ll call. I’ll write. I’ll show up — even if it’s in the smallest ways. Because loving you isn't something I want to fit in between races. It's something I want to build everything else around.”

He smiled, soft and sure.

“You’re not a break from my world. You are my world.”

He took a breath.

And that’s when he broke.

Not panicked. Not messy. But decisive.

Like he’d just made a choice in real time.

He turned.

Walked straight down the hallway.

Your heart tripped into your throat. “Oscar—wait, where are you going? What are you—”

But your voice died as soon as you saw it.

The little velvet box in his hand.

He returned slowly, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding this moment in for too long — too many days, too many almosts.

And when he met your eyes again, everything inside you lit up and collapsed at the same time.

“No,” you breathed. “No, you’re not—you’re not doing this—”

“I am,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I really am.”

Your hands were trembling now, bouquet forgotten and held too loosely, fingers clenched and released over and over again like your body was trying to keep pace with your heart.

“But—but you said not yet,” you whispered.

He looked down at the box in his hands. Then back up at you.

He opened it.

And your knees almost buckled.

The ring caught the candlelight in a quiet shimmer — not flashy, not huge, but perfect. Intimate. Him.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” Oscar said, eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been holding onto this ring for three years. Always thinking there’d be a better time, a better way. But nothing feels more right than right now. You, standing here, losing your mind because I lit a candle and played our song.”

He laughed, but it was breathless. Full of adrenaline. Full of you.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much it hurts. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You blinked rapidly, tears clinging to your lashes, one already streaking down your cheek.

“Oscar,” you whispered, but it came out like a plea.

He stepped forward. Got down on one knee.

Your breath caught, completely and entirely gone.

“Will you marry me?”

There were no theatrics.

No grand speeches.

Just him — knees to the floor, hands shaking, heart in his throat, ring in a box that had been waiting far too long.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your hands covered your mouth and a little laugh bubbled out through the shock.

He smiled up at you — really smiled — like every part of him was in this.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Oh my god, yes.”

The moment hit like a wave.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands on his face, kissing him before he could even slide the ring onto your finger. You were crying and laughing and holding onto him like gravity stopped working.

“I thought I was going to pass out,” you whispered against his mouth, shaking.

He laughed into the kiss, forehead resting against yours. “Same.”

And when he finally did slide the ring on — slow, reverent, like it meant everything (because it did) — your hand trembled in his.

“Perfect,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “Finally.”

The music kept playing in the background.

But the room had never been so quiet.

Because nothing needed to be said.

Not anymore.

...

Liked by hattiepiastri, lando, f1, mclaren and 7.7M others.

oscarpiastri: perfect.

lando: HOLY SHIT CONGRATS

danielricciardoso: THIS is what all those mysterious “plans” were?? crying, shaking, throwing champagne 🥂

yourbestfriend: IM SORRY YOU DIDN’T EVEN TELL ME FIRST?? I FIND OUT WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD?? 😭😭😭 I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU CONGRATS)

mclaren: Our team’s real winning moment 🧡

oscarpiastriupdates: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT 😭 the candles, the playlist, the strawberries... WE CLOCKED IT MONTHS AGO

username1: not him captioning it like that and making me cry on a THURSDAY

username2: this is why I can’t have nice things. men like him are taken.

username3: the softest launch. the deadliest impact. RIP me.

username4: no press release, no video, just “perfect” and a RING??? be serious oscar we’re fragile

username5: tell me she said yes and then immediately started crying and making it his problem

username6: the “perfect” wasn’t about the photo. it was about her 😭😭😭

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu

[mrsvante]

At Your Feet

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: idol au, established relationship, pfp

summary: he’s home. eighteen months of denial. and now, the front door clicks shut behind him. the flashes stop. the noise fades. and all that’s left is you.

your voice. your rules. your power.

he remembers everything. every command. every ache. every way he was made to perform for you. and tonight, after all this time, he finally gets to please you again.

warnings: military discharge, established d/s dynamic, dom!reader, sub!jungkook, obedience/service kink, restraints (cuffs, blindfolds), orgasm control & denial, pegging m!receiving, spanking m!receiving, face sitting, oral fixation kink, praise & degradation kink, crying/emotionally overwhelmed jk, cumplay, overstimulation, lube & toys, a dash of military uniform kink 🤭, jungkook calling reader mistress/noona 😜😜😜, mental check ins between scenes, soft aftercare

word count: 8,840

a message from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: okay so this is insane. i didn’t realize how long this drabble was until i was editing. it was difficult for me to write from a dom’s perspective (not to be too tmi but i prefer to lean way more submissive in my relationships). i kept thinking i hadn’t written enough for the drabble and now its double the word count of all the others 🤦🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️ well, whatever..hopefully you guys like it. i’ve seen a few sub!jk stories and wanted to try my hand at it 😅

The front door closed behind him with a soft click.

Outside, the world was still spinning. Reporters still lingering, flashes still going off, Jimin already texting him nonsense from the car en route to his apartment, but in here?

It was just him.

And you.

Jungkook exhaled as he slipped out of his boots, the weight of eighteen months settling at his feet like dust. The air inside your home was warm, humid with the scent of ginger, sesame oil, and garlic—your cooking. His favorite. The smell hit him in the chest like a memory and a promise.

He dropped his duffel by the door, throat tight.

“I’m home,” he called softly, voice already laced with need.

From somewhere deeper in the apartment your voice floated back, cool and calm and unmistakably you.

“Get on your knees.”

His breath hitched.

The smile that crept across his lips wasn’t a happy one, it was relieved.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Jungkook was already sinking to the floor.

His knees hit the wood with a quiet thud. He rolled his shoulders back and laced his fingers behind him, eyes fixed on the hallway ahead…waiting.

Breath slowing. Head bowed slightly. Heart racing in his chest like a drum called to war.

Just like that, his body remembered.

Even after months of rigidity, rules, and military order, this was what brought him peace. You were his structure. His command. His reward.

His cock hardened instantly in his fatigues, straining uncomfortably against the stiff material, but he didn’t adjust it. Didn’t move. Not without permission.

Jungkook closed his eyes.

God, he’d missed this.

Missed you.

Missed the sound of your voice, stern, soft, all powerful.

Missed the weight of your gaze on him.

Missed the way his body hummed the moment you took control.

And now he was here, finally home, hands folded neatly behind his back, knees pressed to the floor, and waiting patiently.

Ready.

Yours.

—

His knees had gone numb.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as glance around the room.

Jungkook knelt where you told him to, hands clasped behind his back, cock straining beneath the tight press of his uniform. And when the scent of your perfume slid around the corner, wrapping its fingers around his throat like silk?

He nearly whimpered.

Then you stepped into view.

And he did whimper.

Because you were in nothing but an apron. Thin cotton tied at the back, hem brushing your thighs, the curve of your hips bare, your chest barely concealed, nipples peaked beneath the soft fabric.

You tilted your head, not missing the way his breath hitched at the sight of you.

“Well,” you said, voice lilting like amusement dripped in honey, “they let you out early. Thought for sure they’d keep the kitchen staff for cleanup.”

Jungkook’s cheeks flushed.

“I wasn’t—”

You raised a brow. “You weren’t what, soldier?”

He shut his mouth fast, eyes lowering. “I wasn’t trying to argue, mistress.”

You hummed approvingly, arms crossing under your breasts. “Smart. Just a glorified cafeteria boy and still knows his place. I’m impressed.”

His cock throbbed at your words, the quiet cruelty in your tone, and the heat building behind your eyes.

And you knew it.

“Still so obedient after all this time,” you murmured, taking slow, measured steps toward him, heels clicking against the wood. “Still kneeling so pretty. Like nothing’s changed.”

You paused just a few feet in front of him. Close enough to see the way his throat bobbed. Close enough for him to smell the perfume on your skin and the faint hint of something sugary in your hair.

“But something has changed,” you whispered. Then, slowly, deliberately, you untied the bow at your back, and the apron slid forward an inch.

Jungkook’s eyes remained fixed on your feet, but you could see the tremble in his jaw, the flush on his neck.

You pulled the apron loose from your body, baring your chest, your stomach, the curve of your thighs—everything.

His breath stuttered.

“Be good,” you warned softly. “Eyes down.”

He didn’t move.

Not even when the apron dropped to the floor in front of him like a gauntlet.

You stepped out of it, bare now in every way that mattered, and paced around him like a flame licking at the edges of his restraint.

And still, he didn’t look.

Perfect.

“You’ve missed this, haven’t you?” you whispered, circling him like a predator. “Missed this house. This smell. This floor. Your place on it.”

“Yes, mistress,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need.

You stopped behind him, leaned in close.

“Missed me?”

His head bowed further, nearly to the floor. “More than anything.”

Your hand softly cupped his throat from behind, full of possession.

“You poor thing,” you murmured. “So starved for touch, and yet still so well trained. You’re mine, aren’t you, Jungkook?”

“Yes, mistress. Always.”

“Good.”

You moved back into view, standing before him once more.

“Now,” you said, stepping just close enough that the scent of your arousal reached his nose, “I’m going to cook while you continue kneeling like the good boy you are. And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you taste what you’ve really been craving when I’m done.”

Jungkook bit down a moan and bowed his head again.

“Thank you, mistress,” he whispered, trembling.

Jungkook’s thighs ached. His back protested. His cock throbbed so hard it felt like it had its own pulse.

Still, he didn’t move and didn’t speak.

Just continued kneeling where you felt him. Staring at the apron piled in front of him.

He listened to the rustle of cookware and the faint bubbling of sauce from the stove. The way your heels clicked against the floor as you moved through the kitchen. Occasionally, he caught the sound of you humming to yourself under your breath, unconcerned with his presence.

That alone made him dizzy.

He was here, in your home, finally, after months of nothing but letters and rules and routines. And you were treating him like the obedient little thing he was, like no time had passed at all.

It made his chest ache.

It made his cock ache worse.

By the time you returned, your steps slow and measured, the food steaming behind you on the dining table and your nipples tight in the cool air, Jungkook felt like he was seconds from begging.

But he stayed still.

And you smiled.

“Good boy,” you purred. “Eighteen months and you’re still perfectly trained.”

His breath left him in a shaky exhale.

You stepped closer, brushing a finger beneath his chin, tilting his head up ever so slightly until he dared to meet your eyes.

“I want you to go wash your hands, bunny,” you said sweetly. “Use the powder room. You can stand now.”

Jungkook obeyed immediately.

He rose in one fluid movement, stiff from stillness but graceful all the same. His cock strained visibly in his pants, but he made no move to relieve it. Only offered you a bow of his head and whispered, “Yes, mistress,” before padding toward the powder room off the kitchen.

He passed you on the way, close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin, close enough to inhale the sweetness clinging to your collarbone. He caught only a flicker of your bare back as he disappeared into the hall.

He washed his hands in silence, trying not to groan when he adjusted himself briefly in his fatigues.

When he returned, you were already at the table, one perfectly crossed leg revealing the curve of your thigh. A soft hum passed your lips as you filled his plate. Rice perfectly fluffed, meat steaming, the banchans were fragrant and colorful. You filled your own next, then folded your hands in your lap.

“You may eat.”

It was the softest command he’d received all day.

And yet it hit him the hardest.

Jungkook bowed his head gratefully before picking up his chopsticks. The first bite of meat melted on his tongue. Tender, spiced, cooked with the kind of love no military cooking could ever mimic.

He moaned.

Loudly.

“Fuck, mistress,” he said before he could stop himself. “This is so good. I—”

Then he looked at you again.

And almost choked.

Because while he was there, tucked beneath the soft glow of dining room light and chewing on perfectly seasoned chicken, you sat across from him, completely naked. Wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto heels and a small smile.

Casually eating.

Unbothered.

Like you weren’t slowly driving him to madness.

“M-mistress,” he stuttered, chopsticks freezing midair. His eyes dropped from your face to your breasts, to the bare skin of your stomach, to the place where your thighs pressed together just beneath the table.

He swallowed hard.

You didn’t look up. Just plucked another piece of chicken from your plate and chewed slowly.

“What is it, Jungkook?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“I—uh—” he tried, shifting in his seat.

“Is your food not to your liking?”

“No, mistress! It’s—it’s perfect.”

You finally looked up, eyes glittering. “Then eat, bunny. I didn’t spend all evening in the kitchen just for you to drool over my tits.”

Heat slammed into his gut like a fist.

“Yes, mistress,” he whispered, red faced, and forced another bite into his mouth—eyes darting between his food and your legs beneath the table.

—

The first time your heel brushes his cock, Jungkook nearly drops his chopsticks.

It’s subtle at first, just the curve of your foot nudging between his thighs, tracing along the inseam of his fatigues. But even that has him blinking hard, trying to stay composed, trying not to groan around a mouthful of rice.

Then the pressure increases.

The point of your heel glides up the length of his cock beneath the table, cruel and delicate. Jungkook’s whole body jerks.

You look completely serene, chewing thoughtfully, sipping water like your foot isn’t pressing into his crotch with dangerous precision.

“Mistress,” he gasps softly, hips stuttering beneath the table.

You don’t look at him. “Did you follow the rules?”

He knows what you mean.

“Yes, mistress,” he whispers, voice strangled with restraint. “I didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

Your smile is slow and satisfied. “Not even once?”

“Not even once,” he repeats, breathless. “I—I thought about you every night. But I didn’t touch.”

“Mmm…” You hum in approval, still not looking at him. “Such a good boy.”

Jungkook makes a noise, something like a half moan, half exhale as you press firmer, dragging the tip of your heel down the underside of his cock to rest just above his balls. His pulse hammers under his skin and sweat beads at the nape of his neck.

It’s not just the teasing—it’s you. You and your heels and your control. The scent of roasted meat still lingering in the air. The faint glisten of body oil on your bare chest. And now the image of your foot sliding along the line of his cock like you own him.

Because you do.

He grips the table’s edge to ground himself. His food forgotten.

“You’re not eating,” you note, eyes finally flicking to him. “Are you full?”

“I—” Jungkook swallows thickly, his cock straining violently against his pants. “Yes, mistress. I’m done. Thank you for cooking.”

Your head tilts, pleased.

“You’re welcome, bunny.” Then you lean back, voice dipping low. “I made your favorite for dessert.”

Jungkook’s eyes go wide.

You slide your chair back with a low scrape of wood on wood, then slowly spread your legs.

Jungkook forgets to breathe.

You’re wet and glistening under the warm light. And not wearing a single thing but those devastating heels means he can see everything. The soft, shaved curves of your pussy. The glint of slick between your folds. The shadowed heat waiting just for him.

His mouth waters instantly.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, barely audible.

You trace two fingers lightly over your inner thigh and smile. “You’ve been such a good boy, Jungkook. Do you want dessert now?”

He nods too fast, eyes locked between your legs like a starving man watching his first meal in months. “Yes, mistress. Please.”

You let your fingers slip lower, brushing just barely against your center as your voice goes saccharine sweet.

“Then crawl.”

He’s out of his chair in a second, already on his knees.

His fatigues scrape against the floor as he moves, but he barely notices. Not when you’re seated before him like a goddess in nothing but heels and power. His mouth is dry, his heart a war drum in his chest.

You spread your legs wider and Jungkook feels his pulse skip.

“Hands behind your back.”

The command is soft, but it cuts through him like a lash.

He obeys instantly, tucking his wrists behind him, spine straight, eyes locked on your dripping cunt. His cock aches where it’s trapped in his pants, throbbing in time with the tension that coils deep in his belly. But he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t move without your say so.

“Go ahead,” you murmur. “Eat.”

Jungkook leans forward slowly, savoring the moment. The scent of you hits first. All warm and musky, and familiar. He closes his eyes just for a second, inhaling like he’s been denied oxygen for eighteen months.

And then his tongue touches you.

You gasp as he groans, licking up the length of your slit with an eager stroke. His mouth latches onto your clit immediately, suction gentle but insistent. He moans again, tongue swirling, lips parting to press hot, open kisses into your folds like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

The sound of you drives him mad as he works your pussy slowly.

Jungkook tastes you like a man starved, tongue sliding through every crease, every soft dip, learning you all over again. But the more you squirm, the more he hears those little breathless sighs and choked moans from above, the more frenzied he becomes.

You reach down, fingers threading into his hair.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, tugging him in closer. “My perfect, obedient boy.”

He groans, rutting his hips into the air at the praise, tongue fucking into you faster. His nose bumps your clit just right, and your thighs tense around his ears. Your heel presses into his back like a brand, keeping him in place.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” you murmur, breath hitching. “Missed worshiping your Mistress?”

Jungkook nods the best he can with his mouth stuffed full of your cunt, moaning against you like he’s already coming.

You’re close and he knows it. You always tremble right before. Your thighs quiver just slightly, and your fingers tighten in his hair, and your cunt starts to pulse around his tongue like it knows him.

“Don’t stop,” you warn, voice sharp and sweet. “You stop and you don’t get to come tonight.”

He doubles down.

Flicks your clit faster. Presses his tongue deeper. Lets his jaw go slack so he can shake his head slowly between your thighs, building pressure just the way you taught him.

Your moan breaks into something breathless and high.

And then you’re coming.

Hard.

Your thighs clamp tight around his ears, your hips bucking into his face, and Jungkook moans like he’s the one unraveling. He keeps licking through it, keeps drinking down everything you give him until your body slowly starts to relax.

You release his hair gently, your chest rising and falling in time with your breath.

Jungkook pulls back only when you nudge him, his chin slick, lips swollen and his eyes dazed with pure adoration. He waits, hands still behind his back, looking up at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

You lean forward and drag your thumb across his lower lip.

“Good boy,” you purr. “Now get undressed. Slowly. I want to watch.”

Jungkook rises to his feet with devotion in every movement. His fingers go first to the buttons of his fatigues, but he pauses, looking at you for permission. A single nod is all it takes. He begins to undress, slowly, just like you told him.

He peels off each layer like it’s sacred, his uniform jacket first, folded neatly and set aside. Then his undershirt, tugged over his head with trembling hands. You watch him the whole time from your seat, your legs still spread, your slickness glistening between your thighs, heels propped wide.

And yet…

There’s a softness in your gaze now. Just for a second.

It makes his chest ache worse than his cock.

You’re smiling. Not smug or sultry, but happy. A smile that cracks the mask of power you wear like a second skin. Your eyes shine, your throat tightens slightly, and Jungkook watches your smile tremble as you whisper, “I can’t believe you’re really home.”

He freezes, shirt halfway off.

The breath he takes is shallow, shaky. His voice barely works when he says, “I missed you so much, noona. I thought about you every day.”

You rise from your chair and you close the distance between you in three small steps. Your fingers find his jaw, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, you pull him into a kiss that’s heartbreakingly gentle.

No teasing. No control.

Just lips pressed to his like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again.

It’s him who makes a sound this time. A broken little whimper against your mouth. His arms twitch at his sides, needing to hold you, touch you, anchor you. But he doesn’t. Not without permission.

When you pull back, you’re flushed, breath shallow. You’re so visibly happy it knocks the air out of his lungs.

But then your gaze sharpens.

The softness is gone in an instant, replaced by the glint of control in your eyes that makes Jungkook’s knees weak.

“Did I tell you to stop undressing?” you ask.

He scrambles. “No, Mistress. I’m sorry.”

“Then why are you standing there like you forgot how to move?”

“I didn’t—I’m just—” He bites back the babble of excuses, ducking his head. “I’ll be good.”

“I know you’ll be good,” you say, circling him slowly like a wolf scenting prey. “You always are.”

You stop behind him.

Your palms brush over his back, down his sides, and he shivers when your nails lightly drag over his ribs.

“Get rid of the rest. Now.”

Jungkook obeys at once, pushing his pants and briefs down his legs with trembling urgency. His cock springs free, flushed dark, glistening with need and angled up toward his navel. He steps out of the rest of his clothes, then straightens, arms at his sides, chest rising and falling fast.

You step in front of him again.

Look down.

Smile.

“My, my. Look at you,” you murmur. “Still obedient. Still desperate, and so fucking hard for me.”

He whines, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Your hand shoots out, palm cracking lightly against his thigh. “Ah-ah. You do not fuck the air.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispers, head spinning.

You grab his chin and tilt his face down toward yours. “You’re not going to come until I say so.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

You trail your fingers down his chest, past his navel, barely grazing the base of his cock. He moans, knees wobbling slightly.

“You’ve been so patient,” you whisper, brushing your lips over his jaw. “So well behaved.”

Your hand closes around him slowly.

He groans, cock twitching in your grip.

You pump him once. Twice. Enough to make his thighs tremble before you pull away completely.

“Go lie down,” you say. “We’re just getting started.”

Jungkook stumbles toward the bedroom without hesitation, cock bobbing with each hurried step.

And you follow, your gaze locked on your boy. Your boy who waited eighteen months to come home to you. Your boy who would burn the world just to kneel at your feet again.

—

He reaches the bedroom and pauses just inside the threshold, unsure if he’s allowed to climb onto the bed without being told.

But you’re already behind him, watching.

“Good boy,” you say softly.

Jungkook swears his knees nearly give out. Those two words hit deeper than any kiss, deeper than any touch. He feels them all the way in his gut.

“On the bed. Head at the pillows.”

He scrambles up, doing exactly as he’s told. His cock aches, heavy and flushed against his stomach, but he doesn’t dare touch it. Not without instruction.

You take your time walking around the room. Your heels echo softly against the wood floor, and the only thing Jungkook can focus on is the gentle sway if your hips with every step.

Then he hears the drawer and soft metallic clink of cuffs.

His breath catches.

You walk over to the bed, holding a pair of padded leather restraints in your hand. The sight of them sends Jungkook’s heart pounding. His hips twitch upward instinctively before he forces himself to be still.

“Hands above your head,” you say.

He obeys without hesitation, and you crawl onto the bed with the calm, practiced ease of someone who’s done this many times and knows exactly how to break him apart.

Your fingers brush over his wrists, and Jungkook swears he could come from just that.

“Still okay?” you murmur, checking his eyes.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says, voice breathless. “Please—yes.”

The cuffs go on gently, secured to the headboard with quiet clicks. They’re snug, but soft. Comforting, even. Like he belongs there.

You sit back on your heels and admire him.

There he is—spread out for you, skin flushed, chest rising and falling fast, cock leaking against his stomach, muscles twitching as he fights to hold still.

And when your hand trails from his collarbone down his chest, Jungkook moans, his arms flexing uselessly against the restraints.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “So obedient. So hard.”

He swallows. “I missed this.”

You smile, slow and wicked. “I can tell.”

You don’t touch him again. Not yet.

Instead, you shift to the end of the bed and sit between his spread thighs. Your hands push gently at his knees, encouraging him to stay open for you. Then you lean in and press a kiss to his inner thigh. Not his cock. Just beside it.

He moans, shivering at the softness of it.

Another kiss. Higher this time.

And another, near the base of his shaft.

He whines, tugging helplessly at the restraints.

“M-Mistress…”

“Something you want, bunny?”

He chokes on a breath. “Please touch me.”

“Oh?” Your lips graze the tip of his cock but never wrap around it. “You were so good for so long. Not even one touch while you were away?”

“No, Mistress,” he gasps. “I followed the rules.”

“Even when you couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice lower now, sultry and curious. “Even when the barracks were dark and quiet and you were all alone… hard and aching for me?”

He whimpers.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says again. “I didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

You finally reach out, stroking a single fingertip along the underside of his cock.

He twitches violently, hips jerking upward before he can stop himself.

“Mmh,” you sigh. “You really are my good boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he pleads, voice already beginning to break. “Please—please let me cum.”

You wrap your hand around him.

Not to stroke. Just to hold him, and he moans, helpless under the weight of your grip.

“You don’t get to come yet,” you whisper. “You’re going to thank me properly first.”

Jungkook nods, trembling, eyes wide and glassy. “Yes, Mistress. Anything.”

You shift up the bed again and straddle his face.

His heart nearly bursts from his chest.

And then—you lower yourself slowly until your heat is pressed against his mouth.

He groans like he needs this more than air.

His tongue works desperately between your folds, lapping and sucking, nose buried in the soft swell of you, and your moans. Those soft breathy sighs make him throb helplessly in the air.

He licks like he’s praying.

You ride his face with a slow, controlled rhythm, fingers gripping his hair, and he lets you take everything from him, his breath, his restraint, his mind. When you finally come, shuddering and gasping, he moans beneath you like he just found heaven.

And when you lift off of him, soaked and radiant, you smile down at him like he’s your prize.

“Still want to cum, bunny?”

He’s breathless. “More than anything.”

You reach between his thighs and stroke him once, twice, just enough to make him cry out.

Then you climb off the bed, and leave him there.

Eyes wide.

Mouth parted.

Cock leaking.

And you say, cool and casual, “Then be patient. We’re not done yet.”

He watches you walk away from the bed, his entire body trembling with need. His cock pulses in the air, flushed dark and leaking, glistening at the tip with every beat of his heart. Every instinct screams at him to chase you, to reach for you, to do something.

But he can’t.

His wrists are still cuffed above his head. And you haven’t told him to move.

So he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches, helpless and hungry, as you walk over to the dresser and open the shallow velvet lined drawer. The one that holds all the toys you love to use on him. His eyes go wide when you lift the wand vibrator from its place.

You don’t say a word as you climb back onto the bed.

But your smile speaks volumes.

You straddle his thigh, kissing the inside of his knee, then the curve of his hip. He’s panting already. Shaking. Barely keeping his whimpers contained.

The wand hums to life in your hand.

And you barely touch the head of his cock.

“Ah—fuck!” Jungkook cries, hips bucking despite himself.

You pull the wand away instantly.

“Tsk,” you scold softly. “What did I say about staying still?”

“I-I’m sorry, Mistress,” he gasps. “I couldn’t help it.”

You hum, tapping the wand lightly against his thigh.

“I think you can help it. You just need… more practice.”

And then you begin again.

The wand returns to the base of his shaft this time, sliding slowly up the length of him before you lift it just as it kisses the swollen head. Again and again. No pressure. No friction. Just the constant vibration around him but never enough.

Jungkook moans, his hands clenching into fists above him, his abs twitching as he tries to keep himself anchored.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please, Mistress… please let me cum…”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm… no.”

You stroke him once with your free hand. Just once.

It’s devastating.

He cries out again, hips stuttering, the heat coiling too tight in his belly now, too fucking much to endure.

“You want to cum that badly, bunny?” you murmur, placing the wand against his inner thigh while your hand wraps around his cock.

“Yes,” he breathes, chest heaving. “Yes—please, I’ll do anything.”

Your grip begins to move. Slow, deliberate strokes, paired with the soft hum of the wand teasing the space just beneath his balls.

“Anything?” you echo.

He nods rapidly, moaning, breathless and ruined. “Yes. Yes, Mistress.”

You lean over him, your mouth just above his, voice a whisper of silk and steel.

“Then you’ll hold it.”

He sobs.

Because he knows what’s coming.

You stroke faster, the wand drifting closer, the pressure finally increasing. His body arches, tenses, his thighs trembling. He’s right on the edge.

You lean in again, licking a stripe up his throat before whispering:

“Don’t you dare cum.”

He tries. He tries so hard. But he’s been waiting eighteen long months. His mind is foggy, body burning, nerves alight with the promise of release.

And it breaks him.

He comes with a choked cry, body convulsing under your touch as his release spills across his belly and chest, thick and hot and endless. His entire body shudders from the force of it.

And the moment he’s finished you stop. The wand powers off with a click. And your hand stills. Silence settles in the room, save for Jungkook’s panting breaths and the soft whine of his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry…” He sounds wrecked. Wrecked and afraid.

You climb up beside him and stroke his hair back from his forehead.

“I know,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That was beautiful, bunny. But I told you not to cum.”

Tears prick at his eyes.

“I tried—I tried so hard—”

You hush him gently. “You did. And I’m proud of you.”

You press your lips to his temple and uncuff his wrists slowly, gently, massaging each one after the release.

“But you’ll need to be punished.”

Jungkook nods, broken and grateful. “Yes, Mistress. Please.”

You smile. “Don’t worry. That’ll come later.”

You let him curl up in your arms after that, pressing slow kisses to his flushed cheeks and whispering praise in his ear. You stroke his hair, gently bring him back down. He clings to you, boneless, sated, and soft.

Eventually—your hand drifts back between his thighs.

He gasps softly.

“You didn’t think you were done, did you?”

The cuffs are gone, but his wrists still tingle with the phantom ache of restraint.

Jungkook blinks up at you, eyes glassy and red rimmed, his body limp where it sinks into the bed. He’s flushed everywhere, chest rising and falling, thighs twitching with leftover tremors, cum drying sticky across his skin.

You sit beside him, naked and composed, with a wet towel in hand and that same unreadable look in your eyes. He knows that look. Knows it so well.

It means you’re checking in.

You don’t speak at first, just reach out and gently clean him. Your touch is soft. Wiping his chest, his belly, between his legs. He doesn’t even flinch when you wipe over his sensitive cock, still hard, flushed and twitchy from being pushed too far too fast.

He moans softly instead, half lidded eyes watching you work.

When you’re done, you lean forward and press your forehead to his.

“Color?” you whisper.

His throat works around the swell of emotion. “Green, Mistress.”

You cup his cheek with your clean hand, brushing your thumb over the curve of his cheekbone.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Better than okay. I… I missed this. Missed you.”

The honesty in his voice carves right through you, and for a moment, the second time today, you falter. The hard edges soften. The roles blur. Your fingers slide into his hair and your lips meet his in a kiss that’s less command and more confession.

You whisper his name like a prayer. He whispers yours back like he’s scared it’ll disappear.

“Did I push too far?” you murmur, eyes searching.

Jungkook shakes his head immediately, pressing into your palm like a cat begging for affection.

“No. Please don’t hold back with me. I need this. I need you.”

You nod slowly, exhale against his jaw.

“Then I’ll take care of you. Just like always.”

You coax him to sit up so you can massage his shoulders and rub balm over the light marks left by the cuffs. He leans into every touch, humming softly, melting back against your body when you cradle him from behind. His hands come up to hold your forearms where they cross his chest, grounding himself in your presence.

“Thank you,” he whispers again, voice cracking with how much he means it.

You smile, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“My good boy,” you whisper.

And just like that—he shudders again. Moans at the praise, and his cock twitches back to life, still so responsive, so eager to please.

You notice, of course. You always notice.

“Looks like someone’s ready again,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his torso until he’s shivering in your grasp.

Jungkook whines.

“Yes, Mistress. Please…”

You smile against his throat, kissing your way down his pulse point.

“Then hands back behind your head. Knees spread. Stay still while I decide what I want to do with you next.”

He obeys instantly. Because he always does.

—

He can’t see you.

The blindfold hugs snug across his eyes, cutting off the last of the ambient light. His breathing slows, deepens, as he settles back into submission. The sound of the drawer opening sharpens every nerve. The soft clink of buckles, the whisper of leather.

He knows what’s coming.

And he wants it.

He kneels again, this time on the bed, wrists bound behind his back in the new cuffs you’ve buckled together. His chest rises and falls with anticipation, muscles flexing as he adjusts to the vulnerable position.

You take your time.

You always do.

He hears you step around him, feels the shift of air as you circle. Every molecule of him is attuned to your presence. The soft click of your heels. The slight change in the mattress when you climb up behind him.

And then—smack.

He jerks, breath catching in his throat as your hand lands clean across his ass. Not too hard or light. Just enough to make his cock throb where it hangs heavy between his thighs.

He moans. Instinctively shifts forward.

You click your tongue.

“Back in place, Jungkook.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he pants, throat dry.

Another slap, this time to the other cheek. He moans louder, head falling forward. You lean in, tongue dragging over the faint red mark as your fingers squeeze and knead the flesh lovingly.

“Such a responsive boy,” you whisper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathes. “Missed everything.”

You hum, pleased, and trail your fingers lower until you’re gently stroking his cock. He’s rock hard again. A bead of precum paints the tip, smearing down your palm as you tease him with a featherlight grip.

“Mm,” you muse. “So obedient. So needy. And to think you didn’t touch yourself once…”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook admits, voice tight. “Every night. Every time I thought of you. But I—I kept my promise.”

You reward him with another stroke. Another kiss between the shoulder blades. Another slap across his ass that has him biting down on a moan that still escapes.

When you finally unbuckle the cuffs and guide him onto his back, he whimpers at the relief in his arms and the heat still coiling in his belly.

You whisper, “Stay still,” and fasten the cuffs again, this time to the headboard. Then you run your palm over his blindfolded face, your thumb dragging across his parted lips before you slide two fingers into his mouth.

“Suck.”

He does.

Desperately.

And as he sucks, he hears the soft click of the bottle. The squelch of lube. The glide of something familiar being prepped above him. His cock twitches violently in response.

“Color?”

“Green, Mistress,” he gasps, lips wet.

“Good.”

When you finally push his legs up and over your shoulders, lubed fingers pressing inside him with practiced ease, Jungkook’s whole body sings. He groans shamelessly, tears welling beneath the blindfold as he rocks into your touch.

And once you’ve stretched him enough after all this time, you slide the strap on into him.

He cries out at the stretch. At the fullness. At the sound of your moan as you bottom out inside him. He never thought he could feel owned and worshipped at the same time, but here he is, spread and trembling and completely yours.

You fuck him slow at first. Deliberate. Measured. His ankles tremble on your shoulders, bound wrists yanking at the cuffs, head thrown back as you fuck him deeper with each thrust.

“God, you feel perfect like this,” you murmur, hands braced on his hips. “Taking me so well. Being so good for me.”

He sobs out a moan, completely undone.

“Say it,” you command softly. “Say who owns you.”

“You do,” he cries. “You own me, Mistress. Only you.”

You reward him with a sharper thrust, angling just right so the dildo taps against his prostate until he’s wailing through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t last long.

Between your rhythm, the slap of skin, the filthy praise pouring from your mouth, and the ache of need finally being met, Jungkook cums untouched and without warning, cock spurting over his abs and chest, whole body trembling like a man possessed.

And you don’t stop.

You slow down, soften your grip, and fuck him through every aftershock like you have all the time in the world.

The cuffs creak softly as his wrists tug against the headboard.

He’s panting hard, blindfold still in place, cum cooling on his abdomen, thighs trembling from the force of his orgasm.

Silence stretches.

Too long.

Your strap has already slid out of him, your touch no longer bracing his hips.

And Jungkook’s stomach knots.

He hadn’t meant to. He swore he’d last. Swore he’d hold on until you told him to let go. That’s what a good boy does. That’s what your good boy would do.

But he didn’t.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “Mistress—”

Still, no touch. No praise. Just quiet.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to…” His words falter as panic creeps in. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

You’re still watching him, silent and still. It’s not punishment, not truly, but it’s your favorite kind of discipline: space to think.

Jungkook’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to finish without permission.”

The desperation threads between each syllable like a plea.

“I just— It’s been so long, I tried—but you feel so good, you’re always so good to me, I just—”

He cuts himself off with a gasp when your fingers glide up his trembling thigh, smearing through his own release to press gently over his still hard cock.

“Do you think good boys cum without asking?”

“No, Mistress,” he whispers.

“So what does that make you?”

His breath catches. “A bad boy.”

“Mm. You didn’t used to be,” you hum. “I guess the military made you forget your place.”

“No!” The panic returns. “I remember. I remember everything. Please let me make it up to you. Please let me touch you—please let me taste you—please—”

You chuckle softly, cruel in the gentlest way.

“Oh, now you remember who you are.”

He nods quickly under the blindfold. “Yes, Mistress. Always yours. I never forgot. I swear.”

You loosen the cuffs slowly, not with mercy, but with intent. Dragging out the anticipation until Jungkook is free but still stays put. He doesn’t dare move without instruction. He wouldn’t.

“On your knees,” you say quietly.

He scrambles upright, kneeling between your legs at the edge of the bed, the blindfold still in place, chest heaving, body flushed and sticky with sweat and cum.

Your voice softens as you tilt his chin up.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “All messy and desperate… begging just to touch me.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please let me. I need you. I need to make you feel good. I missed your taste. I thought about it every night.”

You hum, pleased. “Every night?”

“Every night, Mistress.”

You finally remove the blindfold.

Jungkook blinks through the low light, eyes adjusting quickly to find you sitting on the bed in front of him. Nude, glistening, your thighs parted in invitation, your expression cool but undeniably pleased.

His mouth waters instantly.

“Show me,” you whisper. “Show me how much you missed me.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Jungkook leans in, kisses first. Long, hungry kisses to the inside of your thighs, your hips, the softness of your belly. It’s worshipful. Apologetic. Eager.

Then his tongue finds you again.

And everything else melts away.

He moans against your pussy, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s starving. Like this is his last meal. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing gently as he buries his face between your legs, nose bumping your clit, mouth licking and sucking with deep, unrelenting focus.

You sigh, threading your fingers through his hair. “That’s it,” you murmur. “There’s my good boy.”

The sound he makes is practically a sob.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when his jaw begins to ache. Not even when his cock twitches back to life, heavy and needy between his legs. All that matters now is you and your pleasure, your satisfaction, your forgiveness.

When you cum, thighs trembling around his head, fingers fisting his hair, your cries like music in his ears, Jungkook moans so loud it vibrates against you.

And still, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop licking even after you come. If anything, your orgasm makes him hungrier.

Your thighs clamp around his head as you ride out the high, trembling with every flick of his tongue, every suck to your clit, every whispered moan from his lips that vibrates right through you.

But then he changes it up, just slightly.

You feel the brush of his fingers against your inner thigh, slow and cautious at first. One hand slips under to support your ass, the other glides up between your folds, slippery with the mess he’s already made of you. His mouth never leaves your pussy, not for a second, as he presses one finger in.

Then another.

You gasp, hips twitching. He crooks them gently, finding your spot almost immediately, tongue still lapping softly at your clit.

“Fuck, Jungkook—” you breathe, your head tipping back, a sharp moan spilling from your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your pussy, so low it’s more breath than sound. “I’m sorry for being bad, for finishing without permission. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you—just let me make you feel good again, Mistress. Please.”

You grip his hair, yanking slightly as your orgasm builds again, even faster this time with his fingers curling just right, his lips sealing around your clit like he knows what you need before you even ask.

“I need to make it up to you,” he whines, voice tight with emotion. “I’ll do anything.”

Your orgasm tears through you like a wave, loud and messy and soaked. You jerk against his mouth, grinding down as your cries echo off the bedroom walls. Jungkook groans, drinking in every second, like the sound of your pleasure is the absolution he’s been begging for.

When you finally start to come down, body trembling and thighs slick, your chest heaving, Jungkook doesn’t retreat. He lifts his head slowly, mouth and chin wet with you, eyes wild with devotion and need.

And then you feel it.

His cock, thick and hard like velvet wrapped steel, nudging against your pussy.

He’s rocking into you gently, barely restrained, the tip of his cock bumping your clit with every roll of his hips. Just enough friction to make you moan. Just enough to torture him.

“I need you,” he pleads, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Please, Mistress. Please let me inside. Let me make you feel good—let me show you I’m still yours. That I never stopped being yours.”

Your silence nearly undoes him.

He keeps going anyway.

“Please… Please… I’ll beg for the rest of my life if I have to,” he says, voice cracking. “I need to feel you around me—I need to feel you.”

You wait until he’s on the edge of unraveling, his cock glazed in your slick, his body shaking with how badly he wants it.

Then—

“You may.”

That’s all you say.

But it shatters something inside him.

Jungkook growls, fingers curling into the sheets as he lines himself up and sinks in, balls deep in one slow, shaking thrust.

“Oh my fucking god,” he gasps, body folding over yours, chest trembling, mouth slack. “So warm… so tight… I missed this—I missed you.”

His restraint breaks.

He starts to move, fucking you like a man possessed. Each thrust is deep, deliberate, full of that intoxicating blend of apology and addiction. He ruts into you with abandon, pressing kisses to your face, your throat, your breasts, your mouth, mumbling filth and praise between gasps.

“So good… so perfect… my goddess… my everything…”

You clench around him and he shudders, hips stuttering as your nails drag down his back.

“I’ll never cum without permission again,” he groans. “I’ll be the best boy, I swear. Just don’t stop. Please don’t stop needing me.”

Your reply is a moan, breathless and broken, and Jungkook takes it as gospel.

He keeps going until you’re shaking again, the coil tightening in your gut again. And this time, when you come, his name is the only thing on your lips.

—

You roll him gently off of you and onto his back, taking care not to jostle him too quickly. His breath catches. Still shaky, still caught somewhere between release and overwhelm, and you straddle his lap with slow intention, your thighs settling to either side of his warm, trembling body.

Your palms cup his face, thumbs brushing away the damp sheen across his cheeks and brow. His skin is flushed, pink with effort and emotion, eyes shut tight like he’s trying to trap something inside.

“Koo,” you whisper, voice low and laced with concern. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his forehead. “Baby. Look at me.”

His lashes flutter. His eyes open.

And the moment they meet yours, something inside him breaks open.

Not violently, there’s no sob, no collapse, but a gentle crumbling. Like a final wall finally lowering. Like something tender and fragile unfolding after being kept hidden for too long.

“I’m okay,” he croaks, though his voice trembles. “I just… you’re here. I’m here. No more counting days. No more waiting. No more sleeping on a thin mattress thinking about you until I pass out.”

You nod slowly, a lump swelling in your throat as you lower your forehead to his. Your fingers slip into his sweaty hair, stroking through the strands as your nose brushes his.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” you murmur, lips brushing against his as you speak. “So happy you’re safe. That I can touch you… hold you. Hear you breathe beside me.”

He gives a small, watery laugh. “You were always the only thing that felt real. Everything else was just noise. I kept thinking if I just made it through one more week… one more day… I’d get to feel this again.”

Your lips find his. Your mouths molding together like they’d been waiting for this exact fit all along.

And then, without a word, he guides himself back inside you.

There’s no rush, no power play, no teasing or edge of dominance. Just the slow, aching stretch of being joined again as he gasps quietly beneath you and your fingers clutch at his shoulders like you’ll float away without the anchor of his body.

You both moan in tandem, foreheads still pressed together. He holds you close, palms cradling your hips, his thumbs tracing the softness of your skin with a kind of awestruck gentleness that makes your chest squeeze tight.

You move together slowly. Naturally. The pace isn’t dictated by pleasure, but by need. By the quiet, shared desire to savor this moment.

His hands drift upward, one settling at the curve of your spine, the other cupping your jaw as if to keep you from vanishing.

You’re both so close it’s hard to tell whose breath is whose. Whose heartbeat thunders louder. Your moans mix into the same air. Your warmth curls around him like a prayer answered.

“I love you,” he breathes suddenly, like the words slipped from his chest without permission.

Your hands tighten in his hair, your hips grinding down, your body trembling around him.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice hoarse with love. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

He sobs as he comes. Quiet, strangled, drawn from someplace deep and private. The kind of release that feels like surrender. The kind of release that feels like home.

You follow not long after, the warmth of him inside you and the raw emotion in his eyes unraveling you in the most beautiful way. Your body pulses around him, and for a moment, the two of you just hold each other.

And when the world returns in slow focus, the sound of your shared breaths, the heat between your bodies, the tremor in his hands as he runs them along your waist, you know nothing else has ever felt more right.

—

You both stay still for a long time, hearts hammering, limbs tangled. The heat between your bodies slowly cools into something gentle, something quiet. It’s not awkward or heavy. It’s peace. Relief. A long held breath finally exhaled.

Eventually, you run your fingers down his spine, murmuring, “Come on, baby. Let’s shower.”

Jungkook makes a small sound, something halfway between a hum and a pout, before nodding. “Okay.”

He moves slowly, almost reluctantly, as you guide him into the bathroom.

The soft light of the sconces glows against the marble tile and fogs the mirror as you turn on the water. Jungkook stands behind you, hands ghosting your hips as he watches the steam rise. You glance at him in the mirror and smile, then reach back and lace your fingers through his.

When the water is warm enough, you both step in.

You guide him under the stream first, letting it cascade over his hair and shoulders, rinsing away the sweat and salt of everything you just shared.

Despite being the one who served eighteen long months, who grew broader and more powerful in your absence, Jungkook melts into you like he’s the one being protected. He bends down so his forehead tucks into the curve of your neck. His arms encircle your waist. And he doesn’t let go.

You let the water soak your hair and his, then reach for the shampoo. He stays still as you lather your hands and thread your fingers into his dark, wet strands. His breath hitches, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm as your nails lightly scratch his scalp. You massage him gently, murmuring as you work.

“So good, baby. You’ve been so, so good for me. Even when you were bad.”

Jungkook exhales a soft whimper, burying his face deeper into your skin.

“You followed every command,” you whisper against his ear. “Took everything I gave you. Didn’t stop once, even when it got hard.”

He clings to you tighter.

“And you came home to me.” You tilt his head back and rinse the suds away. “You made it back. I’m so proud of you.”

Jungkook sniffles but says nothing, letting the praise settle deep in his bones as you move to clean the rest of him. He stands obedient and still, but every time you lean in to scrub his chest or run the washcloth down his thighs, his hands find some part of you to hold—your hip, your lower back, your shoulder. As if to anchor himself. As if to remind his body you’re real.

You wash yourself quickly once he’s done, and when you shut off the water, Jungkook instantly reaches for the towel and wraps you in it before grabbing one for himself.

You dry off together in the quiet, exchanging soft touches and even softer smiles. And when you’re both finished, he swoops you into his arms with no warning, bridal style, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You laugh against his chest, draping your arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying my entire world to bed,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You nuzzle into him, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment. “I missed you so much.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I missed you more.”

He carries you to bed and lays you down carefully, pulling the thick comforter up over you both before sliding in beside you. His arms wrap around you immediately, his body curling behind yours like he can’t stand to let there be any space between you. One of his legs hooks over yours. One arm slips under your neck, the other drapes over your waist.

You both lie like that, heartbeats slowly syncing, breaths easing into a shared rhythm.

“Are you really here?” he asks quietly, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “This isn’t… a dream?”

You reach back and cup his cheek, guiding his lips to yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “I’m here. You’re here. We’re okay.”

His grip on you tightens. “I never want to leave again.”

“You won’t have to,” you promise. “No more bases. No more night shifts. No more rationed phone calls.”

“Just us,” he breathes. “Just us.”

You nod and kiss him again.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words feather light against your skin. “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

And then, finally, your eyes slip closed.

Jungkook’s breath warms the back of your neck. His thumb rubs lazy circles into your hip. And as the quiet of the room wraps around you, you fall asleep in his arms—safe, sated, and whole.

Home.

masterlist

[lazysoulwriter]

three in this bed - pedro pascal ── .✦

content: fluff, softness, established relationship, reader has a stuffed animal from childhood, and Pedro is absolutely smitten about it.

---

You didn’t mean for him to see it.

It was supposed to stay tucked under the pillow, safely hidden from the eyes of the world—especially his. But after your weekend trip, you were exhausted and distracted, pulling off your sweater and tossing yourself into bed with an ungraceful thud, forgetting entirely about your tiny, timeworn secret.

Pedro walked in just a minute later. You didn't even notice, too busy mumbling about your sore back and the shitty car ride and how next time he was driving. He chuckled softly, then went quiet.

"Baby," he said, and you froze. You knew that tone. That gently surprised, amused one.

You turned your head slowly.

He was holding it. The stuffed animal. Your oldest friend. A floppy, beige bunny with one ear permanently bent and a pink bow you sewed on when you were eight. Worn down to near transparency in some places, eyes a little lopsided.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Pedro looked down at it with something like wonder. Like he just found the last piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he was missing.

"You've had this since you were little?"

You sat up, groaning internally. "Okay, yes, but—don’t tease me."

He didn’t. He walked over slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, still holding the bunny carefully, like it was made of glass.

“What’s her name?” he asked, totally serious.

“…Bun,” you muttered, hiding your face in your hands.

“Bun?” he repeated, smiling now, clearly trying not to laugh. “Bun. That’s adorable.”

“She’s been through a lot,” you mumbled. “I’ve had her since I was, like, four. She helped me sleep. I still—sometimes—sleep better when she’s around.”

Pedro didn’t say anything right away. When you peeked at him through your fingers, he was looking at you like you just told him you still believed in magic. He reached over, gently moving your hands away from your face.

“Mi amor, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, voice low, filled with warmth. “Are you kidding me? You think I’m gonna tease you for this?”

You didn’t answer, still too flustered.

He leaned in, nuzzled your cheek with his scruffy jaw. “I love that you kept her. I love that she’s been with you through everything. And now she sleeps next to me too, huh?”

You let out a weak laugh, melting. “Shut up.”

“Never.” He kissed your temple. “Can we make it official? She gets a spot between us now?”

“Pedro—”

He was already climbing into bed, placing Bun on your pillow with exaggerated care. Then he pulled you into his arms, sighing as if everything had just clicked into place.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “Me, you, and Bun. The dream team.”

You giggled into his chest. And that night, like so many nights before, you slept soundly with your stuffed animal in your arms—but this time, with Pedro wrapped around you too.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

---

[neurotica-tales]

Okay, this post totally made me spiral into writing a Platonic Yandere Toothless x Reader today—because how could I not? 🐉💚 Toothless is too cute to not write about! I had way too much fun with it, so I hope you all enjoy the chaos below!

And many thanks to @purregrine-sokol-arts for their wonderful drawings of Toothless!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Too Cute to Notice (Platonic!Yandere Toothless x Reader)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You’ve always been told that dragons are intelligent.

Powerful, loyal, clever — but still animals. Still bound by instinct.

You never thought about what it meant when those instincts turned toward you.

Not until it was too late.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Next: Yandere Hiccup Headcanon, The First Kindness (Yandere Tuffnut x Reader)

To find my master list, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You hadn't meant to stay on Berk.

It was supposed to be a temporary stop—a delay on your way back to the mainland after trading in the Northern Archipelago. You arrived just as the weather turned, with winter's edge biting at the sails, forcing the ships into harbor until the ice melted off the sea. You offered to help out in the meantime. Feed dragons. Assist with saddle repairs. Carry supplies.

The people were welcoming. Rough around the edges, sure, but honest. The dragons? A little less so. Most were wary. Even the younger ones kept their distance.

Except for him.

Toothless was curious about you from the start. Not in an intrusive way. Just… present. You’d feel his gaze before you’d see him. The quiet intensity of eyes too intelligent for comfort, tracking your every move like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

The first time he approached, it was with slow, deliberate steps. You were brushing soot off a scale-brushed saddle when a shadow passed behind you. You turned, expecting a villager—and nearly fell into a pair of wide, green eyes.

He was so close. Unmoving. Studying.

You said nothing at first, frozen with uncertainty. He blinked. Then chirped.

That broke the tension. You smiled, offering your hand. He sniffed it once, then rubbed his nose against your palm. You could feel the warmth of him, the vibration of his purr as it started low and steady.

It wasn’t the last time he sought you out.

Every morning afterward, you’d find him near. Watching from behind a building, lounging at the edge of the clearing, tail swishing in deliberate arcs. He didn’t get too close unless you approached. But he always made sure you saw him. That you knew he was there.

You thought it was cute.

And when the ships were finally ready to sail weeks later, you surprised even yourself by staying.

You told people it was the quiet. The peace. The purpose you felt here.

But a part of you wondered if it had anything to do with the dragon who had started to meet you at your door every morning, his tail thumping like a dog’s.

They started calling you Toothless’s favorite.

You laughed when they said it. Everyone did. It was harmless.

Sweet, even.

You never questioned the way he walked half a pace behind you everywhere you went. Or the way his pupils widened each time you spoke. Or the way his wings fluttered faintly when you brushed his side in passing.

He was just a dragon.

He was just clingy.

Right?

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The clinginess, at first, was charming.

Toothless didn’t make demands. He wasn’t loud or disruptive. He was just there. A shadow with wings and bright eyes, padding beside you like a loyal hound. When you turned your head, you’d find him already looking at you, head tilted with quiet curiosity.

If you stopped to speak with someone, he’d wait. If you sat down, he’d curl beside you—sometimes resting his chin on your leg, sometimes draping a wing across your back like a blanket.

You started adjusting your pace to match his. You stopped reacting when you felt him brush your elbow or nuzzle your hand mid-conversation. The others teased you, of course, but gently.

“Your shadow’s getting heavier,” Astrid had joked once, nodding toward the dragon lounging on your feet. Toothless, true to form, purred so loud you swore it made the ground hum.

The villagers weren’t bothered. Hiccup especially seemed amused.

“He’s not usually like this, you know. It actually takes him a while to warm up to people,” Hiccup had said with a grin. “If he’s already acting like this around you—like he does with me—then he must really like you. But hey, don’t worry! He’s totally harmless!”

And it did seem harmless.

You got used to finding him underfoot. Or peeking through your window. Or slipping into the forge to lie near the fire while you worked. He didn’t ask for anything in return. Just your presence. Just your voice. Just to be near you.

He'd wait outside your door before sunrise, tail swaying, wings folded neatly. The moment you stepped outside, he was alert and thrilled, bounding toward you with the joy of someone greeting a long-lost friend.

You started leaving food out for him. Not that he needed it—he still hunted and raced through the skies with Hiccup when called—but he always seemed to prefer whatever came from you.

It became routine.

Comforting.

What you didn’t realize—what no one realized—was that the more you allowed it, the less space you had to yourself.

Toothless never left your side. Not because you asked him to stay.

But because, somewhere along the way, he had decided that he couldn’t be anywhere else.

And you never questioned it.

Because he was cute.

Because he was sweet.

Because he never gave you a reason not to trust him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It was easy to excuse.

The way he watched you while pretending not to. The way he’d suddenly appear behind you even when no one saw him approach. His movements were too fluid, too quiet. Like smoke wrapping around corners. Like shadows pretending to be still.

But then he’d blink slowly, chirp, and wag his tail like a delighted puppy. And any concern you had melted instantly.

He was just so expressive. His eyes seemed to carry whole conversations. He didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to growl or make demands. He’d simply tilt his head and press his nose against your cheek, or roll onto his back with a dramatic flop and wait for you to laugh.

And you always did.

That was the problem. He was so good at making everything look innocent.

When he wedged himself between you and another dragon, you assumed he was being playful. When he stared down visitors from outside Berk, you thought he was just being protective.

Even when he sat in front of you and blocked your path—tail curled, eyes locked on yours—you told yourself it was a coincidence.

It was easier that way.

Because he purred when you touched him. Because he chirped when you laughed. Because he curled around you when you were cold, and made you feel wanted in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

Toothless didn’t bark. He didn’t roar.

He smothered you in affection. In warmth. In presence.

And that’s why you didn’t notice what was happening until far later.

Because it never felt like control.

It felt like love.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

You didn’t notice the shift right away.

It was gradual. Like fog creeping in overnight. Like waking to find your world a little quieter, your circle a little smaller, without ever seeing the lines being drawn.

The first ones to pull away were the dragons.

Stormfly used to chirp when you approached. Meatlug used to nuzzle into your chest, tail wagging slowly. Even Hookfang tolerated your presence with mild irritation. But over time, each one of them began to flinch, to back off, to lower their heads when you came close.

At first, you thought it was something you’d done. Some scent. Some mistake.

Until you realized they weren’t reacting to you.

They were reacting to Toothless.

He didn’t snarl. He didn’t puff up or hiss. But he was always there. Sitting behind you. Lying beside you. Looming near with wings slightly unfurled and pupils narrowed just enough to signal that something was wrong. And the other dragons listened to that look.

You saw it once—really saw it—when Stormfly tried to trot toward you and Toothless rose without a sound. No growl. No warning. Just a look.

Stormfly stopped cold.

Turned away.

You called out to her, but she didn’t respond.

You looked down and saw Toothless pressing his head into your side, eyes fluttering shut with contentment, as if proud of something.

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t. Because it didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt… comforting.

You were never alone—but not in the way people meant. You were never alone because Toothless never let you be.

When others tried to invite you to group dinners or dragon flights, Toothless would stretch across your path, feigning sleep. Or distract you with nuzzles, purring louder and louder until you gave in and stayed.

He didn’t chase people away with teeth. He used silence. Pressure. That constant, overwhelming presence.

And over time, people stopped asking.

They assumed you preferred Toothless’s company.

You started to think maybe they were right.

You used to spend time in the village square. Now you spent it near the cliffs with him. You used to laugh with others over shared food. Now your meals were quiet picnics with a dragon curled around your back like a blanket.

And it wasn’t until one evening, watching the bonfire from a distance, that the realization hit you.

You were no longer part of the village.

You were part of him.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

painting a whole bunch of toothlesses is good for therapy

[umamaki]

JUST GOODNIGHT

you call sylus, just to say goodnight.

sylus x gn!reader

CW pet names used, sylus is worried aw, no warnings basically. WC 0.5k

NOTE inspired by the tiktok trend, first time writing in a while kinda nervous.

It’s two hours past midnight, but for all you know, the night is still young. Sylus had left earlier in the night to take care of some business. Not without saying goodbye to you, of course. Though the more you think about it, you do miss hearing his voice.

He shouldn't be too busy. Certainly not too busy to ignore a call when it's your name and picture that are illuminating his entire phone screen. In your defense, it would be a quick call.

He picks up before his phone finishes its first ring.

“Still awake, kitten?”

Your right hand presses your phone against your ear, while your left is clasped tight over your mouth, suppressing laughter that is dangerously close to revealing your hidden motive. On the sofa across from yours, Luke and Kieran mirror your actions, hiding their own amusement. They had come up with the prank themselves.

However, on Sylus’ end, your silence is abnormal; it’s deafening, and it terrifies him.

“What’s wrong. Where are you?” Amid the urgency in it, there’s that lift in his voice that only arises as one goes from sitting to standing up. You then hear the quick rustling of fabric, his gun snapped back in its holster. The opening and slamming of a door. 

Your eyes widen. You're well aware of what Sylus is capable of when his emotions are strong. Your palm flies away from your face and what comes out of your mouth is louder than expected.

“What! Sylus, no! Nothing’s wrong, I promise.” The movement from his side of the call stops.

The twins send a confused glance your way, prompting you to put Sylus on speaker mode. If he had noticed the shift in the white noise, he doesn't comment on it.

“Go on, then.” He’s suspicious already. Never doubt a dragon’s instincts.

“Well, I have something to tell you.” And if he wasn’t so concerned for your well-being, he would’ve missed the mischievous tilt in your voice. He didn’t.

“Something so important that it kept you awake for this long?”

“That’s what it’s about, actually.”

“About… sleeping.”

“Yep.” 

“Continue.”

“I just want to tell you.” You interrupt yourself to shoot a glare at Luke, who seems a second away from laughing out loud. “Goodnight.”

He pauses. Then his deep, unrestrained laughter flows from your phone’s speaker and fills the room. “Is that all?” 

“Yes. So… goodni—”

“Sweetie, shouldn’t I get to return the wish?” He cuts you off before you get a chance to hang up.

"Oh! I mean, if you want to?"

“Goodnight, darling. Ah, and before I forget, tell Luke and Kieran it’s past their bedtime too. My dear kitten needs her rest.”

My dear kitten. You're mortified. Heat consumes your entire face as the twins finally let their howls of laughter loose.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying. I’m hanging up-” But despite your words, you couldn’t yet end the call without saying it again, “goodnight.” click. 

“How did he know!” 

“He must’ve been onto us!”

You ignore the twins, still rolling in their own laughter, as you look at the newest notification on your phone. It’s a singular text from Sylus.

Sleep well. I’ll be there when you wake up.

[orellazalonia]

Always There, Never Seen

Summary: You're the quiet presence who keeps everything running, always helping but never truly seen or included. You sit on the edges of conversations, offer silent support, and watch others be chosen and loved while you remain in the background. Despite being essential, you're basically invisible and it hurts more than anyone realizes.

Word Count: 1.9k+

A/N: According to the poll, y’all really like angst (and hurt/comfort). So I deliver to you, angst. Also, does it count as Bucky x reader if they’re not pining for each other? Hmmm… Also Disclaimer: Not much dialogue, more descriptive writing than anything. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You weren’t anyone special. Not in the way the world was used to noticing. You didn’t carry a weapon with confidence, didn’t have a degree that earned you any kind of awe, and you certainly didn’t have a face or charm that pulled people in.

You worked in admin at the Tower. Basically paperwork, scheduling, and making sure the chaos of superhero life ran just a bit smoother. You were the one who emailed team briefings, filed mission reports, and organized therapy appointments like they were just blocks on a calendar, not battles for someone's mind.

And Bucky Barnes… well, Bucky was the kind of person people did notice.

You’d liked him for a while. Quietly. Patiently. In the way someone watches a storm from behind a window. Close enough to feel the pull of it, but far enough not to be noticed.

You liked the way his voice got low when he was trying not to wake anyone in the early mornings. The way he peeled oranges with military precision and always left one for someone else. The way he laughed when Sam or Steve dragged him into something dumb, like water balloon fights or bad TV marathons. You liked him. Not the myth, not the metal arm, not the past filled with ghosts. Just Bucky.

But you were no Natasha. No Sharon. No enhanced warrior woman who could flip a man twice her size or disarm a room with a wink. You weren’t brilliant like Shuri or effortlessly magnetic like Darcy. You were just… the person who knew which printer was working and which one wasn’t. You were the one who remembered who liked what in their coffee. You were the background hum, not the spotlight.

And Bucky liked someone else.

You didn’t blame him. She was kind. Bright. The kind of person who glowed when she smiled. She moved like she’d always belonged on a battlefield, and yet, she somehow made everyone around her feel safe. She was witty, beautiful, strong, and all the things people fell in love with.

You tried not to let it show. You weren’t close enough to him for it to be a betrayal but you were far enough that even your absence would go unnoticed. You smiled when you passed him in the halls, nodded when he grunted a hello, even handed him reports when they were meant for Steve, just for a brief second of acknowledgment. He always said thank you. Always polite. Always… kind.

But never more.

Sometimes you imagined saying something. A small, “Hey, do you wanna grab a coffee sometime?” Nothing big, nothing cinematic. But your voice always caught in your throat before the words could make it to daylight. Because what would be the point? What could you possibly offer him that he didn’t already have?

So you kept your head down. You typed, sorted files, watched him laugh in the kitchen over takeout containers with her. And you reminded yourself that this was enough. And maybe, maybe one day it wouldn’t ache so much. Maybe one day, you’d stop comparing yourself to all the people who stood in the sun while you stayed in the shade. Maybe.

But not today. Today, you’d file mission debriefs, pretend not to glance at him too long, and keep being the kind of person who’s easy to forget. The kind of person no one falls for.

However, even with that reminder in your head, it didn’t make it any more easier to live by. Because you didn’t need super-hearing to know when a room grew quieter once you entered.

It wasn’t tension. No one disliked you. It was more like… when you walked into a space, conversation naturally shifted. Not because anyone was guarding secrets, just because you weren’t the kind of person people thought to include.

You were background.

You were the click of the elevator. The shuffle of papers being filed. The voice that said, “He’s in briefing room three” without ever being asked your name in return.

You sat in meetings and never got asked for your opinion. You brought backup cables, extra notepads, bandages for knuckles bruised in training and when someone needed something, you always had it. You noticed when Natasha’s shoulder was bothering her and quietly adjusted the gym reservation to avoid that day’s sparring. You reminded Steve about appointments he forgot. You updated Sam’s reports so they’d match his fieldwork without making him look careless.

No one noticed.

You weren’t angry about it. Not really. You weren’t owed gratitude. That’s not why you did it. You just… wanted to be part of something. And if you couldn’t be the center of it, you thought maybe you could be its foundation.

But even foundations crack under enough silence.

When they gathered in the common room, you stayed near the doorway, not because you preferred it but because there was never really a space for you on the couch. Not in the way people sat. Not in the way conversations flowed. Sometimes someone would offer a smile in your direction, a wave, a half-hearted “Hey, you’re still here.” But the spotlight never lingered.

Even the interns forgot you were in the room. More than once, you’d heard them gossiping about the others. About Steve’s diet, or Wanda’s mood, or what Bucky might be like behind closed doors. You were there the whole time, filing reports just a few feet away. Not one of them noticed.

Once, someone forgot to list you on a team-wide email thread. You only found out when the others started referencing a meeting you hadn’t heard of. When you brought it up, the sender laughed nervously with a light “Oh, I thought you weren’t on the main team.” You weren’t sure what hurt more: the comment or the fact that no one corrected them.

You ate lunch at your desk. You kept your voice quiet in shared spaces. You never spoke unless there was something directly requiring your words. People liked you best that way.

And Bucky… Bucky was no different.

He was polite, sure. Nodded if you passed him in the hall. Sometimes gave you a distracted “Thanks” if you handed him a revised schedule or a mission detail packet. But it was never more than that. He had others to talk to. Ones who smiled brighter, laughed louder, leaned easily into his space like they belonged there.

But God, some days you just wanted someone to ask you how you were doing. Someone to say your name like they meant it.

You knew what you were. You were safe. Predictable. The person who remembered extra passwords and booked flights without needing thanks. You weren’t charming or brilliant or needed the way others were.

And maybe that was why, even when you were in the same room, you felt so crushingly alone. You were there. You always were. But no one seemed to see it. And worst of all, you weren’t sure anyone ever would. Because you’d grown used to being the person who knew the team without really being part of it.

You knew Bucky’s schedule. When he trained, when he left early to avoid team briefings, which mornings he preferred to drink his coffee in silence. You knew the brand of painkillers Bruce trusted, the way Wanda liked her tea, how Tony hated the buzzing lights in the lower hallway. You knew all these things without anyone ever having told you. Because you watched. You listened.

That was your talent. Not fighting. Not hacking into alien tech or performing heart surgery with a spoon. You were just good at being there. Good at remembering. Good at caring in the background.

Of course, the person you liked had never really noticed. It wasn’t in a cruel way. Not in an “I think I’m better than you” way. Just in the way someone doesn’t notice the soft hum of a computer fan or the way a hallway light always flickers. You were part of the environment. Static. Expected. Invisible.

Because you knew Bucky had eyes only for her.

Honestly, you didn’t know her well. She was new-ish. Sharp and warm, always dressed like she’d stepped out of some other, better life. She smiled with her whole face. She wasn’t arrogant, but she walked like someone who knew she mattered. It was easy to like her, even if it hurt.

She made him softer. You saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed when she walked in the room, in the way his sarcasm eased into gentleness when she was around. He even smiled more, really smiled.

Sometimes you caught yourself watching them. Bucky, leaning on a countertop, looking at her like she was something rare. Her tossing her head back as she laughed at something he said. It was a kind of closeness you knew you’d never be part of. Not just with him, but with anyone. You weren’t made of magnetism or spark.

You were the pause between other people’s sentences.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the hallway outside the training room, flipping through a stack of revised schedules. You were trying to figure out if you could shift Rhodey’s physical therapy without messing up the team’s briefing timeline, and not watching where you were going when you turned a corner right into the one Bucky chose.

“Oh!” She said, catching your arm. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

You stepped back quickly. “No, my fault.”

She smiled kindly, open, not patronizing. “You’re the one who keeps everything running, right? You’re the one who fixed the mess with my mission debrief last week.”

You blinked. “That was… yeah. That was me.”

“Thank you,” She said genuinely. “Seriously. No one tells you that enough, but I noticed. You’re really good at what you do.”

It stung, how warm those words felt. Like you hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until someone brought a match close.

You gave a small smile. “Thanks.”

She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “You work here all the time. Do you ever get a break?”

You laughed once under your breath. “Not really. I think that’s kind of the point of me.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t talk much.”

You shrugged. “Not a lot of people want to hear it.”

She watched you for a beat too long, like she wanted to ask something else. But then Bucky’s voice called from down the hall, her name, not yours. Her face lit up.

“That’s me. Thanks again,” She said, and jogged off without waiting for a response.

You stood there a little too long after she left, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly above you. You imagined what it might be like to have someone call your name like that. To be the reason someone’s expression softened. You wondered what it would feel like to matter that easily.

Bucky passed by you without a glance as he walked with her. You didn't expect otherwise.

You held your papers a little tighter and turned back the way you came.

Some people were made to shine. You’d never been one of them. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t even that jealous, really. You just knew your place. You were the one who knew how to quiet a printer jam in seconds. Who carried extra pens. Who remembered birthdays but never had her own celebrated.

Bucky Barnes didn’t know your favorite coffee order. Didn’t know you stayed late so others could leave early. Didn’t know how often you looked at the closed doors of conversations you’d never be invited into.

But you were okay. You had your quiet. You had your rhythm. You had the small comfort of being needed, even if not wanted. And that would be enough. Eventually.

[munsonify]

check-ins

pairing. bob reynolds x fem!reader

summary. when a mission goes sideways, the team loses track of the only lead they had. after countless injuries and a long, drawn out argument between you and john, you storm right to your room in the compound. the only person who comes to check on you and comfort you is bob.

content warnings. missions, mentions of the usual mcu violence, kinda gory injuries (blood, kinda deep cuts and gashes), non-established relationships, romantic and sexual tension, kind of oblivious bob, pining, hurt/comfort, bob being a cutie patootie, one use of y/n, swearing, mentions of r’s curves, r in a sports bra, not proofread

word count. 3075

a/n. i’m not too good at writing violence or injuries, but i am good at the romance and the pining so you guys are just gonna have to stick this one out lmfao

———

you weren’t sure where the man had came from. one moment, you were slowly stalking the long hallways of the facility, trying to track down information valentina insisted she needed. research documents, intel on the people involved, or anything that could be used as blackmail or leverage, really. the next, you were being thrown through a metal doorway, slamming down onto the ground. he came out of no where, truly. even with your impeccable hearing and your constant state of awareness, you didn’t know anyone was even near you.

it took you a little too long to get the upper hand on him. by the time he was knocked out on the floor, he’d already gotten a few hits in himself, a stab wound on your side, a gash on your knee, and soon to be bruises proof enough of that. more unfortunately, he had enough time to radio to the rest of his crew inside of the facility, alerting them of your teams presence. that gave you guys two choices - stay and retaliate, or flee with whatever intel you had.

you guys attempted to retaliate, rushing to get what you could, fighting who you came across. it was clear you guys didn’t have any real plan right now. that’s why john made the executive decision to call it quits, to leave while you still could. this wasn’t apart of the mission, you were meant to stay hidden. undetected. to get in and get out.

the moment the team narrowly escaped, fleeing the scene inside of the quinjet, john started his usual angry post-mission ramble. this time, it was directed at you.

“that was careless,” he started, pulling off his helmet, before jabbing it in your direction. “we were doing fine until you went and fucked up.”

“oh come on, walker!” you exasperated, eyes widening angrily as you start to defend yourself. “you’re acting like i did that on purpose. he came out of nowhere! what was i supposed to do?”

“uh, i dunno, maybe pay more attention? we were given explicit instructions to get in and out undetected. no bullshitting around. if you would’ve just kept a better eye out no one would’ve known we were there until we were far gone. but now we barely have anything to show for this mission except a complete screw up. the cleanup mission for this is going to be insane, so thank you, y/n. really, thank you for this.”

this catapulted a 40 minute argument between the two of you. between the pain searing through your body, the blood staining through your suit, dripping into your hand, and the adrenaline coursing through you, your head was spinning. you were truly exhausted, and so was the rest of your team. despite their several interjections, telling walker to simply drop it, he just kept going. he barely wanted to hear what you had to say, let alone everyone else. that left you fending for yourself against his relentlessness.

the relief everyone felt when the quinjet landed on top of the tower was palpable. walker finally stopped his arguing, watching you storm off with a slight limp, hand clamping at your wound. he received a few frustrated insults from the team as they followed behind you.

the walk to your room was the first moment of silence you had since the mission. you were aware you messed up. you should’ve been more careful, even if you didn’t notice the man who attacked you. that didn’t warrant walkers aggression, something you were planning to hold against him for a long while. you’d worry about that mess properly when you weren’t in so much pain.

that’s what your first priority was when you finally pushed through your door. you fumbled with toeing your shoes off, thankful you weren’t wearing your intricate boots this time. your hands quickly found their way to your back afterwards, despite how your body ached at the loss of pressure and the burning stretch, unzipping your uniform. it stuck to your blood and sweat soaked skin as you tried to peel it off, the worst of it coming from un-peeling it from your side. it clung inside of your wound in a way that made you more uncomfortable than anything.

it left you in nothing but a black sports bra and tight spandex shorts. you discarded your uniform in an empty hamper in your bathroom, knowing full well that was going to be a pain to wash. you waddled your way to find your medical supplies, dropping them all on the counter of your sink, before you got to work on the cut on your side. this process was like second nature to you, something you liked assisting the rest of the team in. you appreciated being useful in the same way you liked dealing with your injuries on your own, without any help. it proved that you could do things right. it proved you had control over things, even if minute.

it took you 20 minutes to finish with your wound on your side, thankful you didn’t need to waste another 20 on stitching yourself up. you had white gauze wrapped around your torso, keeping proper pressure on your injury, catching any last bit of blood that leaked free. while the pain was still annoyingly present, the pressure and the meds you took helped relieve you.

before you could put your focus into the gash on your knee, a very gentle knock on your bedroom door echoed into the bathroom. you let out a huff, eyebrows furrowing together as you debated answering it. you didn’t want have to deal with any more of walkers anger, or any debriefing that came along with a mission gone sideways.

still, you knew you should answer anyways, waddling your way out of the bathroom and towards your door. despite being low on energy, you opened the door slowly and peaked out hesitantly, only to reveal bob. of course it was him. sweet, observant bob, who had nothing but concern laced in his features as he waited on you.

his round eyes found their way from the floor to your face at the sound of the door opening. he had two water bottles in one hand, ice cold and ready to drink, a bowl of freshly cut fruit in the other. you were hid behind the door, shielding your body slightly from him out of instinct.

“hey,” bob whispered out, hands moving slightly upwards to present to you what he had. he didn’t say anything for a few seconds before it clicked with him that he should explain himself, launching himself into a messy ramble he couldn’t quite contain. “yelena told me what happened. ya know, with the mission and walker and everything. i wanted to come check on you. brought the fruit i was cutting up in case you wanted to share, water too. i thought you might be hungry or want some company or something, i dunno.”

bob let out a nervous chuckle after he spoke, internally scolding himself for the long winded speech he just gave you. his eyes drifted down to the bowl that nearly tipped over in his hold, before finding his way back up to you, searching for an answer. he felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of you now unblocked from the door. the first thing he noticed was your lack of clothes, and the tightness of what you did have on. every last curve of yours was on display for him to see. bob couldn’t help but stare for a few moments, lingering enough for you to notice just barely, before his eyes to drop to your side where the wound was at.

you nodded your head in towards the inside of your room, giving him permission to step inside. bob was quick to stumble in, his grip on the bowl of fruit tightening as he finds a place to set everything down at. he looked like he was about to say something more, though you spoke before he could.

“thank you,” you finally replied, grateful that it was him that showed up at your room, and even more grateful for his kindness. normally after a mission, you would’ve went straight to bob to catch him up on what he missed. he must’ve noticed when you hadn’t this time.

“i wouldve came and told you everything if i wasnt so angry. not to mention, ya know,” you told him, motioning down to your injuries. that’s when you started to fully process how exposed you were to bob. you didn’t have much time to hide yourself or dwell on it, though.

“it’s okay, i get it!” he quickly reassured. “i was a little worried, though, still am. does it hurt?”

“not really,” you told him, offering up a small, unconvincing smile to him. bob saw right through you, you know he did. your voice was weak, and your face was etched with pain and frustration.

his eyes fell down to the gash on your knee, noticing you hadn’t cleaned it up yet. blood and sweat mixed at the gash in a way that made him a little squeamish. bob, however, pushed that down the best he could for your sake. he shuffled his way into your bathroom, hands searching for a clean rag to wet, neosporin, and more cotton to tape properly over your knee. bob may not know how to treat a wound as big as the one on your side, but he did know how to help a skinned knee.

something about seeing him like this, all worried and caring and ready to help, made your heart clench. he wasn’t mad at you for what happened during the mission, he wasn’t upset at you for not coming to see him afterwards - in fact, he came searching for you instead. you let yourself softly gaze at him while he had his back turned towards you, admiring him and his thoughtfulness.

you started your slow walk towards the bathroom, watching as he turned to usher you the rest of the way in. bob pointed you towards the toilet, his silent way of telling you to sit down on the lid. you did just that, shoulders slouched slightly as you look up at him. you brought a hand up to take the warm, damp wash cloth from the man, just to see him shake his head at you.

bob had ahold of an antibacterial soap as he moved in front of you, kneeling onto the hardwood floor to be more level with your body.

“i can do this myself,” you told him, body tensing up as you realize what he’s doing. you’ve dealt with worse, something you knew bob was aware of. he’s heard your stories from before the new avengers were formed, and he’s seen the injuries you’d help the rest of the team deal with.

“i know,” bob stated plainly, making a pretty obvious glare down to your side. “doesn’t mean i can’t help you.”

your jaw clenched as you thought, eyes falling into bobs. he was already looking at you expectantly, waiting patiently for you to give him permission. with a small huff of air out of your nose, you nodded quickly.

hesitantly, bob brought his large hand up to your calf, holding you steady before he brought the cloth to your skin. his touch was gentle, barely there at first, like he was afraid of hurting you more than you already were hurt. he started to wipe around your wound, getting the excess blood off of you with a little soap first and foremost. there was a bowl of clean water on the sink next to you, one that he used to rinse the blood off of the wash cloth, before he found his way back to your raw skin.

slowly, bob pressed the warm rag against the scrape, firmly applying pressure to it. it stung a little, your calf tensing under his touch a little, though it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, especially with how careful he was being with you. he noticed quickly how you reacted to his touch, suddenly becoming away of the warmth of your skin. his mind began to wander towards the sight he had in front of him, the one his eyes so desperately wanted to admire. instead, he focused on cleaning you up instead, eyes staying glued to your knee the entire time.

you watched as he gently squeezed out some neosporin onto his thumb, before bringing it right up to your now clean knee. he spread the medicine along the raw and reddened skin, making sure he covers every inch in a thin layer. you noticed how a few strands of his hair fell onto his eyes as you began to admire him.

bob always looked so kind. you’d always admired how, even after everything he’d been through, everything that he’s seen, he still had that goodness in his heart. his will was just as strong as his body was. during your admiration, your hand absentmindedly found its way up to his forehead, fingers pushing his hair away from his vision. his eyes that were once focused on properly aligning the gauze to your knee found their way to yours again. he froze in place as you tuck their hair behind his ear.

you offered up another smile, one that was much more confident than before. bob saw how soft your eyes looked accompanied with your smile and knew this one was true, he knew you meant this one. you watched as his eyelashes fluttered, eyes reluctantly drawing back down to finish up his job with your knee. your hand fell back into your lap with your other one, twiddling your thumbs as he tapes the gauze to your skin. your eyes drifted down to his forearm and how it flex slightly as his arm moved, shamelessly admiring how nice it looked.

“all done,” bob whispered, snapping you out of your thoughts. his hands lingered at your leg for only a few short seconds longer, before they dropped down to find all of the supplies he’d used.

“nuh-uh,” you whispered out, shaking your head slightly. bob fumbled with everything in his hands as his head snapped up to look at you. he thought maybe he’d forgotten to do something, or that he’d done something wrong. “didn’t kiss it better yet.”

a large grin grew on his face quickly at your words, your giggles breaking free from your chest at the sight of him. part of you was teasing him, knowing that would make the man smile. the other part of you was being a little hopeful, even if you knew he’d take it as a joke. you watched him get up from his knees, setting everything back down on the sink, head shaking in disbelief. everything in him wanted to do it, to kiss right in the middle of your knee, gentle and playful. it made his stomach jump at the thought, despite fully believing you were only kidding. if only he knew.

“can you stay?” you asked him, bracing the sink as you helped yourself up off of the toilet. you looked at him hopefully, eyes begging him to agree. “gotta change first, but i would like if you would. the fruit you brought in looked good.”

“of course,” bob nodded quickly. “i’ll always stay.”

he found his way back out into your bedroom, watching as you fumble to your dresser, searching for soft clothes to wear. you settled on a hoodie and sweatpants - loose, warm, and comfortable. you were happy to free yourself from your sports bra as you changed in your bathroom, body still aching from your injuries. all you wanted to do was huddle up in bed and relax.

bob seemed to have the same idea. you came out of your bathroom to find him sat in your bedroom, resting up against your headboard with the bowl of fruit in his lap. he was searching through a handful of movies to turn on when you climbed up into bed next to him, sitting shoulder to shoulder, resting back just like he was. you brought a hand down to the bowl, grabbing a slice of strawberry, bringing it to your lips excitedly.

“can we watch a romcom?” you asked him after you were finished chewing, looking over at him hopefully. you had the cutest look on your face when you asked him. romcoms were never his thing, but when you looked at him like that, how could he tell you no?

bob let you choose the romcom - 10 things i hate about you - as he started to pick at the fruit too.

he enjoyed having your company more than you knew. you always smelt nice, always looked so nice too. you were kind and funny, you held good conversation. you spoke to him like he was a normal person and not some superhuman, or some empty shell of a man. you never saw him as just broken. you always saw him for who he truly was. complex, compassionate. a grown man, rather than some broken child. you made him feel seen, even if you didn’t quite mean to.

about halfway through the movie, you two settled down further into the bed, heads resting against the pillows as you watched. you were only inches away from bob, his heat radiating off of him and directly towards you. you wanted to reach out to him, to hold him and feel him. you craved his touch even more now that he’d helped you so carefully. you also felt compelled to speak to him, even if he did seem invested in the movie. you simply had something to get off your chest.

“i really wish walker wasn’t such a dick sometimes,” you whispered, eyes still glued to the screen. “i really didn’t mean to draw attention to us.”

“i know you didn’t,” bob affirmed, even if he wasn’t there. he knew how good you were at your job. he knew how careful you were. his eyes didn’t move from the screen either as he spoke. “it’ll blow over eventually. you could totally kick his ass if it doesn’t though.”

you couldn’t help but giggle, hand finally reaching out to him to nudge him slightly. you could practically feel his smile. “i totally could couldn’t i?”

“totally,” bob doubles down.

[deliciousdietdrpepper]

“Portrait Of The Artist As A Prematurely Old Man”

It is common knowledge to every schoolboy and even every Bachelor of Arts,

That all sin is divided into two parts.

One kind of sin is called a sin of commission, and that is very important,

And it is what you are doing when you are doing something you ortant,

And the other kind of sin is just the opposite and is called a sin of omission and is equally bad in the eyes of all right-thinking people, from Billy Sunday to Buddha,

And it consists of not having done something you shuddha.

I might as well give you my opinion of these two kinds of sin as long as, in a way, against each other we are pitting them,

And that is, don’t bother your head about the sins of commission because however sinful, they must at least be fun or else you wouldn’t be committing them.

It is the sin of omission, the second kind of sin,

That lays eggs under your skin.

The way you really get painfully bitten

Is by the insurance you haven’t taken out and the checks you haven’t added up the stubs of and the appointments you haven’t kept and the bills you haven’t paid and the letters you haven’t written.

Also, about sins of omission there is one particularly painful lack of beauty,

Namely, it isn’t as though it had been a riotous red-letter day or night every time you neglected to do your duty;

You didn’t get a wicked forbidden thrill

Every time you let a policy lapse or forget to pay a bill;

You didn’t slap the lads in the tavern on the back and loudly cry Whee,

Let’s all fail to write just one more letter before we go home, and this round of unwritten letters is on me.

No, you never get any fun

Out of things you haven’t done,

But they are the things that I do not like to be amid,

Because the suitable things you didn’t do give you a lot more trouble than the unsuitable things you did.

The moral is that it is probably better not to sin at all, but if some kind of sin you must be pursuing,

Well, remember to do it by doing rather than by not doing.

— Ogden Nash

i swear my consequences dont even have actions

[pastryfication]

dancing with our hand tied — oscar piastri

love at first sight isn’t something you’ve given much thought in your eighteen years of life, but when you meet oscar, that changes completely. just too bad that your brother doesn’t approve at all.

bringing back a very old request that i started on a light-year ago… might write a part two if you’d be interested?

Lando kept his hand squeezed tightly in yours all the way through the paddock, not even letting go to stop and sign the merchandise fans were so eagerly holding up towards him. It confused the committed Formula 1 fans who weren’t used to seeing him in such a hurry, and especially not on media day. What was wrong with him?

The answer wasn’t what. The answer was found in the person being dragged behind him, almost running to keep up with his brisk pace. You.

It was your first race since last year’s Silverstone—where you’d been flanked by your entire family and therefore hadn’t been alone for a single second—so your older brother was terribly afraid that you would somehow get lost and scared and hurt, and he would be damned if that happened on his watch. Not when his parents so very generously had given him responsibility of you for the weekend. A responsibility he took very seriously. 

It was no secret that you were Lando’s baby. The youngest of five, you were the whole family’s baby to be completely precise, but Lando had always been especially fond of you. 

Maybe it came from the little boy who was shorter than two of his younger sisters and therefore claimed the third his favourite. Maybe it was the way you had always looked up him; staring at him through big, admiring eyes as though he could do nothing wrong, even when he felt like he screwed up everything. Or maybe it was just a classic case of caring older brother who remembered the small, innocent baby who had been placed in his seven-year-old arms and wanted you to stay that way forever.  

Whatever it was, it was clear to everyone that you were Lando’s baby. 

“You’ll stay right here, okay?” Lando was looking at you with his most serious expression, and you bit your cheek to stop yourself from reminding him that you had turned eighteen last month. Technically, you were an adult now, and he didn’t have the same power over you that he used to, but you were pretty sure that he wouldn’t like to hear that, so you held yourself back and instead gave him a nod in reply.

“I won’t move a single inch, Lan, I swear.” You assure him, holding back a giggle at his deep frown. “I’ve been here before, you know.”

“Yeah, but never alone.” He looked around worriedly, as if willing a familiar face to spring out and look after you. “There isn’t even someone from Oscar’s family to keep you company.”

“I think I’ll be fine either way.” 

He didn’t seem convinced, far from actually, but when he was called upon by his PR-manager, he had no choice but to leave you to your own devices, but not without a lingering kiss to your hair and yet another warning look that you shrugged off with a teasing smile. 

-

Oscar couldn’t recognise you. He was standing in the hospitality, waiting for his morning coffee to be made, when he spotted you from across the room. You were sitting alone on the best sofa with a glass of iced tea resting beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world, but he had no idea who you were.

The area around the screens was usually reserved for friends and family of the drivers, but he was alone this weekend and Lando hadn’t mentioned anyone coming either. Maybe you were confused and had planted yourself there by mistake. It didn’t hurt anyone, he thought to himself, deciding to let the matter rest, but when you turned around and he caught sight of your face, it seemed that any excuse to start up a conversation with you would be good.

He wasn’t a very poetic person, had barely passed English literature in high school, but the way you looked could simply not be described as anything but divine. 

His breath hitched in his throat and when his coffee was placed on the counter, he picked it up with more eagerness than ever before and set off towards the couch.

“Hi,” He was smiling politely, trying desperately not to seem too diligent. “Are you lost?” 

You looked up from your phone, surprised. “No, I don’t think so. Am I not allowed to sit here?”

“Well, this area is actually reserved for family of the drivers…” He shrugged apologetically.

“Oh, well I am family! Have we never met? I’m Lando’s sister.” You hesitated for a moment, scanning his face. It was the first time you saw him up close, but he looked exactly as he did on all the pictures you had found yourself staring at a bit too long. 

He was taken aback for a moment, a frown forming between his eyebrows. “Really? I’ve never seen you around before. I’m Oscar.”

He held out his hand, and you took it, shaking it carefully. His skin was warm and rough, contrasting to your smooth palms. 

“I know.” You answered. “That you’re Oscar, I mean. I think everyone here knows that.”

He held back a smile, a small blush forming on his cheeks. “Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

You both smiled for a moment, keeping eye contact. “Well, sorry for assuming that you didn’t know what you were doing.” He looked around for a moment. “Can I join you?”

You smiled. “Yeah, of course.” You scooted to the side, allowing him to sit.

-

That night, after had Lando dropped you off at the hotel room directly across from his (because apparently a few meters was paramount to your safety), you were lying awake, tossing and turning. 

Your conversation with Oscar kept playing in your mind; the way he looked at you, eyes full of wonder, the way his hand accidently brushed yours, causing warmth to flutter through your body, and most importantly, the way he paid so close attention to what you were saying, as if you weren’t a young teenager, but instead an intelligent equal, with interesting knowledge and opinions. It had left you flustered, staring after him when he eventually had to leave for his obligations.

He was cute. 

-

The rest of the race weekend went by routinely, Lando breathing down your neck as always, following you around like an overly eager guard dog, but this time, you kept sneaking glances to the other side of the garage, hoping to catch a look at Oscar. Just a small glimpse of his blond hair would have made you happy, but it was near impossible when Lando insisted you stay in the far corner, out of “harm’s way”.

Therefore, it was no surprise when you boarded the plane towards London on Monday with no other interactions with Oscar than your first conversation, and even though you couldn’t explain why, it made your heart ache in a weird way. Apparently, he felt the same. 

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 9.282 others.

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Oscar ended up staying almost a week, sleeping in your apartment with you, waiting on your couch when you came home from university, and making dinner together each evening in your small kitchen. You had become almost domestic by the time he had to leave again, and you felt as though you had known the crooked smiled boy for years, not a mere few weeks, when it finally came to saying goodbye at the airport. Oscar was hesitant to leave as well, stopping several times to look back, even after you’d hugged and kissed for more time than considered normal.

When he finally was out of sight, you stood still for a moment too, felling heavier than you had in a while, now that you had to go home to an empty apartment for the first time in what felt like forever. 

You were just about to turn around when your phone buzzed in your hand. Oscar was calling.

You picked up on the second ring, immediately pressing the phone to your ear as a smile broke onto your face again.

“Hi,” Your voice was a bit breathless even though you were standing completely still. 

“Hi,” he retorted, a smile evident in his voice. “I just wanted to hear your voice again. Make sure you weren’t just a dream I made up.”

liked by oscarpiastri, flonorris and 13.081 others.

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flonorris it is 😬

randomuser THE london girl

randomuser little norris has a boyfriend 🥺

frienduser2 cuties ☺️

randomuser the way he holds your hand i’m dying

carlossainz55 oh 😏

yourusername carlos…

frienduser3 oh you need to update me rn ❤️ liked by author

randomuser lando how are we feeling

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Lando was distressed, pacing the floor of your apartment as his voice gradually got louder. He was high on adrenaline, shaking from the inside and out, but his voice was firm.

“I do know what I’m doing. I’m in a mature, committed relationship with a guy that I like.” You were sitting on the couch, staying infuriatingly calm and standing your ground despite the way he was riling you up.

“You don’t know what a mature relationship is.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You’ve had what? One boyfriend? One fucking high school boyfriend?” The way he stood, tall and deafening, while you slowly shrank in on yourself on the couch made you feel like a little kid again. “Don’t act like you know anything about a mature relationship. You don’t. And Oscar is taking advantage of that.”

His words pierced like a blade in your stomach, twisting around a knife he had planted when he first started shouted.

“Don’t be mean.” Your voice broke on the last syllable. “You don’t know anything, Lando.”

He flinched at the way you said his name. No teasing, no affection, no Lan. He softened his voice then, still demeaning, still piercing through you, but quieter now, more like the careful softness he usually held around you. 

“I do know, though.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I have seven years more experience than you in every field there is. And you who also has that? Oscar.”

“He’s not using me, Lan. He’s not.” You were crying now, couldn’t stop it when he was looking at you like that, like you were letting him down. He was making you question everything about the boy who had slept so many nights in your bed, caressing your hair, kissing your bare skin, and telling you how beautiful you were. Had it really been too good to be true? Had it been lies upon lies?

Lando’s resolve softened even further when he caught sight of your tears, a cooing sound immediately escaping him. He tried to reach out, to comfort you the same way he had done so many times before, but you flinched away, willing yourself to disappear completely into the couch and he swore he felt his heart break in his chest. 

“Just think about it, okay? Don’t jump into it too fast.” His hand was hovering over your back, fingers clenching in desperation. He just wanted to stop the tears still streaming freely from your eyes. “I just want what’s best for you. You know that.”

And you knew that. That was the worst part. That was the problem. 

[lucy-literates]

I added my name to the tag list :)

I am so in love with your writing style :)

Another idea for Lewis Hamilton :)

Where the reader is an Interviewer and he flirts with her all the time and the other drivers tease him about it, so one the he asks her out in a live interview :)

Have a nice day 😊

A/N: Thank you! The tag list is small but hopefully, it'll get bigger. I'm having so much fun writing for Lewis. Thank you for sending all your requests in! Enjoy!

Say It Live

The paddock had a rhythm. Engines roaring, mechanics bustling, cameras rolling. But nothing was more predictable these days than Lewis Hamilton making a beeline for you in the media pen.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he grinned as he stepped in front of your mic—still flushed from the race, curls damp under his cap, suit half unzipped. He always looked unfairly good like this.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “It’s literally my job, Lewis.”

“And yet, it’s still the best part of my day.”

Behind the camera, someone snorted. You didn’t even have to look to know it was Lando.

Lewis’s flirtations had become something of a running joke in the paddock. Drivers bet on what line he’d use each week. George once brought popcorn to a live segment. Even Toto gave him grief after one too many “She’s just so stunning, mate”s during press briefings.

But Lewis never let it faze him. He flirted openly, shamelessly—but there was always a softness behind it, a quiet reverence in the way he looked at you when you weren’t watching.

You cleared your throat, trying to stay professional despite the heat in your cheeks. “P2 today. Strong race. Walk me through those last few laps?”

He answered—mostly focused—but his eyes kept flicking to your mouth when you nodded, your hands when you adjusted the mic. Every little smile you gave him was another nail in his composure.

When the segment wrapped, you went to thank him like always, but he didn’t move.

“Actually…” Lewis said, voice a little quieter, hands twitching at his sides, “mind if I say something else?”

The crew blinked. You blinked.

You nodded slowly. “Of course.”

He turned slightly toward the camera, then back to you, clearly nervous for the first time in all the months you’d known him.

“I’ve been flirting with you for a while now,” he said, voice steady but eyes searching yours, “and I figured if I’m gonna do it properly, I should do it where I know you can’t dodge me.”

You froze.

“Would you…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, smiling like he couldn’t quite believe he was doing this. “Would you maybe wanna go out with me? Off camera, I mean. After the chaos. Just us.”

The camera guy choked. A mechanic cheered in the distance. You could practically feel Charles Leclerc somewhere nearby punching the air in celebration.

You stared at him for a beat too long, stunned.

Lewis bit his lip. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, the biggest smile breaking over your face. “Not even close.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” you laughed, stepping closer as your mic dropped a little. “That’s a very public, very enthusiastic yes.”

He lit up. Truly lit up. Like a podium smile mixed with that rare joy he reserved for moments that actually mattered.

As he walked off, Lando jogged past you, stage-whispering loud enough for the cameras to catch: “Finally, mate! Took you long enough!”

Lewis didn’t look back, but his ears were red.

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